Spanish Escape: The Playboy of Puerto Banús / A Game of Vows / For the Sake of Their Son. Carol Marinelli
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exquisite. Her hair was up, as it had been on their wedding day, her black dress looked stunning, and he told himself he could do it—that it wasn’t a problem after all.
‘What would you think if we did not turn around for Marbella?’
Estelle swallowed the food she was relishing and took a drink of water, nervous for the same reasons as Raúl.
‘We could head to the islands, extend our trip…’
‘So that you miss your father’s wedding?’
‘He has chosen to marry when I am on my honeymoon. He doesn’t know we were to be on our way back.’
‘You’ll have to face him at some point.’
‘You don’t tell me what I have to do!’ he snapped, and then righted himself, trying to explain things a little better. ‘He wants a wedding—one happy memory with his wife. I doubt that will be manageable with me there. Especially if Luka attends.’ He took a breath. ‘So how about a few more days?’ He made it sound so simple. ‘I have not had a proper holiday in years…’
‘I thought your life was one big holiday?’
‘No,’ Raúl said. ‘My life is one big party. We will return to that in a few days.’ He issued it as a warning, telling her without saying as much that what happened at sea stayed at sea.
He was waiting for her decision. But then Raúl remembered the decision was entirely his. He was paying for her company—not her say in their location.
‘I will let the staff know.’
‘Now?’
‘They have to plot the route, inform…’
He didn’t finish, just headed off to let the crew know, and Estelle sat there, suddenly nervous.
She wanted to be back on safe water—because living with Raúl like this, seeing this side of him, she was struggling to remember the rules.
* * *
Their ‘couple of days’ turned into two weeks.
They sailed around Menorca and took their time exploring its many bays. Estelle’s skin turned from pale to pink, from freckles to brown. He watched her get bolder, loved seeing her stretch out on a lounger wearing only bikini bottoms, not even a little embarrassed now. Her sexuality was blossoming to his touch, before his eyes.
Finally they sailed back into Marbella. Normally the sight of it was the one he loved best in the world, yet there was a moment when he wanted to tell the skipper to keep sailing, to bypass Marbella and head to Gibraltar, take the yacht to Morocco, just to prolong their time. Except he was growing far too fond of her.
She put a hand on his shoulder, joined him to watch the splendid sight, but she felt his shoulder tense beneath her touch.
Raúl turned. She was wearing espadrilles and bikini bottoms, his own wedding shirt knotted beneath her now rosy bust, her cheeks flushed and her lips still swollen from their recent lovemaking.
‘You’d better get dressed.’
Usually Raúl was telling her she was overdressed.
‘The press may be there. The cream dress,’ he told her. ‘And have Rita do your make-up.’
As easily at that he demoted her, reminded her of her place.
Back on dry land he took her hand. But it was just for the cameras that he put his shoulders around his new wife.
It was in case of a long lens that he picked up her and carried her into his apartment, back to the reality of his life.
IT WAS A life she could never have imagined.
Raúl worked harder than anyone she knew.
His punishing day started at six, but rather than coming in drained at the end of it he would have a quick swim in the pool, or they’d make love—or rather they’d have sex. Because the Raúl from the yacht was gone now. A quick shower after that and then they’d get changed for dinner. Meals were always eaten out, and then they would hit the pulsing nightlife, dancing and partying into the early hours.
Estelle couldn’t believe this was the toned-down version of Raúl.
‘I can cook,’ Estelle said, and smiled one night as they sat at Sol’s and waited for their dishes to be served. ‘It might be a novelty…’
‘Why would you cook when a few steps away you can have whatever you choose?’
It was how he lived: life was a smorgasbord of pleasure. But six weeks married to Raúl, even with a week off to visit her family, was proving exhausting for Estelle—and she wasn’t the one working. Or rather, she corrected herself as the waiter brought her a drink, she was working, twenty-four-seven, because no way would she be dining out every night, no way would she be wandering along streets that still pumped with music well after midnight on a Tuesday.
It had been Cecelia’s cardiology appointment today, and Estelle was worried sick and doing her best not to show it. But she kept glancing at her phone, willing it to ring, wondering when she’d hear.
‘How’s your new PA?’ Estelle asked as she bit into the most gorgeous braised beef, which had been cooked over an open fire.
‘Okay.’ Raúl shrugged. ‘Angela trained her well…’
He looked down at her plate, stabbed a piece of beef with a fork and helped himself. Estelle was getting used to the way they shared their meals; it was the norm here.
‘It is much more difficult without Angela,’ Raúl admitted. ‘Only now she is gone are we seeing how much she did around the place.’
‘When will she be back?’
‘She won’t,’ Raúl said. ‘She is taking long service leave to nurse my father. Once he dies and it gets out about her she won’t be welcome there.’
‘Oh, well, you’ll only have to see her at the funeral, then.’
Raúl glanced up. He could never be sure if she was being flip or serious. ‘When are you going to see your father?’ she asked him.
She was being serious, Raúl quickly found out.
‘He chose to live in the north—he chose to end his days with his other family. Why should I….?’ He closed his tense lips. ‘I do not want to discuss it.’
‘Angela called again today.’
‘I told you not answer to her.’
‘I was waiting for my brother to ring,’ Estelle said. ‘It was Cecelia’s cardiology appointment today. I didn’t think to look when I picked up.’ Estelle could not finish her dinner and pushed the plate away.
‘You’re not hungry?’
‘Just full.’
‘I was thinking…’ Raúl said. ‘There is a show premiering in Barcelona at the weekend. I think it might be something we would enjoy.’
‘Raúl…’ She just could not sit and say nothing—could not lie beside him at night and sleep with him without caring even a bit, without having an opinion. Surely he could understand that? ‘I was riddled with guilt when my parents died.’
‘Why?’
‘For every row, for every argument—for all the things we beat ourselves up about when someone dies. Guilt happens whatever you do. Why not make it about something you couldn’t have changed, instead of something you can?’ On instinct she went to take his hand, but he pulled it back.
‘You’re starting to sound like a wife.’
She