‘You didn’t want high emotion and drama,’ Carlos reminded her, almost aggressively. ‘Your parents’ volatile relationship ruined your childhood. You don’t want that for Sebastian, and nor do I.’ He raked his hair off his brow. ‘What we have is good—solid. A marriage based on reason and common sense and a desire to do the best for our son.’
‘Is that really all our marriage is to you?’ She had built castles in the air and now they were tumbling down. ‘Our honeymoon felt like more than common sense.’
He looked away from her. ‘I needed to break the deadlock between us.’
‘And so you seduced me?’
‘If you remember, querida, you seduced me,’ he said softly.
She had made it so easy for him, Betsy thought bleakly. He had spun his sensual web and she’d walked straight into it.
‘The passion we share is unique,’ he said. ‘I have never wanted any woman the way I want you.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? That I’m a good lay?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant.’ He picked up his wine glass and drained it in a couple of gulps. ‘I have never wanted to fall in love. I told you when I asked you to marry me that we wouldn’t have a fairy tale romance.’ He gave her a frustrated look. ‘I’m not cut out for love.’
‘You love Sebastian.’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘That’s different. I had no choice. The moment I held my son I was overwhelmed with love for him.’
‘But you don’t love me,’ she said quietly.
She seemed to have spent most of her life being quiet, not making a fuss so that then maybe everything would be all right and the shouting would stop. She wanted to curl up in a ball and pull the duvet over her head, like she’d done as a child to block out her parents’ angry voices. Now she wanted to block out the pity she’d heard in Carlos’s voice. Pity.
She felt sick. Her throat burned with the tears that she was trying to swallow because she couldn’t let herself break down in front of him.
He scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘You don’t want me to love you. Really you don’t, querida. I am no good at it.’
Beneath his savage voice there was a rawness that startled Betsy.
‘I’m no good,’ Carlos told her grimly.
And then he walked away, leaving her alone with her heart in a thousand pieces.
How long she sat there she did not know. The butler came with the main course and she sent him back to the kitchen with her apologies to the cook. Betsy did not think she would ever want to eat again, or smile, or paint. Life had been drained of joy.
If only she had been content with what she had instead of wanting more. She had put Carlos under pressure to admit how he felt about her and his answer had ripped her heart out. Now that she had revealed her emotions they would not be able to return to how they had been.
The thought of facing him again made her insides squirm. She couldn’t share a bed with him and make love with him, knowing that for him it was just sex. How could she stay with him now she knew that he would never love her as she loved him?
She stood up and blew out the flames on the candles that had burnt down almost to nothing. A muscle in her leg twinged and she realised that she had been sitting in the same position for too long. Sleep would be impossible, and she didn’t even know where she would go to bed.
Filled with restlessness, she walked into the pool house and changed into her one-piece costume before she headed back to the pool. The underwater lights had come on and she dived into the water and started to swim, length after length, punishing herself for wanting the one thing she could not have. Her husband’s heart.
He had hurt her. He’d seen the evidence in the way her mouth had crumpled and her eyes had shimmered over-bright in the candlelight.
But what else could he have done? Carlos asked himself as guilt jagged through him. He couldn’t have lied and made false promises. Betsy deserved better than that. She deserved his honesty. She was so honest herself, and fierce and brave and loving. He saw her generous nature every day as she showered their son with love. Betsy had a big heart and a deep well of kindness. She cared for her friends and she adored the little dog which was utterly devoted to her. She was charming to the staff and she took Sebastian to visit his grandfather daily.
And she loved him.
Carlos cursed as he strode through the house with no idea of where he was headed. The bottom of a whisky bottle was tempting. But he couldn’t hide from his demons any longer. He couldn’t keep running. Betsy loved him. But she wouldn’t if she knew what he had done. He didn’t deserve her love.
But he wanted it.
His breath left him on a groan and he stumbled and leaned against the wall, feeling as if he’d been winded. Feeling as if his heart was being squeezed in a vice. This was why he had spent his adult life burying his emotions. Love hurt. It was killing him to know that he had hurt Betsy.
This was the truth of him, Carlos thought savagely. He destroyed everything that was good.
A memory that he had spent twenty years trying to eradicate by pushing his body to the extreme of its physical capability slid like a poisonous serpent into his mind. His mother lying slumped on the tennis court while he cradled her in his arms, feeling helpless as the life left her body on a shuddering final breath. He’d sprinted over to where he’d left his bag and grabbed his phone, but even as he’d called the emergency services he’d known it was too late.
He remembered how tears had streamed down his father’s face. ‘You knew your mother felt unwell with a headache, but still you nagged her to be your practice partner. All you care about is tennis and the glory of winning. Now your mother has paid the price for your ambition with her life. Never forget that, Carlos.’
He looked around and discovered that his feet had brought him to the annexe of the house. He hammered on the door of his father’s suite and the nurse let him in. He strode into his father’s bedroom. Roderigo rarely left his bed these days, and his bony hand pressed the control to bring him up into a sitting position.
