The Twelve-Month Mistress (12 page)

‘To the letter,’ he promised again. Then made himself walk away, heading for the door out into the garden.

It was as he stepped out in to the shadowy warmth of the evening that he turned to glance back and saw her still standing where he had left her, watching him, wide-eyed. Her right hand had been lifted to her mouth and was covering her lips, fingertips pressed against their softness.

But it was something in her expression that caught on his nerves, jagged and twisted uncomfortably.

And suddenly all the hard-won peace of mind that he had fought for vanished, evaporating swiftly, and he knew once again that nagging feeling of edginess and uncertainty that had so unsettled him all day.

Cassie didn’t know how she managed to prepare the meal without slicing into her finger or putting salt into the fruit salad. She couldn’t force her mind to concentrate, and the knowledge that this was only the beginning was what made things so much worse.

She had managed to deal with things this time, had got Joaquin to understand this once—but what would happen next time?

And there would be a next time, of that she was sure. Joaquin might have seemed understanding and reasonable tonight, but she couldn’t rely on him being in the same mood again. For one thing, it was the lingering after-effects of his accident that had pushed him into an unexpectedly swift capitulation. But with each day that passed he would grow stronger, getting his health back as quickly and efficiently as he did anything.

The bruise on his head wasn’t likely to be a problem for very much longer.

The memory loss was a very different matter indeed. And it kept her trapped in that very uncomfortable cleft stick for as long as it took for the events of the past four weeks to come back into Joaquin’s mind.

Just how uncomfortable her situation could become was brought home sharply to her at the end of the evening. And it hit her all the harder because of the way she had actually managed to relax in the end.

Joaquin had stuck strictly to his promise. He would follow her orders to the letter, he’d said—and that was just what he did.

As soon as she said that the meal was ready, he came to help her carry plates through into the dining room. Then he joined her at the table, ate what she put in front of him, stuck strictly to mineral water for himself, but offered to open a bottle of wine for her. An offer that Cassie decided it was more than wise to refuse. She needed all her wits about her at the moment, and, although the thought of the relaxing effects of a little alcohol were appealing, there was always the danger that, feeling as uptight as she did, she might indulge in one glass too many, relax way too much—and let slip things that she really should keep to herself.

But in the end she found that she didn’t really need the wine. Joaquin kept the conversation light, and on strictly neutral topics, never once straying into controversial or problematic territory. He managed to steer his way perfectly between the twin problems of assuming too much and behaving like the lover he had been, and that of being almost a complete stranger, so that the evening had to be spent dancing round each other mentally, not knowing how much to say, how much to reveal.

It was only later, when she had gone to bed and was lying wakeful in the darkness, that Cassie realised that the behaviour that had made her feel so much better during the
evening should in fact have acted as a warning. It revealed that Joaquin was very much alert to the way she was feeling. That he had noticed her unease, and was determined, for that night at least, to ease it. As a result he had lulled her into what might well be a totally false sense of security.

But by the time that darkness had fallen and the silence of the night had gathered round them, she had just been so thankful that they had got through the evening without any more unpleasantness or a problem that she would have had trouble explaining, that such worrying thoughts hadn’t entered her head.

In fact, she’d been so relieved to find that the time had passed so pleasantly that she’d never even thought twice about saying, as she’d watched Joaquin’s eyelids grow heavy, drooping over the jet brilliance of his eyes, and his long body slump lower in his chair: ‘You’re getting tired. I think it’s time that you were in bed.’

She knew how worn out he must really be when he didn’t even rise to the provocation, but simply nodded slowly and murmured, ‘That would be a good idea.’

‘Well, then, why don’t you go on up? I’ll tidy things away here and follow.’

Again, no protest. Could it really be that easy? After the way he had behaved earlier, she very much doubted it, but she wasn’t going to question too strongly—not tonight. She was worn out too, though probably not as exhausted as Joaquin must be on his first day out of hospital. The strain of the past seventy-two hours was catching up with her, and she had spent long hours in the hospital, sitting in a chair by Joaquin’s bed, and then had barely slept when she’d got back to Ramón’s flat.

Stretching wearily and yawning so widely that she felt her jaw would crack, she switched off the lights and made her way to the stairs, plodding slowly up them, thinking longingly of sinking into her bed. Joaquin would probably
be asleep already. He had looked so exhausted that he must have crashed out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He hadn’t.

She reached the top of the stair and turned to go along the landing, then jumped in fright as she became aware of the tall, dark, silent figure leaning against the wall in the shadows, waiting for her.

‘Joaquin! Oh, you gave me such a fright! What is it? Why are you—is something wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ was the response, in a voice that turned her blood to ice in her veins and made her throat close up so tight that it was difficult to breathe. ‘You tell me.’

