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Her skin was so pale, her gaze hollow. They had barely exchanged a word since the morning after the church blessing… But even so, their furious argument that day continued to haunt him. Her attempts to comfort him when he’d blurted out the truth about his mother’s death… Why the hell had he told her about his mother’s suicide, when he’d spent years maintaining the lie she had died in childbirth? And why had Cerys been so devastated by the revelation?
A part of him hadn’t wanted her sympathy. But another part of him, the part that had always been determined to keep that truth hidden, had been stunned by her reaction.
She had played her role well in public, had been dignified and aloof as befitted his Duchess… When they were alone, though, she had retreated into herself. But why did he miss the eager, energetic, enthusiastic woman who had once captivated him so much, if the identity of that woman had always been an act?
Having to touch her, to hold her in public, had been its own special kind of torment—especially when they found themselves alone each night and she had rushed off to the villa’s second bedroom. Because the yearning for her, always for her, was still there, no matter how many times he tried to suppress it. Why could he not get over the hunger, now he knew who she really was?
Swallowing heavily, he blurted out the demand he had not wanted to voice for days now—every time she closed herself off from him. ‘Why are you afraid to look at me when we are alone, Cerys?’
Her head rose, but the tension in her expression made the twisting pain in his gut sharpen.
‘I’m not afraid to look at you,’ she said above the churn of the water, but he could hear the tremor in her voice and knew she was lying.
‘Take off the glasses,’ he asked, not convinced by her denial.
She hesitated, but only for a moment, before she lifted them and placed them in her lap. As well as the shadows, he saw wariness. And suddenly he knew she must feel it too, this hunger. This need.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the resort,’ she said, the carefully polite tone making the agony in his gut swell, followed swiftly by anger. ‘Ana says it’s supposed to be beautiful.’
He nodded, recalling his sister’s eager send-off before they had climbed into the helicopter that morning, en route to Ibiza. The fierce hug the two women had shared.
Cerys had kept that part of their bargain. Her strength and poise had been nothing short of heroic when they had informed his siblings of her true identity. With his typical nonchalance, Alejandro had thought it amusing, while Ana had been excited with the romance of it all. That they had both accepted the news—and Cerys’s relationship to the woman who had destroyed their family—without question had given him pause, and made him question his own fury when he had discovered the news. How could both his siblings accept her mother’s crimes were not her responsibility so easily?
‘Perhaps you and Ana could visit the island together when she comes home for Christmas?’ she offered. ‘She’d love to spend more time with you… I’m sure that’s why she’s so difficult at times. She just wants more of your attention. And I think our divorce will be tough on her.’
He tensed, the mention of the divorce he had insisted on making the twisting agony become a hollow ache in his chest.
‘There is no need to concern yourself with Ana’s welfare,’ he snapped.
She flinched as if he’d slapped her.
But she said nothing, did not react, did not defend herself. She simply turned back towards the horizon while slipping the sunglasses back on, shutting him out again.
But as he watched her retreat into her shell again, the hollow ache grew.
Perhaps he should apologise for the remark. Cerys’s friendship with Ana was something he had always known was real. Buthowcould he apologise to her without confronting the fear which had begun to build…? That he might have made a mistake. That the amnesia had always been real. That his reaction to her identity had been about much more than the past.
They remained locked in a fraught silence until the boat powered down, to glide into the bay below the main resort buildings at Isla de la Luna. They were greeted by the resort manager and an army of bellhops as they stepped onto the wooden dock.
The rocky cove was one of several on the two-hundred-square-kilometre land mass which he had purchased uninhabited five years ago. The island was now home to a luxury private villa with an infinity pool, a guest house and eight en suite bedrooms above a horseshoe beach. Smaller luxury cottages were situated next to the resort hub, where a fully equipped gym, a bar and restaurant, a pool complex, a cinema and a Michelin-starred chef were also available to serve the guests.
The heliport was still under construction, which was why they had been forced to fly into Ibiza. But this was the first chance Santiago had had to view the facilities.
A company photographer appeared to snap pictures of them disembarking for the press release which he had agreed with his marketing team. Articles about their honeymoon had already been sold to all the top travel magazines, providing the perfect advertisement for the venue as an exclusive private island rental. At a cost of half a million euro a week to hire as an entertainment or vacation retreat, the resort would be able to recoup its construction costs in less than five years, as long as he did not use it too much himself.
He pressed his palm to his wife’s back to guide her to the waiting buggy, and was rocked by the shiver of response she could not hide.
Why would I ever want to come here again without her?
The bitter realisation forced him to face the truth he had been avoiding, that his business interests might never have been the primary reason he had insisted on legalising this marriage and embarking on a two-week vacation—when he never took vacations.
He could smell her, that intoxicating perfume of wild flowers and female musk, as her hip pressed against his on the buggy’s narrow bench seat. The hollow ache he didn’t understand and did not want to acknowledge tangled with the heat swelling in his groin as the buggy bounced up the road to the resort hub. His gaze became fixed on the rigid line of her spine and the glow of sweat on her cleavage. That damn dress displayed too many of his wife’s charms in his humble opinion. The cap of carefully styled curls which framed her high cheekbones and translucent skin only tormented him more, because he couldn’t plunge his fingers into the silky mass, or see her luminous blue-green eyes—now hidden by her sunglasses—go dark with need.
‘Your Excellency, would you like to tour the facilities at the resort hub?’ the manager asked from his seat at the front of the buggy.
‘No, take us directly to the villa,’ he replied, his gaze still riveted to his wife’s profile. ‘And tell the staff we would prefer as much privacy as possible during our stay.’
Cerys’s head spun round at that request, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink.