Freya had known that keeping a lid on her feelings for him would be hard, especially after they had become proper lovers, but she had never imagined the strength it would take to keep that lid on. He called her every night, and she would listen to the rich honeyed tones with an ache in her heart that had slipped into her every pore.
She did not miss him, she told herself constantly. And she did not count down the hours until she would be with him again.
But the precipice she had seen her mother edging towards if she didn’t accept his proposal was now inching towards her. She could feel it with every minute spent with him and every communication between them, a drop of unimaginable depths waiting to swallow her whole if she couldn’t keep her feet rooted to the ground and that lid on, even if she needed to pull it down with both hands gripped tightly to it.
The days they had spent together as lovers before she had left for Madrid had been the best days of her life.
They had spent most of them in bed, yes, but they had enjoyed themselves out of it too. He had joined her in her studio while she practised, making calls and sending emails with her pirouetting around him. They had eaten their separate meals together and even shared more of the same meals. They had shared stories of their childhoods, very different but fascinating to the other.
And then they had flown to England together and met her parents in their new house.
He had been welcomed with open arms and even wider hearts.
And then she had gone back to her life and found everything had changed.
She had changed.
‘Bien. I just want to check you have no late rehearsals tomorrow.’ It was only when she heard him speak after days apart that she heard the thickness of his accent when he spoke her language. She never heard it when she was with him any more.
‘Not that I’ve been told.’
‘Excellente. I will get my driver to collect you at six-thirty.’
A few minutes later, Freya disconnected the call and climbed into the huge bath.
Then she laid herself down until she was fully submerged and held her breath for as long as she could.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FREYA RAN A brush through her hair a final time and laid it on her dresser feeling much better in herself. Rehearsals the day before had gone much better. Today, after a night of making love to Benjamin, she had taken herself to her studio to practise her solo dance and found herself foot-perfect. Not a single step or movement had been wrong, and she had dressed for their night out feeling as if a weight had been lifted.
Now she could enjoy a meal out with her husband without any cares.
Selecting a red button-down shirt-dress that fell to her knees, a thick black rope belt hooked around her waist and a pair of high strappy silver sandals, she then dabbed perfume behind her ears and on her wrists, applied a little gloss to her lips and considered herself done.
She found Benjamin in the half-inside, half-outside living room where he had first told her she would have to marry him, talking on his phone.
He got to his feet when he saw her and ended his call.
Tilting his head, he studied her with sparkling eyes.
‘Madame Guillem, you look good enough to eat.’
The feeling is entirely mutual, she thought but didn’t say.
Charcoal trousers, a shirt only a shade lighter and unbuttoned at his throat, and a Prussian blue jacket gave him a dangerously debonair appearance.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I’ve booked us a table at Le Cheval D’Or.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A restaurant near Nice. It’s about half an hour’s drive away.’
When they stepped out in the courtyard Benjamin smiled to see the furrow on Freya’s brow at the car waiting for them, a bright yellow convertible with the roof down.
She ran her fingers along the paintwork and then suddenly that striking face was grinning widely. ‘What a beautiful car.’
‘It’s a 1949 Buick Roadmaster Riviera Convertible. I bought it at auction four months ago.’
She stepped all around it, examining it with the same reverence he’d first studied it. When she was done, he opened the passenger door for her.
Her brow furrowed again. ‘Where’s your driver?’
He grinned. ‘Tonight, ma douce, I am your driver.’
She matched his grin and got in.
Minutes later, they were out of his estate and speeding through the sweeping roads to their destination, Freya’s hair sweeping around her.
‘This is amazing,’ she said, bursting into laughter, a sound he had never heard from her before.
As incredible as it was to believe, he had never heard Freya laugh until that moment.
Her joy was as infectious as it was heart-warming and he laughed with her. ‘Isn’t it?’
Not much more was said but every time he looked at her she would turn her eyes to him and they would give identical grins.
Benjamin was big enough to admit he was greedy about his time with her. Since she had returned to Madrid he guarded their time together zealously. He wanted her to be happy but seven hours in her studio on her one whole day off?
He’d resented ballet enough for stealing all his mother’s attention while she was alive and now he found himself with a wife whose passion for it would more commonly be known as an addiction.
He reflected that next week she had two whole days off. He’d already rearranged his diary to free his time so they didn’t have to waste any of it.
Tonight he had deliberately booked a table in a restaurant rather than dine at home as they usually did. Selfishly, he wanted all her attention.
So far his ploy was working.
Ten minutes from the restaurant and the first clear view of the Mediterranean appeared; he looked at her and laughed again to see her head flopping on her shoulder.
‘You’re falling asleep?’ he asked with faux incredulity.
She straightened and gave a yawn that turned into muffled giggles. ‘Sorry... Wow! That view is incredible.’