‘Why didn’t you come to watch me play in the London final? I wanted you to be there.’ The words burst out of Carlos. ‘I won it for her. I thought you would be proud of me at last.’ The ache in his chest expanded. ‘I hoped you would forgive me, Papà.’
‘I couldn’t bring myself to go,’ his father rasped. ‘It had been your mother’s dream to win the ladies’ tournament there.’ He sighed. ‘She could have done it. She was a great player, and her coach said she had the potential to be a world champion. But I stopped her from pursuing her dream. I resented the hours of training she put in, and the weeks and months she spent away on the tennis tours. I put pressure on her to start a family. I told her I wanted a child—a son who would one day take over the bakery from me as I had done when my father retired. But motherhood meant the end of her tennis career.’
Carlos stared at his father. ‘Are you saying that Mamà did not want me?’
‘She wanted you,’ Roderigo said softly. ‘Your mother adored you and Graciela. She never regretted choosing to be a mother. But as you grew up, and it became apparent that you had inherited her talent for tennis, I realised how much she had missed playing competitively. She lived her dream through you, and I resented you because your success reminded me of the career she might have had if my selfishness hadn’t denied her the chance to chase her dream.’
Carlos swallowed. ‘You sent me away to live in Barcelona. You blamed me for her death and you were right. I killed her.’
‘I regret what I said. I was in shock. I didn’t really blame you. I didn’t realise that you had remembered it for all these years.’
‘It wasn’t something I was likely to forget,’ Carlos said curtly.
‘Forgive me.’ A tear slid down Roderigo’s papery cheek. ‘Your mother had died and it was too late f
or me tell her that I was sorry, that I wished I’d encouraged her tennis career. I couldn’t go to watch you in London because she should have played there and I felt so guilty. I sent you to live with your coach because I was determined to give you the chance that I had taken away from you mother. You are a great champion and she would have been proud of you...as I am proud of you, mi hijo.’
‘Papà...’ Carlos sat on the bed and clasped his father’s hand.
‘You have a beautiful wife and son. Don’t make the mistakes I made.’ Roderigo squeezed Carlos’s fingers. ‘Don’t leave things unsaid and spend the rest of your life regretting it.’
Carlos’s mind was reeling as he left the annexe and returned to the main house. The glass doors were open in the sitting room, and he frowned when he heard someone shouting. The room overlooked the pool terrace, and he saw the butler running across the tiles.
‘La señora—se ha ahogada!’
Drowned!
Carlos tore down the steps from the house. As he raced across the terrace he saw a shape lying motionless next to the pool. His heart slammed against his ribs. In his mind he saw his mother, slumped on the tennis court.
‘Betsy!’
His roar was that of a wounded animal. He dropped onto his knees beside her, relief pouring through him when she half sat up and coughed up water.
She groaned and clutched her leg. ‘Cramp in my calf muscle,’ she muttered. ‘I was swimming and my leg seized up. I couldn’t move. Luckily Eduardo saw me and managed to pull me out of the water.’
‘It’s all right, querida.’ Carlos’s hands were shaking as he gathered her close.
She tensed and pulled away from him. ‘It’s not all right,’ she choked, ‘and it never will be. I’ve ruined everything.’
Betsy would rather have walked over hot coals than for Carlos to lift her into his arms. But the pain in her calf muscle was so excruciating that walking was impossible, and she had no choice but to suffer him carrying her back to the house.
‘You can put me down on the sofa. I’ll be fine in a few minutes,’ she muttered, her gaze fixed on his shirt collar rather than on his face.
He ignored her and strode across the hall and up the stairs, heading along the corridor towards their bedroom. They had separate bathrooms, but hers only had a shower. He carried her into his and sat her on a chair while he turned on the taps to fill the bath, adding a handful of bath crystals.
‘Hot water will help the muscle to relax. Cramp in the gastrocnemius—that’s the big muscle in your calf—is agony,’ he explained. ‘I was once carried off a tennis court halfway through a match that I was winning because of cramp.’
She suspected he was chatting normally to make her feel less embarrassed. Some hope, Betsy thought bleakly. His kindness made things so much worse.
She stared down at her feet so that he would not see the tears brimming in her eyes. ‘The pain is going off a bit. I can manage now. Will you go and check on Sebastian?’
‘Don’t lock the door in case you need my help.’
When he had gone, she peeled off her swimsuit and climbed into the bath. It was deep and she sank into the water, flexing the calf muscle that now ached dully. Her mind replayed those terrifying minutes in the pool, when she’d literally been unable to move her leg. The pain had been so intense that she had panicked and swallowed a mouthful of pool water.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She told herself they were a reaction to shock but knew she was lying to herself. There was a movement by the door, and through her tears she saw Carlos’s blurred figure leaning against the frame.
‘When I was fourteen I had the chance to become the youngest player to win an international boys’ tournament, but I lost the final match,’ he said heavily. ‘I was furious and I lost my temper. I had a complete meltdown on the court and smashed my racket. I received an official reprimand from the umpire. In the car afterwards, my father told me that my behaviour had brought shame on the family. My mother was upset. When we got home, she said she had a headache. But I nagged her to come to the practice court and be my hitting partner.’
