After Their Vows

by Michelle Reid

  ‘Come on, Angie, say something,’ he encouraged. ‘Describe how these many lovers matched up to me.’

  Mutely, Angie shook her head.

  Roque sucked some air. ‘Were there any other lovers?’

  ‘You deserve there to have been a thousand other lovers!’ she burst out, without knowing she was going to say it.

  And that was it—the moment she lost it. The anguished force of her response sent her lips brushing against his, and sparks flew as the volcano of feeling burning inside her just blew its top. She dragged an arm free of the duvet so she could punch him. Roque muttered something as he ducked his head, then captured her mouth with a full-on, hot, driving kiss. With a whimper like those he had just described, Angie hit out at him again, and kept on hitting him—and kissed him back like a wild, reckless wanton.

  But she was sobbing while she kissed him. She was writhing and gasping and still hating him. He crushed her into the mattress and scorched her with the ferocity of his own burning passion, until her hands went from punching him to clutching at his hair instead, her hot angry tongue spearing urgently between his lips.

  Shattered by her own surrender, Angie found she could not contain what she’d let loose. It was as if twelve long months of grievous hurt just tumbled out of her. She felt wild with pleasure, and furiously angry at the same time. Hot, needle-sharp pricks of excitement set her fingers anxiously kneading his scalp. She could feel the heavy beat of his heart through the duvet and her limbs were melting. The thickness of his arousal was a blatant pleasure force he used to encourage her thighs even wider apart.

  When he raised his head she found she was panting like a sprinter. His ridiculously dark eyes leapt with burning flames, his deep chest heaving, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness between his hot pulsing lips.

  ‘Were there any other lovers?’ he repeated the question.

  Wanting that mouth back on her mouth—needing it there— ‘No,’ she squeezed out.

  He threw himself away from her, rolling back across to the other side of the bed. Angie just lay there in a state of shocked numbness, stunned that he could just stop like that, but more appalled at how easily he had turned her into this shivering, quivering sensual wreck.

  Then he really deepened her humiliation by picking up the pillow she’d shoved between them and repositioning her pathetic barrier as if it was himself he was trying protect now.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ he rasped, before he slid onto his side with his back towards her.

  Angie rolled onto her side too, opening a gap between the two of them that made the silly barrier superfluous in a bed as big as this. Her eyes were burning with unshed tears, and she wondered if this was the point where she finally let them escape. She knew deep inside she had asked for everything Roque had just dealt out to her. She’d challenged his ego, poured scorn on his masculinity, and derided his prowess as a lover. Having satisfactorily reclaimed all three of those things, he was now content to fall asleep.

  Taut as coiled wire, curled up in a ball, she pushed a hand up against her quivering lips and closed her eyes tightly, working very hard to make sure he did not feel the tremors shaking the bed. She would get up in a minute, she told herself. She would wait until the rotten, faithless, cruel brute had fallen asleep, then she would go back to the other bedroom and this time lock the door so he couldn’t get in …

  She dreamed of locked doors and the helpless constraints of imprisonment as if someone had locked her in. Anxious, restless, she had no idea that she was whispering little pleas into the darkness, begging to be set free. When she uttered a small sob, Roque gave up on lying there watching her, removed the pillow from between them, and gently drew her into the middle of the bed. She curled into him as if she was hunting for safety, and whispered his name against his throat.

  Angie slept straight through until morning, when she came awake with a jittery start as if something or someone had woken her up. Remembering exactly where she was arrived half a second later, launching her into a sitting position as full recall of the night’s events flooded into her head.

  Pushing her hair back from her face, she swivelled a wary glance at the other side of the bed. It was empty. Relief quivered through her—followed by a burst of fury aimed entirely at herself, for falling asleep here when she’d meant to hot-foot it out of this bedroom and lock herself into the other one.

  What time was it?

  A glance at her watch sent her diving out of bed. She should have been walking into work as of now! Rushing out of the room and down the mezzanine landing to the other bedroom, she headed directly for the bathroom, and only thought about Roque’s meeting with her brother when she was standing beneath the shower.

