Helen Bianchin - Public Marriage, Private Secrets

As it was internal there was only one logical explanation…Gianna.

He entered the lounge and saw her standing before the floor-to-ceiling plate glass.

Her slender form silhouetted there aroused a tug of emotion he tamped down.

She was attired in cotton sleep trousers and tank top, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and her features appeared pale beneath the dimmed lighting.

‘Unable to sleep?’

The sound of his voice startled her, and she turned, eyes widening as he crossed to stand at her side.

He had the soft tread of a cat, and she instinctively hugged her arms across her midriff.

‘Several hours of air travel, I guess,’ she managed evenly.

‘You didn’t sleep during the flight.’

How did he know that she’d simply closed her eyes and pretended sleep because she was unable to relax sufficiently in his presence? She hadn’t expected to feel vulnerable, or so acutely sensitive…and it made her cross.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, call it like it is… She was edgy, uncertain in hindsight if she’d made the right decision to place herself in a position where she’d be constantly reminded of what had been, not to mention the fallout of leaving Spain, leaving Raúl. Revisiting it again now seemed to be the height of foolishness.

Yet she was here, and after breakfast the Velez-Saldaña private jet would transport her to Mallorca, where Teresa’s villa in Cala Fornells, Calvià, would provide panoramic views of the sea and an escape from Raúl’s disturbing presence.

None of which helped now, as he stood close, within touching distance, his tall, partly clothed frame a vivid reminder of times past when she’d slipped from their bed unable to sleep. Occasions when he’d gently massaged her neck, shoulders, easing the kinks, before sweeping her into his arms and carrying her back to bed.

For one brief moment she almost longed for the soporific effect…the comfort. She was aware the sensual tension still existed on her part. But on his?

He was impossible to read, and she tried to convince herself she didn’t want to.

Worse, to stand here, aware and almost compliant, was the antithesis of the image she cared to present. Dammit, she could sense the clean male scent of him, the faint muskiness merging with his brand of aftershave.

It evoked too many memories…places she was loath to go.

With determined effort, she drank the rest of her milk, then indicated the empty beaker. ‘I’ll take this through to the kitchen, then go back to bed.’ She waited a beat, then added, ‘Goodnight…’ with the utmost politeness.

He made no attempt to stop her, and there was a small part of her that almost wished he would.

Are you insane?

The words echoed silently as she slid into bed and snapped off the bed-lamp, becoming the last thing she remembered before she fell asleep.

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