All sleepiness deserted her in an instant as Freya took in the glamorous sight in front of them, so different from the peaceful views that surrounded Benjamin’s chateau but equally beautiful in its own right.
But none of those views were a patch on the masculine beauty of the man who sat beside her, driving a car that wouldn’t look out of place in one of those glamourous films from the Cary Grant era. It suited Benjamin perfectly, far more than any modern-day Bugatti or Ferrari, cars she knew he had in his underground garage.
The wind whipping through her hair and the feel of the sun soaking into her face had rid her of the last of that godawful tightness that had been compressing her all week.
This was fun.
She honestly could not remember the last time she had done anything that constituted fun. Maybe the theme park she and Sophie had visited on one of their days off on their European tour last year? They hadn’t gone this year. Sophie had begged off with stomach cramps and Freya hadn’t wanted to go without her.
She wished she knew what was wrong with her oldest and closest friend and why she had quit the company so abruptly, but Sophie had clammed up.
Soon the roads became even narrower and steeper and they drove into a town with medieval architecture, coming to a stop outside a high monastic stone building with a red-tiled roof and pillars.
Immediately a valet appeared, opening the passenger door for her and helping her out, then zipping to Benjamin’s side. Benjamin pressed the keys in the valet’s hand then turned to Freya with a grin. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
Stone walls and floors greeted them, along with high stained-glass windows and a high vaulted ceiling. A low buzz of chatter rang out from the other diners, all dressed in their finery, low bursts and high bursts of laughter and the most delicious smells.
They were led to a table under a window, menus presented to them by the self-important maîtr
e d’ with the same reverence as if they were being presented with a first edition of a masterpiece. He then took hold of their napkins and, in turn, flicked them to open them up, his face grave as if performing an act of live art as he placed them on their laps.
Freya caught the laughter in Benjamin’s eye and ducked her head down to study the menu lest she start giggling at the maître d’s pomposity.
The second he left their table, they covered their mouths so the laughter they’d both been supressing came out like muffled sniggers.
‘Were we supposed to applaud?’ she said when she’d caught her breath, dabbing a tear of mirth with the napkin.
‘I think he expected a standing ovation.’
By the time they’d ordered their food—thankfully their order was taken by one of the lowly waiters—Freya felt thoroughly relaxed and sipped her champagne with pleasure.
The food they were served was incredible, her starter of artichoke served with caviar in a lime broth possibly the best dish she had ever eaten...until their main courses were set before them and she had her first bite of her clay-cooked chicken that came with white asparagus, a rocket salad and little delicacies she didn’t recognise but knew would be delicious.
‘I have never seen you enjoy your food so much,’ Benjamin commented as he tackled his smoked lobster. ‘I must get my chef to recreate these recipes.’
‘Your chef is amazing,’ she protested. ‘I’m just exceptionally hungry.’
‘So am I.’
Her heart leapt at the gleam in his eyes and the suggestiveness of his tone, sending a hot surge of blood pumping through her.
Would this desire ever abate?
His sparkling eyes devouring her a little longer, he said, ‘It is strange to see you eat a meal out without worrying over every ingredient.’
She laughed. ‘I allow myself the occasional splurge. I’ve only had one non-healthy meal since you kidnapped me and that was on our wedding day.’
‘You hardly ate any of that and I didn’t kidnap you. I whisked you away with deception.’
‘If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and talks like a duck then it’s safe to say it’s a duck. You kidnapped me.’
‘Ducks can’t talk and I didn’t kidnap you.’
‘Okay, you stole me, then.’
‘Only with your consent, and ask yourself this—who would you rather be sitting at this table with? Me or Javier?’
‘You want me to answer that?’
He flashed her a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘Only if the answer is me.’
It’s you, every time, she almost said but cut herself off.
She couldn’t lie to him but nor could she tell him the truth.
Instinct told her that to tell the truth would be to drag her even closer to the precipice that frightened her so much.
She never thought of Javier unless it was to compare him unfavourably to Benjamin.
Her brain burned to remember she had agreed to have children with him. The ball had been entirely in her court as to when it would happen so she had decided that she would wait until her biological clock started ticking, thinking by then she and Javier would have forged a friendly marriage.
She no longer believed anything of the sort. How could she when she now believed the heart she’d thought he kept hidden from view was actually missing? The way he and Luis had treated Benjamin and taken advantage of his mother’s cancer for their own ends enraged her.
Benjamin’s heart wasn’t missing. His heart was as enormous as his ego. He was a man who did everything wholeheartedly, whether it was loving someone or hating them. When he set on a path he was relentless until he reached his destination.
They had never spoken of children. It was there in the contract though. The ball would always be in her court for that.
What kind of a father would he be? A hands-on, nappy-changing, kicking-a-ball-around-the-park dad? Or the kind of father who appointed an army of nannies and left them to it?
And why did her heart ache to imagine it...?