  Had he already left?

  Quickly drying herself, she grabbed the bathrobe hanging up behind the door and dragged it on as her bare feet took her back out onto the landing and down the stairs. Last night’s dinner things had been cleared away, she saw as she crossed to the kitchen—then came to a thoroughly disconcerted halt.

  A complete stranger stood elbow-deep in washing up suds—a long, tall, curvy-shaped stranger, with short floppy blonde hair, wearing jeans and bright pink sneakers to match her bright pink tight, stretchy top. When she turned around Angie saw she had big baby blue eyes and a lush heart-shaped mouth.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Mrs de Calvhos.’ The lush mouth broke into a melting smile. ‘I’m Molly Stewart,’ she introduced herself. ‘I come in here each day to clean up.’

  Roque employed a blonde bombshell as a daily cleaner? Suspicion as to Molly’s real role here slunk like poison through Angie’s blood. What had happened to old Mrs Grant?

  ‘Do you know where my husband is? ‘ Angie asked, stunned to hear herself use that possessive title as if she was sending out a warning to the blonde.

  ‘He left about half an hour ago,’ Molly Stewart told her. ‘He said for me to let you sleep.’ Picking up a towel, she began drying her hands on it. ‘Can I get you some breakfast? Cereal and juice? Some toast and a pot of coffee or tea?’

  ‘No—thank you,’ Angie answered with polite cool. ‘I’ll—I’ll just grab a bottle of water from the fridge.’

  Why was she behaving so awfully? she asked herself. Because you don’t like the thought of this sexy creature polishing Roque’s floors and making his bed, Angie answered her own question, frowning as she crossed the kitchen towards the fridge, with the blonde watching her every step of the way.

  It all felt just so weird—as if she was an intruder here. A one-night stand left behind to sort herself out while the great Latin lover disappeared out of the firing line of an awkward morning-after scene.

  Then she wondered just how many one-night stands Molly the daily had greeted with offers of breakfast. Had Molly Stewart been one of them? Was Roque into seducing the cleaning lady on her days off?

  Not liking the ugly path her mind was taking her along, she tugged open the fridge door and selected a small bottle of water, then pushed the door shut again, turning to find Molly staring at her pensively, as if she had something she wanted to say.

  ‘Your husband said I was to make sure you ate something, Mrs de Calvhos,’ Molly murmured anxiously. ‘In fact he was very specific—’

  ‘That is not his decision to make,’ Angie responded, with a snap she would have preferred had not been there. But she was struggling with hearing herself referred to as ‘Mrs de Calvhos’ now, because she didn’t feel like a Mrs anyone. She didn’t want to feel like a wife at all.

  Especially so after last night’s humiliating fiasco in Roque’s bed.

  Great will power you have, Angie, she thought grimly, then glanced up sharply as Molly suddenly rushed into speech.

  ‘You’re Angie Hastings, aren’t you? Gosh, you’re even more beautiful in the flesh than you look in the magazines.’

  Thoroughly startled by this unexpected compliment, Angie just stared, and Molly started blushing as if she’d made some terrible gaffe. Angie suddenly saw h
ow young she was—and actually kind of cute. Despite possessing the sexiest curves she’d seen in a long time, being in the industry Angie was in, Molly Stewart had a natural warmth about her that made Angie feel mean for being so cool with her.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ she offered with a ruefully apologetic smile. ‘I was surprised to find you here, and I’m cross with my … just cross,’ she edited, unwilling to use that husband word again. ‘I should have been at work by now, and—’

  ‘I wish I had your hair,’ Molly cut in breathlessly. ‘The colour is fabulous …’

  ‘Trust me, you don’t.’ Angie gave in and just laughed. ‘It’s hell to manage, and you can’t hide the fact that you’re a genuine ginger-head. Did my …?’ There it was again—the word she didn’t want to utter. Avoidance is futile, Angie, she told herself whimsically. ‘Did my husband leave a message for me other than that I am supposed to eat?’