Straightening up and taking a step forward, he kicked open the nearest door. The door to a bedroom—her bedroom, she noted with a sickening lurch of her stomach. The bedroom she had chosen to sleep in tonight, knowing she could not possibly share a bed with Joaquin under the circumstances.

As the door swung open it revealed what Joaquin must have seen, the details that betrayed her, the silent evidence that revealed her plans. Her nightdress and robe lay on the bed, her wash bag on the dresser. She could only be intensely grateful that she had pushed the case she’d brought back from Ramón’s firmly to the back of the wardrobe so that he didn’t realise she had only just managed to unpack part of her luggage before he and his brother had appeared downstairs. And that all of it was in this room—not the one she had once shared with him.

‘I…’ she began but her voice failed her hopelessly.

‘You?’ Joaquin questioned cynically, his carved face just a cold mask of contempt and barely controlled cold fury. ‘So just what explanation were you planning on giving me for this? I take it you do have one?’

‘Of course I do.’

The realisation that there was nothing more revealing than her nightdress on show gave a new strength to her
words, giving her the courage to face him with a touch of defiance.

‘And you’d know what it is if you were thinking straight!’

Joaquin scowled darkly, glaring at her ferociously.

‘Don’t tell me—the doctors’ orders again?’

‘Got it in one!’ Cassie retorted sharply. ‘And you’ll also have to admit that it makes sense.’

The cynically sceptical look he turned on her declared that he found that very unlikely, but she swallowed hard and forced herself to continue.

‘You’re just out of hospital. You need a good night’s sleep and for that you need to be undisturbed.’

‘And you’ll disturb me?’

‘I—I might. Or you might let yourself be disturbed by me. Oh, come on, Joaquin!’ she risked a protest. ‘You promised me that you’d do as I said.’

‘I know I did—and I have. But this—’

He broke off abruptly, glowering at her darkly. Cassie held her breath in apprehension, not knowing what on earth she would do if he flat out refused to co-operate.

But Joaquin must have been even more tired and out of sorts than she had anticipated, because just as she had drawn in a breath to argue further, to try and persuade him to understand, he gave a deep sigh and lifted his shoulders in a shrug of concession.

‘All right. If that’s what you were told, I suppose I can’t argue.’

‘It was!’ Cassie assured him, crossing her fingers against the small white lie. ‘Doctors’ orders.’

‘And I promised…’

‘Yes, you did.’

Still he held out, looking into the room, black eyes going from the bed to her taut, anxious face and back again.

‘All right, then,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll go along with this
for now—because I promised. But let me make one thing plain…’

When he hesitated Cassie froze, knowing she wasn’t going to like what was coming.

‘I’ll go along with this for tonight. And only tonight. Tomorrow is another day and tomorrow I want things back to normal—or I’ll want to know why.’

J
OAQUIN
arrived back at the house in a mood that had him ready to do battle. He had had enough of messing about, not asking questions, avoiding the issues, and tonight he was going to get some answers.

It was either that or explode.

He had spent the day out at one of the vineyards, dealing with business, talking vines, blends, wine, in an effort to distract his mind from the suspicions and fears that were a constant nag inside his head, worrying and fretting at him until his thoughts were one great ache of unease. One that nothing he did seemed to improve.

He’d taken the wrong approach on the first night home, he admitted that now, if only to himself. Challenging Cassandra like that, and threatening her with confrontation, had been quite the wrong way to go. He’d known it as soon as he’d seen her head come up, the flash in her eyes, that defiant chin tilted in rebellion. And the long night in which, in spite of his exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to sleep had only confirmed his feeling even more.

Whatever had happened between himself and Cassandra during the time his mind had lost, playing the autocrat and dictating the rules was not likely to help. Continue to push her down that route, and he was heading for disaster.

So he had moved onto another tack, deciding to see just how far she would take this. And for how long.

‘I realise I was being pigheaded about things,’ he told her the next morning. You’re only acting on those doctors’ orders. And trying to do what you believe is best for me. I should appreciate your concern—I do…’

It would have sounded better if he could have projected
an ounce more sincerity into his voice, but that was more than he could manage. Oh, he appreciated her concern all right, but it infuriated the hell out of him at the same time. To his mind, sleeping apart was taking things just too far.

And that showed in his tone, which was cool and stiff in a way that he knew would rile her, setting her teeth on edge and provoking her own temper.

He was right. He saw the way her jaw tightened, as if to hold back the angry retort that she almost let out. And her own tone matched his, ice for ice, when she responded.

‘Nice of you to say so. Believe it or not, I do have your best interests at heart.’

‘I know—and I do believe it, so that’s why I’m not going to put any pressure on you. If you seriously think that sleeping in separate rooms is absolutely necessary, I’ll go along with it—for now. For your sake.’