He pushed his hands into his pockets and kicked the door frame with his toe.
‘I served a ball hard and it caught her on her shoulder. She fell to the ground. I was annoyed because I thought she was making a fuss. But she didn’t move.’
Betsy held her breath as Carlos continued.
‘I ran across to her and supported her head in my arms. I still thought she had been hurt by the tennis ball and she would get up in a minute. But she died. Right there in my arms, my mother died.’
‘Oh, Carlos, I’m so sorry.’
His face twisted. ‘It wasn’t the tennis ball. She died of a brain aneurysm. The headache had been a warning sign. Someone called my father and he came to the tennis court, but he was too late. He sobbed like a child over my mother’s body—and then he told me that I had killed her.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Betsy said urgently. ‘The aneurysm could have ruptured at any time.’
He nodded. ‘But I was convinced that my hot temper had resulted in my mother’s death, and I vowed never to lose control of my emotions ever again. Any of my emotions,’ he said roughly. ‘For twenty years I never got angry, or sad, or wildly happy. I didn’t allow myself to feel anything too deeply.’
The pain in his voice tore on her heart. ‘Carlos...’
‘And then I met you, Betsy Miller. You were my housekeeper and you assured me that I wouldn’t notice you.’
He smiled ruefully, but the expression in his eyes made her heart lurch.
‘I wanted you from that moment.’
‘And after I had fallen into your bed like a ripe plum, you decided you would have an affair with me.’ The bubbles were rapidly disappearing, and she sank lower in the bathwater. ‘If I had seen your note and met you in Spain I suppose you would have invited me to stay at your bachelor penthouse in Madrid, until you grew bored with a shy housekeeper and ditched me for a glamorous model.’
‘That bathwater must be getting cold.’
He levered himself away from the door and, before Betsy realised his intention, leaned down and scooped her out of the bath.
‘I’m making you wet,’ she muttered as he held her against his chest and carried her into the bedroom. Being in his arms was torture, and she longed to press her lips to his rough jaw. When he sat her on the bed, she grabbed the towel he offered and wrapped it around herself.
‘I planned to take you to Mallorca, to Casita Viola,’ he said.
She stared at him. ‘I thought you never invited your lovers to the cottage?’
‘I didn’t.’
He hesitated for a heartbeat, and Betsy had the crazy idea that he was unsure of himself.
‘But you were different.’
Yet more tears filled her eyes. She wanted to believe him so badly, but he’d warned her not to believe in fairy tales. ‘Carlos, please don’t feel sorry for me. I shouldn’t have said what I did at dinner.’
‘You told me that you loved me.’
His voice was velvet-soft and she tried to steel herself against his tenderness. He was a nice guy, and he was trying to let her down gently.
‘Do we have to have a post-mortem on how I made a fool of myself again?’
The mattress dipped as Carlos sat beside her and captured her chin, tilting her face up to his. Gold-flecked eyes searched her gaze. ‘Did you mean it?’
She gave a little sigh. He was her world, and now she understood how he had been affected by his mother’s death. He was afraid of strong emotions, and wary of love, but perhaps in time he would grow to care for her.
‘I have never lied to you,’ she said softly.
‘Santa Madre!’
He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again his expression stopped Betsy’s heart in its tra
cks.
‘I love you, mi corazón...mi amor.’
A tear slid down her cheek and he caught it on his thumb. ‘Why are you shaking your head, querida? Don’t you want me to love you?’
His voice was rough, uncertain, and her tears fell faster. ‘I want your love so much, but I’m scared to believe you.’
‘Why would I lie?’
His smile stole her breath and, impossibly, she saw that his lashes were damp.
‘How could I not love you, Betsy? You stole my heart two years ago. But I had got used to feeling nothing. It was easier...safer. I couldn’t hurt anyone if I didn’t care about them.’ His mouth twisted. ‘And I couldn’t be hurt if I didn’t fall in love. I tried to deny how I felt about you, but when I saw you next to the pool tonight I thought—’ he swallowed hard ‘—I feared I had lost you. And I had to face the fact that without you the world is grey, because you are my sunshine and I will love you for eternity.’
She fell into his arms, because it was the only place she wanted to be. His heart thundered beneath her hands as she tugged open his shirt buttons and pressed her face against his warm olive skin.
She could not quite believe that he was hers, but when she lifted her head the golden gleam in his eyes was love—pure and precious and all for her. With a soft cry of joy she curled her arms around his neck and pulled his head down. He claimed her mouth and kissed her fiercely, but with an innate tenderness that told her without words that his love was the lasting kind.
‘I love you. And it will last, won’t it?’ she whispered as he unwrapped the towel from around her body and stripped off his clothes before stretching out on the bed beside her. She bit her lip. ‘It’s not just sex?’
‘Every time we made love I told you with my body what my brain was too stubborn to accept,’ Carlos said deeply. He held her hand over his heart. ‘Feel what you do to me, mi corazón. My heart beats for you.’
Housekeeper In The Headlines (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 16