  ‘Oh.’ Molly jumped. ‘He wrote you a note …’ Walking across the kitchen, she picked up an envelope, then released a giggly laugh. ‘He also said that if you tried to leave the apartment I was to barricade you in, but I don’t think I was supposed to pass that detail on.’

  Frowning again, because Angie was picking up on a definite air of friendly intimacy being passed around between Roque and Molly, she asked as casually as she could, ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Since I started full-time at the London Business School, with the help of Mr de Calvhos’s financial sponsorship,’ Molly informed her with prompt honesty. ‘I could not have studied full-time without his help, so I try to pay him back by keeping this apartment nice for him to come back to when he’s in London … My grandmother used to work here before me, but she had to retire due to ill health.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard that Mrs Grant was ill.’

  ‘She’s not any more.’ Molly smiled as she handed an envelope to Angie. ‘Mr de Calvhos paid for her to have private treatment and she’s in fine health now. He’s been very good to us. We are ever so grateful.’

  Hating herself for wondering how grateful, Angie let the envelope claim her attention instead. Murmuring something about going back upstairs to dress, she took the envelope with her, and didn’t open it until she was back in the guest bedroom.

  ‘I have organised professionals to clear out your apartment, so I’ve taken the keys from your bag,’ Roque had scrawled, without a care for the presumption he was displaying. ‘Be sensible and don’t try to contact your brother. Wait here for me. I will be back by lunch. R.’

  Be good and stay put and wait for him like an obedient wife, in other words. Angie read between the lines of the final part of his missive, and instantly dived for her green bag, with the intention of fishing out her mobile phone to do exactly what he had told her not to do and call Alex.

  It wasn’t there.

  He didn’t trust her to do as he’d ordered, so he’d taken her phone as well as her keys!

  Refusing—point-blank—to acknowledge that she had been about to add substance to his lack of trust in her, Angie stood seething with frustration for a few seconds. Then she remembered the time and took her frustration out on finding something to put on.

  At least her holdall was still there, she saw. He hadn’t gone as far as removing her clothes so she couldn’t leave. Ten minutes later she was walking back down the stairs, looking hard-edged and street chic in drainpipe designer jeans and a purple top which should have clashed horribly with the green bag but somehow didn’t. She’d scrunched her hair back from her face, and now wore a pair of high, chrome-heeled leather clogs on her feet.

  Molly stared in awe at her as she strode towards the lobby. ‘I wish I could look like that in ten minutes,’ she sighed wistfully.

  Try living and breathing the fashion industry for a few years, Angie thought ruefully. She’d learnt quickly that it was all in the execution.

  She managed to grab a passing cab as she stepped out of the building. Fifteen minutes later she was striding into the glossy white reception area belong to CGM Management, ready to take up her duties a whole hour late, only to be met by the surprise sight of her employer calmly manning the front desk.

  ‘You look as if you’ve spent a night on the tiles,’ Carla Gail drawled by way of a greeting.

  Carla was an ex-supermodel from the nineteen-eighties, still stunningly beautiful, with a long slender figure and wheat-blonde hair. Inside she was made out of cut crystal, with a business brain that scared most men into shivering shakes.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Angie apologised, without bothering to respond to the critique. ‘I overslept.’

  ‘With anyone I know?’ Carla posed curiously.

  Angie lifted up her chin. ‘You want me to publish a kiss and tell?’

  ‘God, no,’ her svelte blonde boss refused, ‘Too boring, sweetie. And, knowing you as I do, it was probably the kid brother who put those worry bruises beneath your eyes. Get someone in Make-up to do something about them.’

  Carla strode off then, leaving Angie to grimace at how close to the truth Carla’s supposition had been.

  A steady string of hopeful wannabe models arriving for interviews kept the morning busy. Angie was experienced enough to know at a glance which of them—if any—were going to be seen by someone higher than the lowliest ranking member of the team. She kept looking at her watch, wondering what Roque was saying to Alex. Several times she almost gave in and called her brother using the desk phone, but then someone else would walk through CGM’s famous glass doors and the temptation would fade for another few minutes.