‘You and Javier are very different people,’ she said quietly, trying to be diplomatic without giving anything of her thoughts away. ‘When I agreed to marry him I knew he was a cold fish but I didn’t realise what a complete bastard he was. It wouldn’t have changed my mind though. His proposal was just too attractive for my mother’s sake.’
‘And what about your sake?’
‘I have dealt with colder and crueller people than Javier Casillas. You want to know real cruelty, put a hidden camera in a girls’ boarding school.’
‘Did you suffer a lot?’
‘The other girls took an instant dislike to me. They hated everything about me. The clothes I wore, the way I spoke...even the way I held my cutlery. They took pleasure in humiliating me. Petty, nasty things. Constant name calling, stealing my stuff, tripping me in the canteen when I had a tray of food in my hand—that one was a particular favourite.’
‘They hated that you were a better dancer than them?’
Her brow furrowed in surprise.
He explained his thinking with a grimace. ‘You had a full scholarship. The school you went to only gives them rarely, for exceptional talents.’
She pulled a rueful face. ‘If that was their reasoning then it worked. My dancing went to pieces. That first term I was the worst dancer there because they got into my head. I was an insecure bag of nerves.’
‘How did you get through it?’ But he already had a good idea. That iron control had started somewhere.
‘At the end of the first term one of the dance teachers pulled me aside. She told me I was in danger of losing my scholarship. She also said she knew I had problems fitting in but that, unless I wanted to lose my dream, I had to rise above it and find a way to tune the noise out otherwise they would win.’
She would have been only eleven, Benjamin thought, sickened at the cruelty of children and the ineffectiveness of the adults meant to protect her.
‘I took her words to heart,’ Freya continued. ‘I taught myself to block the noise from my head and focus only on the dance itself. I no longer sought their approval and in time I no longer wanted or needed it. By taking control of my feelings and learning to be completely single-minded, I learned how to survive.’ Her face brightened a touch. ‘And I did make a friend eventually. Sophie. She helped ease the loneliness but they were still the worst days of my life. If I could get through that, I can get through anything. If marrying Attila the Hun could have alleviated my mother’s pain I would have married him and known I would survive it too.’
Benjamin saw so many emotions flickering in the black depths of her eyes that his heart fisted in on itself.
Their backgrounds might have them poles apart but when it came to those they loved, there was nothing either of them would not do.
Having met her parents for himself, he understood even more.
He had been struck with the warmth of their welcome, their gratitude for the home he had given them so stark it had embarrassed him.
It isn’t me you need to thank, he’d wanted to tell them. It’s your daughter. She’s the one who contracted herself out to marriage for you.
He’d thought he’d been prepared for her mother’s condition but it had been worse than he’d thought. She could do nothing for herself, was virtually paralysed in her failing body, totally reliant on her doting husband. And Freya said this was an improvement?
But she had that spirit in her eyes his own mother had had, a will to fight, and, he had seen whenever she had looked at her only child, fierce pride in her daughter.
Strangely, meeting Freya’s father, a humble man with a huge heart, had set him thinking about his own when he so rarely thought of his own father. The only good thing his father had ever done—apart from helping create himself and his sister, even if he did say so himself—was provide maintenance to his mother once he’d left the family nest. His mother had saved all those payments, giving Benjamin his share in a lump
sum when he’d turned twenty-one, money he’d used to purchase an old, run-down food-production facility.
He’d left his in-laws’ home with a heavy heart, which he still hadn’t shaken off.
‘How can you stand working for him?’ he asked.
Javier had known about her mother’s condition for two months and done nothing about it other than sign promises for the future when he had his ring on Freya’s finger.
Yes, he had paid for two rounds of treatment but he should have taken them out of that decrepit flat and given them somewhere decent to live.
‘I don’t work for him. I work for his company,’ she answered. ‘And it won’t be for much longer.’
‘Have you started looking for a new company yet?’
‘I’ve been approached by a couple of companies.’
‘You never said.’
‘My career is not your concern,’ she reminded him with a tight smile that immediately made his hackles rise.
‘I spoke to the director of Orchestre National de Paris a few days ago,’ he said. ‘Their theatre has just been refurbished and the owner is in the process of creating a new ballet company.’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘They want you to be their Etoile.’
‘What?’
‘Orchestre National de Paris want you to be the star of their new ballet company. I was going to wait until the proposal was confirmed in writing before telling you but now seems the right time. Salary is negotiable and they are prepared to put a clause in your contract that allows you time off to guest star for other companies.’
Silence filled the space between them. She stared at him, totally still, her black eyes unreadable.
‘Who approached who?’ she asked slowly. ‘You or the director?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes.’
‘The director is an old friend who I know through the Casillas brothers. The Orchestre National de Paris’s intention to create its own ballet company is not a secret.’
Billionaire's Bride for Revenge (Billionaire?s Bride for Revenge) Page 14
