By Request Collection Part 2. Natalie Anderson
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jaw, the prickle of his stubble sending tantalising little tingles right up her arms.
‘What is it?’ he asked, holding her hand against his face with the broad span of his. ‘Have you remembered something?’
She frowned as she fought to retrieve the fleeting image. It was like the shadow of a ghost, barely visible, but she could sense its presence. ‘I don’t know…’ She bit down on her lip, pulling her hand out from under his. ‘I thought for a minute…but I just don’t know…’
He picked up her hand again and held it against his mouth, his lips feathering against her curled up fingers as he spoke. ‘Touch me again, cariño,’ he commanded softly. ‘Touch is an important part of memory. Taste and smell, too.’
Emelia uncurled her fingers and carefully traced the outline of his lips, her fingertip grazing against his stubble again. She felt transfixed by the shape of his mouth, the way his top lip was carved almost harshly and yet his lower one was so generous and sensual. He drew her fingertip into his mouth and sucked on it. It was such an intimate thing to do, flagrantly sexual, especially when his eyes captured hers and glinted at her meaningfully. She pulled out of his hold once more, gathering herself with an effort. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said crisply. ‘I don’t remember anything.’
His expression gave little away but Emelia sensed a thread of anger stringing his words together as he spoke. ‘I will leave you to rest before dinner. Leave this.’ He indicated the broken glass on the floor. ‘I will get Aldana to clean it up later. If you need anything just press nine on the telephone by the bed upstairs. It is a direct line to Aldana’s quarters. She will bring you some tea or coffee or a cool drink if you should require it.’
She watched as he strode out of the library, the squeak of the expensive leather of his riding boots the only sound in the silence.
Emelia woke from a nap feeling totally disoriented, her heart beating like the wings of a frightened bird as she sat upright on the big bed. She put a hand to her throat, trying to control her breathing to bring down her panic to a manageable level. She dragged herself off the bed and stumbled into the en suite bathroom. Seeing her reflection was like looking at another version of herself, a more sophisticated and yet unhappier version. She put a fingertip to each of her sharp cheekbones. Her mouth was pulled down at the corners as if smiling had become a chore. Her eyes looked tired but also a little haunted, as if they were keeping secrets they didn’t really want to keep.
She washed her face with cold water and then turned and looked longingly at the huge spa bath next to the double shower cubicle. She had at least an hour before dinner and the thought of sinking into a huge bath tub full of fragrant bubbles was too much for her to resist.
The water lapped at her aching limbs as she lowered herself into the bath, the scent of honeysuckle filling the air, reminding her of the hot summers and long lazy days of her childhood back in Australia. She closed her eyes and laid her head back, her body relaxing for the first time since she had woken from the coma.
Even in her languid repose, it was hard not to think of Peter. The thought of him lying in a cold dark grave was surreal when it seemed only a few days ago they were having coffee together at the end of her session at The Silver Room. The police had told her it had been a high speed accident but the knowledge hadn’t sat well with her. Peter had lost a close mate in a car accident when he was a teenager. His intractable stance on reckless and dangerous driving was one of the things she had admired about him—one of the many things. During their youth, he had hinted more than once that he wanted more than a platonic friendship from her but she had let him down as gently as she could. While they had been close friends and had many interests in common, she had never envisaged him as an intimate partner. She had always looked on him as a brother. There was no chemistry, or at least not from her point of view. She knew it was different for men, and Peter had not been an exception. She had seen his head turned by many beautiful women who came into his hotel bar. She knew men’s desires were more often than not fuelled by their vision. Sex was a physical drive that could just as easily be performed with a perfect stranger.
Emelia felt her belly give a distinct wobble when she thought of the stranger who was her husband. She saw raw unbridled desire in Javier’s eyes; it smouldered there like hot coals every time he looked at her. He had openly declared how much he wanted her. She had heard the erotic promise in the words. It was not a matter of if but when.
He knew it.
She knew it.
Emelia looked down at her breasts, her rosy nipples just peeping out of the water amidst the bubbles, a riot of sensations rippling through her as she thought of how he had caressed her earlier. He had touched her with such possessive familiarity. Was that why she had responded so instinctively? She felt her insides give another fluttery movement as she thought about him possessing her totally. Would she remember him in the throes of making love as he suggested? She reared back from her thoughts like a horse shying at a jump. It was too soon to be taking that step. She couldn’t possibly give herself to a man she didn’t know.
But you’re married to him, a little voice reminded her.
And you’re attracted to him, another voice piped up.
Emelia slipped under the water to escape her traitorous thoughts, holding her breath for as long as she dared…
Javier tapped on the bathroom door but there was no answer. It was quiet. Too quiet. There was not even the sound of running or splashing water.
He opened the door and when he saw Emelia’s slim body lying submerged in the bath he felt a hand clutch at his insides.
‘Emelia!’ He rushed to the tub and grabbed her under the armpits, hauling her upright as water splashed everywhere.
She gave a gasping cry of shock, her wet hair like seaweed all over her face. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she spluttered.
Javier waited until his heart had returned to his chest from where it had leapt into his throat. ‘I thought you were unconscious,’ he explained in a voice that sounded as ragged as he felt. ‘I thought you might have hit your head again or something.’
She flashed him a livid glare as she hastily crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘You could have knocked before you came barging in.’
‘I did knock.’ He stepped out of the puddle of water he was standing in, glancing ruefully at his sodden trousers and shoes. ‘You didn’t answer.’
Her knees bent upwards, shielding her chest even further. ‘You had no right to come in without my permission,’ she said.
He sent one of his brows up in a mocking slant. ‘That little knock on the head has turned you into a prude, eh, Emelia? I remember a time not so long ago when you made room for me in there.’ He bent down and scooped up a handful of bubbles, holding them just above her bent knees. ‘Do you want to know what we got up to?’
She stiffened as if the water had turned to ice around her. ‘Get out,’ she said in a clipped voice.
Javier let the bubbles fall from his hand, his eyes unwavering on hers. He felt her tension, the way she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch as each cluster of bubbles slid down from her kneecaps and down her thighs to slowly dissipate as they landed on the surface of the water. As each throbbing second passed he could hear the soft popping sound of the lather gradually losing its vigour. Within minutes the soapy shield she was hiding behind would be gone.
In spite of her betrayal, he felt his body surge with excitement. Hot rushing blood filled his groin, the ache for release so quick, so urgent it made him realise how hard it was going to be to keep his distance from her. But then wanting her had always been his problem, his one true vulnerability.
From that first moment he had heard her clever little fingers playing those lilting cadences when he’d walked into The Silver Room, he had felt something deep inside shift into place. She had looked up from the piano, her fingers stumbling over a note as their eyes had locked. He had smiled at her with his eyes—that was all it had taken—and