  When lunchtime arrived, so did an increase in her stress levels. Had Roque arrived back at the apartment yet? Was he angry that she wasn’t waiting for him there like a good girl? Had he murdered her brother, or just threatened to do it? Was Alex trying to call her on her mobile phone?

  Carla strolled back into the foyer with a casual glide that said she was on her way out to lunch. She paused halfway across the shiny white foyer as her mobile phone leapt into life. Lucky Carla, Angie thought as her boss paused to speak to her caller, then flicked a strange glance at Angie before turning back the way she had come.

  ‘Give me a minute to reach my office,’ Angie heard her murmur as she strode by.

  Business before food. Business before pleasure. That was Carla, Angie thought. Her personal life currently involved a low-ranking member of the British aristocracy who liked to keep his extra-marital affairs discreet. Which, when she thought about it, was why Carla had turned bored at the mention of kiss and tells. Carla would rather be boiled in oil than swap personal stuff with anyone. The only reason Angie knew about Carla’s lover was because she’d been having dinner at Carla’s apartment one evening when the guy had turned up unexpectedly.

  The hidden wheels and cogs of life, she mused cynically. She had yet to meet a married couple who could truly claim they had a strong, happy relationship—not in her social and business sphere anyway. Hotshot businessmen with vast wealth and huge responsibilities needed to vent their manic stress levels somewhere other than with the little wife.

  She had watched it go on so many times during her modelling days. High-end mistresses attending catwalk shows with blank chequebooks provided by their indulgent lovers whose sadly blind wives would more often than not be at the self-same shows, with their own blank chequebook to use. It was the ugly underbelly of a beautiful world. A world she had vowed would never tempt her. Yet she’d fallen in love with and married such a man—a man who would turn into such a man when he got older, more jaded, and bored with playing happy families.

  Had turned into one, Angie reminded herself, and he’d done it so fast that even she, with all her cynical views on marriage to rich men, had been left flailing like a landed fish, left to die a slow, suffocating death while the fisherman moved on to more appealing fishing grounds.

  It wasn’t the best bit of timing for CGM’s plate glass doors to swing open and for Angie to glance up and see Roque striding
in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HE WAS wearing a grey pinstripe suit that draped his long, powerful frame as if it loved being there, and he looked—sensational. Tall, dark and tanned, with the kind of hard-angled, well-balanced features that just instinctively attracted women to him: the exotic curve of his cheekbones, the thin fleshless nose, the gorgeously sexy full, sensual mouth.

  Her insides gave a telling little leap of soul-deep attraction, her eyes unwillingly gluing to the slightly sardonic gleam in his. And he was smiling.

  But, worse than all of that put together, Angie could see him naked again, after his conceited pose beside the bed he had dumped her on last night. And this was a guy who liked snowboarding down the Alps or skydiving off them. This was a guy who swam umpteen laps of his swimming pool every day before breakfast and could pump iron without breaking into a sweat. So he had pecs, he had abs, he had big strong shoulders and bulging biceps, and a chest splashed with virile dark hair hidden beneath the fine cloth of his bright white shirt, and muscles that could take her breath away cording his long, powerful legs inside the smooth cloth of the pinstriped suit.

  As he strode towards her a whole line of wannabes lost their boredom in favour of covetously lapping him up. Jealousy erupted. It was so horribly possessive Angie wanted to tell the wannabes to get their greedy eyes off him.

  Mine, she heard some inner voice insist, and despised herself for feeling like that.

  She shot to her feet. ‘I want my keys and my phone back,’ she hissed at Roque the moment he came to a stop at her desk. ‘And if you’ve hurt my brother you are going to be sorry.’

  The row of wannabes shifted on the shiny black leather chairs they were sitting on, their interest further piqued.

  Roque lost his smile.

  With the instincts of a natural-born predator cornering its spitting prey, he used his superior height to lean forward and stretch a long-fingered hand out across the desk to capture her chin.