That brought those blue eyes to his face in a rush of surprise, the frown that drew her pale eyebrows together revealing her consternation.

‘For
my
sake?’ she echoed disbelievingly.

‘I wouldn’t want you to feel uneasy about things—or to push you into something that you truly felt was a bad move in your concern for my health after the accident…’

He emphasised those last words subtly, wanting her to know that he wasn’t truly convinced by this ‘for his health’ argument. If she had something to say, then he just wished to hell that she’d come right out and say it, instead of playing this pussyfooting game that left him floundering in the dark.

‘So I’ll leave it up to you. I’ve never forced a woman into my bed, and I don’t intend to start now. You’ll come when you’re ready. When it feels right to you. I want you with me—you
know
I want you, but I want you willing. So I’ll wait.’

‘Thank you.’

It was very quiet, flat and unemotional. She might have
been talking about the price of the fish they were having for dinner, for all the intonation she put into it.

And that piqued him savagely, rattling all his instincts for danger again, and reviving his darkest suspicions.

‘I know you’ll be worth waiting for. That’s one thing that no blow to the head could ever make me forget. What we have is something special. Something few people find together, and I don’t want to spoil it by rushing at it like a bull at a gate.’

‘Of course not.’

This time there was a definite undercurrent of something that brought his teeth together in a snap to bite back the angry response that rose to his lips. He had determined on being calm and controlled and right now he was beginning to feel neither. That comment about the ‘something special’ they shared, and the heated images it threw up in his mind, had woken his barely controlled libido. And with the blood rushing fast to a more basic part of his anatomy, thinking clearly and keeping a grip on his temper weren’t the easiest things in the world.

He had to get out of here before he lost his grip completely.

‘So we’ll leave it like that,’ he managed, knowing it was even more cold and clipped than before as a result of the struggle with his innermost feelings. ‘I’ll wait—for now. But I’m not a patient man,
querida
. I won’t wait for ever. You’re my lover, and I want you back in my bed, where you belong.’

He’d walked away then, Joaquin remembered. Walked away while he still could, and still keep his grip on his temper, his tongue, and his hunger for her. And the only thing that had helped him turn around and walk had been the total conviction that really saying he would wait had been an unnecessary political manoeuvre. He could probably have got by without ever having said anything of the sort.

Cassie wouldn’t wait long before she was back in his arms, back in his bed. She wasn’t that sort of woman. She was an ardent, passionate, sensual creature. One who was as hot for him as he was for her. And that being so, she would come to him just as soon as she possibly could.

She might wait one more night, purely for show, to make her point. But not much longer. And definitely no more than two.

He’d been quite sure about that, smug even, so it had hit him like a blow between the eyes to find that his confident prediction had not been fulfilled.

The answer to the question of just how long Cassandra could keep this up was, it appeared, infinitely.

Oh, she always had a reason. He looked tired. It had been a long day. She had a headache—a
headache
! Or there was some work she had to do—and of course she couldn’t do that work during the day, because she was looking after him. And no amount of persuasion would convince her that he damn well didn’t need looking after. Not any more.

Today it was a week since he had come out of hospital. A week in which he had had no ill effects from the accident—apart, of course, from those infuriatingly missing memories. He felt well—he felt fine. The lingering headache had faded along with most of the bruising, and he was once more fighting fit.

And frustrated as hell.

But only this morning, when he was dressing to go to work for the first time since the accident, his hand had caught on the pocket of one of his jackets. The unexpected little bulge had intrigued him, making him pause and, frowning in curiosity, push his hand into the pocket, to investigate just what had caused it.

What he had pulled out had rocked him so much that he felt as if he had been physically picked up and shaken until he was dizzy. It made him reconsider everything he had
been working on, told him something totally unexpected about the four weeks he had had erased from his memory.

And it made him decide that he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. That tonight, if Cassandra showed no inclination to move back into his room—
their
room—where she belonged—he was going to find out why.

To hell with the consequences.

‘Cassandra!’

He called her name as soon as he got through the door.

‘Cassandra, where are you?’

No answer.

The next moment he almost reeled against the wall as a weird, buzzing sensation, almost like pins and needles inside his mind, shot through his brain.

He’d had this once before, he recalled. That swimming, swirling feeling that he’d had on the first day when he’d come back from the hospital. It came with the impression that his subconscious was reaching for something, grabbing at some faint echo of memory. Something he should recall but couldn’t.

Shaking his head, he called again.

‘Cassie!’

‘In here!’

She’d called from the lounge. For some reason he’d thought—almost anticipated—that she would be upstairs. He’d even turned towards the staircase, only to be stopped, turned back, by the sound of her voice.

‘I thought we might eat—’

He ceased speaking abruptly, silenced by her raised hand. She was on the telephone, speaking to someone at the other end of the line.

