word.’
‘Well, then, you would be wrong, mi angel,’ Luis drawled in a voice as smooth as silk. ‘You would be completely wrong.’
As he spoke he let his darkened gaze drift downwards, over the shock-whitened skin of her cheeks, past the fine lines of her throat, to the creamy flesh of her breasts exposed by the low-cut neckline of her velvet gown. The slight curves were pushed upwards and forwards by the tight lacing and the bones in the bodice, so that they were enhanced and displayed in a way she had never really minded before but now found positively uncomfortable.
‘Pleasure is exactly the right word.’
‘For you perhaps, but not for me!’
Instinctively she gathered the folds of her cloak around her, enveloping herself from head to toe, just in time to conceal the sudden rush of blood to her skin that washed her pallor with a tinge of pink, betraying her inner turmoil. And what made matters infinitely worse was the knowledge that it wasn’t only embarrassment that made her feel this way.
In spite of every effort to control it, her frantic struggles to push down the unwanted feelings, her heart still raced in excitement, a betraying pulse throbbing at the base of her neck. This man had always had this unsettling effect on her. And if she had hoped that an absence of years would have reduced the impact of that tall, muscular body, those lethal good looks, then she was bitterly disappointed.
If anything, the effect was even stronger because she hadn’t seen him in so long.
‘I thought that you never, ever wanted to see me again. At least, that was what you said the last time I saw you.’
The time that he had flung his wedding ring in her face and told her that the shop they had bought it from might actually take it back.
‘If you’re lucky,’ he had spat at her, his bitterly scathing tone seeming to flay several layers of skin from her vulnerable body, ‘you might even get a full refund. After all, it hasn’t been on my finger long enough to show any wear and tear. Barely long enough to consummate our union—but that was quite long enough for you to grow tired and bored and look for new amusements.’
Then she had been too stunned, too devastated, to fight him. She hadn’t been able to find the words to convince him he was wrong and to call him back. Now all the pain, the horror of that moment came flooding back, putting a biting bitterness into her tone as she faced him with what she hoped looked like confidence.
‘I had hoped that you’d meant it—that you planned to stay away for good.’
‘That was my original intention. But circumstances change. And I have had to change with them.’
‘And this change means precisely what?’
‘That we have things to discuss. Your letter, for one.’
He was going to agree to a divorce.
The words sounded in her head like the death knell to any hopes she might have had that one day they could revive their relationship. That somehow they could find a way to get past all the hurt, the lies and devastation on both sides, and find a way to get through to each other again.
They had been so in love once. And deep down inside she knew that she had never truly given up on the hope that that love wasn’t totally dead. That there was still a chance it could live again.
But Luis’s expression had nothing of love in it. It was hard and cold, the eyes that she knew to be a glittering golden brown were shuttered and withdrawn from her, hooded by heavy lids with thick, black, lustrously curling lashes. And it had been because she had known that this was how he would react that she had finally made that act of desperation and written asking for a divorce.
‘We can talk here.’
‘Not in front of an audience.’
The autocratic gesture he made brought her attention back to the fact that they were not alone. Stunned and confused, Isabelle belatedly remembered the Ghost Walk group who still stood clustered about them, their original smiles of approval and appreciation changing by turn to frowns of confusion and then to concern. Clearly this was no longer part of the Ghost Walk performance. And, equally obviously, their guide was genuinely distressed.
Now one of the Americans moved forwards.
‘Are you all right, miss? Is this guy bothering you?’
‘He…’
Luis turned to face him, proud head held arrogantly high, all his breeding and status showing in every haughty line of his body.
‘This guy…’ he echoed, injecting a biting satire into the words. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Don Luis Alejandro de Silva, heir to the Dukedom of Madrigalo.’
He waited a nicely calculated moment for the impact of the title and the innate, bone-deep pride that went with it to hit home on the other man, then coolly and cold-bloodedly went for the knockout verbal punch.
‘I also happen to be the lady’s husband.’
That caused a ripple of shock to flow through the group, murmurs of astonishment and confusion greeting the announcement.
‘Is this true, ma’am?’
For one brief, weak-kneed moment, Isabelle actually considered saying no, this man was not her husband. He was nothing to her; never had been anything in her life. But almost immediately she reconsidered.
For one thing, she dreaded the thought of the possible consequences. Luis de Silva in this sort of coldly determined mood was imposing enough, but Luis angry was quite another matter. And he would be angry—furious—if she denied her relationship with him. He might have rejected that relationship, declared he wanted nothing more to do with her, but he wasn’t going to stand by and let her do the same.
‘Yes,’ she said tiredly, her voice a flat monotone. ‘Yes, Don Luis is my husband. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see him. We—we’ve been separated for some years.’
‘So naturally my appearance was something of a shock to her.’
Luis’s tone made Isabelle blink hard in bewilderment. In a split second he had switched from being pure blue-blooded aristocrat, arrogant and condescending as could be, and adopted a softer, more affable mood, using a matey, all men together approach.
And the new technique was working. She could see it in the faces of the group around her. The women were quite simply melting in the warmth of that deliberate charm, the carefully switched-on smile, the lowered, deeper voice. And the men were nodding understanding. Even the American, her self-appointed protector, was clearly having second thoughts.
‘But, believe me, I mean her no harm. I simply want to talk to her. I had to resort to this subterfuge simply in order to get her attention. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for days but she doesn’t answer the door—her phone is never picked up.’
‘I’ve been away!’ Isabelle interjected, but she might as well not have spoken.
Luis had the group in the palm of his hand. His act was near perfect, giving the impression of being a concerned husband who only wanted to mend the rift that had arisen between himself and his wife. A rift that had been something and nothing, his attitude implied.
And they were swallowing it. Every word.
‘I could not wait any longer…’
He didn’t need that faintly wry shrug of his powerful shoulders, the supremely Spanish gesture with his hands, Isabelle thought cynically. But he used them anyway. They were his trump card, saying without words that he couldn’t help himself. That he was only a man, and a passionate man at that. A man who was so in love with his wife that he couldn’t endure another moment’s separation from her.
All around her, the murmured comments told Isabelle that Luis had won. He had swung the group’s loyalty to his side and there was no way she could fight that.