‘Yes, he’s here now,’ she said, sounding rather uncomfortable.

It immediately set Joaquin’s nerves jangling. He’d already spent a week wondering if something was wrong, wondering
what
was wrong, wondering if he was imagining
things, and cursing the damned doctors’ orders that meant he couldn’t just come out and ask. As a result he was getting jumpy over the tiniest little thing.

‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

‘Ramón. He—he wants to come over.’

‘No!’

His vehemence surprised even himself. He didn’t want his brother here. Certainly not tonight. Tonight was his and Cassandra’s—alone. He didn’t want anything to interfere with that.

‘I’d like him to come…’

‘No way!’

‘But, Joaquin, he’s concerned about you.’

Demonios
, but was he condemned to reading extra meanings into everything she said? Had she meant to imply that Ramón had good reasons for being concerned—ones that Cassandra too knew all about?

He really was getting paranoid!

‘Tell him he’s no reason to worry about me. I’m fine.’

‘But he’d—’

‘I said no!’

For a moment he thought she was going to fight him on this. The rebellious set to her sexy mouth, the carefully blanked-out glare, seemed to warn of open mutiny. But then she sighed and twisted her mouth slightly.

‘Did you hear that, Ramón?’ she said dryly, addressing the telephone once more. ‘He says no! Your brother is not at home to visitors… What? Yes, I know! And you know I know.’

The last was said in a wryly confiding aside that raised all the little hairs on the back of Joaquin’s neck. Losing control of his already precarious temper, he strode forward, snatching the receiver from Cassandra’s hand with a rough, jerky movement.

‘Cassandra and I don’t want visitors. Not tonight. Not for any night for a long time to come.’

He slammed the phone back down onto its rest, earning himself a furious glare from those bright blue eyes.

‘And just what was all that about?’ she demanded sharply.

‘I don’t want visitors.’

‘That much is obvious. But who the devil gave you the right to speak for me? “Cassandra and I don’t want visitors”,’ she quoted sarcastically. “‘Cassandra and I—don’t you think you might have done me the courtesy of
asking
?”’

‘It’s my house!’

‘It’s
our
house!’ she flung back. ‘At least, I thought it was! And I would have liked to see Ramón.’

‘Well, I don’t want him here. I have plans for tonight.’

Or was that why she wanted his brother here? Because she knew—or suspected—what his plans might be and she wanted some form of distraction from them?

Did she want Ramón here as some sort of shield against what she believed might happen? Or did she want him here because she
wanted to see Ramón
? And which was worse?

He supposed that those came under the heading of ‘questions that must not be asked’, but there were others that he could ask—and would. Particularly, if the time and the mood were right, one very important one.

‘And I can just guess what those “plans for tonight” include.’

It looked as if her time of indulgence was over, Cassie admitted to herself. The temporary truce that Joaquin had surprised her by declaring was over. He wasn’t exactly making ultimatums—at least, not yet. But what patience he had had was obviously running out fast. He was going to want some answers to some very awkward questions. And she had no idea at all what she was going to find to say to him. She hadn’t been feeling particularly well for the last couple of days and an argument was the last thing she wanted.

‘And just what is wrong with that? We’re lovers. We live together—just what is wrong in my wanting to make love to my woman?’

Because it wouldn’t be
making love
, Cassie wanted to reply, but she hastily bit back the dangerous words. To use them meant that she was moving into forbidden territory, the sort of area that was littered with land-mines, some of them totally hidden from view, but liable to explode right in her face if she so much as strayed near to them.

‘I—’ she tried but he jumped in on her with the speed of a leaping tiger.

‘And don’t try that “doctors’ orders” garbage again. You know I saw the specialist yesterday and he said that, apart from the memory loss, there was nothing to get concerned about at all.’

Nothing except what that memory loss was concealing, Cassie thought miserably. She no longer knew whether each night, alone in her room, she prayed that when the morning came Joaquin would have regained all the memories he had lost so that she was no longer trapped in this impossible world of half-truths. Or did she hope that when she woke he would still
not
have remembered—so that she could continue at least with the sort of peace they had between them, even if that was based on half-lies?

She tried as hard as she dared to get him to remember. She’d talked about Ramón, even invited Joaquin’s brother over a couple of times to try and jog his memory. She’d pointedly left the calendar open at June, even though the month had now come to an end, in the hope that the date might remind him. But it seemed that nothing short of telling him outright would do that. And the doctor’s advice was strongly against that.

‘I know,’ she said carefully. ‘And I’m glad that you’re well.’

‘So why don’t we go out tonight to celebrate? I booked a table at Zelesta’s.’

Her favourite restaurant. The one at which she had been supposed to join him for the vitally important business meeting on that fateful Friday evening.