The Perfect Cazorla Wife. Michelle Smart
the turmoil playing in her belly.
‘Can you at least tell me why you changed your mind about helping me?’
‘We will discuss everything when we get home.’
She wanted to demand answers but forced herself to think rationally. Right now he was being cordial towards her, his attitude a marked improvement to the loathing he hadn’t bothered to hide at the party. He was here and, if he was as good as his word, prepared to help her. At that moment, that was all that mattered. Anything else she could worry about later. Antagonising him would accomplish nothing.
If she had to suffer his company then for the children’s sake she would gladly accept it.
Her head might term it as suffering, but her body had a different word for the reaction provoked by being in the close confines of the car with him. It was familiar torture: her lungs tight, her pulse loose, her skin alive with awareness.
She breathed out slowly and peeked at him from the corner of her eye. Her heart swelled to see his sleeves rolled up, his tanned left arm resting on the ledge of the open window. Unlike most people with his wealth, Raul preferred to drive himself unless he was drinking. The first of his birthdays that they’d celebrated together, she’d bought him a day’s racing at a racetrack. He’d been too well-bred to tell her he’d already raced on it a dozen times, happy that she’d bought something that actually meant something to him.
They’d been happy then. She’d been happy then.
She blinked the memories away and fixed her gaze on the road ahead.
A few minutes later they were at the heliport where his pilot awaited them, ready to take them back to Barcelona.
* * *
Charley stared up at Raul’s home with a definite sense of awe and trepidation.
‘When did you move in here?’ she asked.
‘A year ago,’ came the curt reply.
In direct contrast to the old villa, which had been set in a private enclave by the beach, Raul’s new villa was located in the exclusive neighbourhood of Avenida Tibidabo. Surrounded by high-security gates that in turn were lined with palm trees, the villa was three-storey, with cream outer walls and turrets, all topped with terracotta roofs.
Intuition told her she was walking into a trap, although she couldn’t fathom what it could be. Once she knew exactly what he wanted from her she’d deal with it. It was the not knowing that made her feel so tense, that and being back in the company of the man whose masculinity she’d always found so very potent. It shamed her that even now, after so much water had passed beneath the bridge, her body was as alert to him as it had always been.
The villa’s differences internally were as marked as the location. The home they’d shared by the beach, although just as grand, had been modern. This villa was steeped in splendour, with mosaicked floors and high, arched frescoed ceilings, a sense of history breathing through the whitewashed walls.
Here was the evidence, if she hadn’t already guessed it by his two years of silence, that Raul had moved on.
She swallowed the acrid taste that had formed in the back of her throat. ‘Where are the staff?’ At this time of day the house should be teeming with activity, especially on a Monday.
‘I told the household staff to take the day off.’ Raul’s eyes gleamed with something she couldn’t interpret. ‘I thought it best for us to be alone.’
Low, down in the juncture of her thighs, heat pulsed and licked through her veins.
How could she still react to him like that, as if the past two years had never happened?
She rubbed her arms, her trepidation growing with each passing second. ‘What are the terms you want to talk about? Only, I’m working at the centre tomorrow and want to get back to Valencia before it gets late.’
‘We can talk while we eat.’
She followed him through to a dining room with huge windows that looked out onto the villa’s gardens. The sun shone down, beaming on the manicured lawn and the abundance of flowers and shrubs.
A long dark wood table had been set for two. Raul pulled a chair out for her. ‘Lunch has been prepared for us. Make yourself at home.’
Home? She gagged at the thought. This would never be her home. In a few weeks they would be officially divorced. She was almost counting the days.
She sat gingerly, running her fingers over the silver cutlery in silent contemplation.
Any moment now and his real motive for bringing her here would be revealed. She doubted it was to do with the money. Unlike Charley, who’d proven herself to be a spectacular failure in business, her husband had a habit of turning whatever he touched into gold. Much as she tried to avoid reading media reports on him, it was like telling a child not to touch the nice shiny toy in the corner. Already worth hundreds of millions, he’d sold the technology firm he’d founded and run before his father’s stroke had forced him to take over the running of the Cazorla luxury hotel chain. The sale had earned him a reported two and a half billion euros. Since taking over the family firm he’d added a fleet of aeroplanes and half a dozen brand spanking new cruise liners to the stable.
Simply speaking, her husband was worth more than entire countries.
If she’d taken her lawyer’s advice she could have taken a good slice of his wealth, far exceeding the ten million he’d transferred into her account without consulting her. She hadn’t wanted to take even that, had left it untouched for months. It was Raul’s money, not hers. She’d contributed nothing to it so why should she have a claim to it?
She’d spent enough of his money during their marriage as it was.
He came back into the dining room carrying a platter of antipasto: deli meats, marinated vegetables, roasted peppers and sundried tomatoes, olives, cheese, rustic breads...all her favourite bites. And to think this was only the first course...
He poured her a glass of the red wine that had been left to breathe on the table, then raised his glass in a toast before swallowing half his wine and taking the seat beside her.
Charley couldn’t bear it a moment longer. ‘This all looks delicious and I thank you, but I can’t eat anything until you tell me what your terms are.’
Helping himself to a little of everything before them, Raul took a bite of some bread then fixed his eyes on her as he ate. Once he’d swallowed and taken another drink of his wine, he answered. ‘I am prepared to give you the money you need to buy the building and for all the renovations that will be needed to make the day care centre fit for purpose.’
She returned his stare, waiting for the catch that was surely coming.
‘When do you have to get the renovations done by?’ he asked. ‘Four months, was it?’
‘Yes. The new owners agreed to give us six months to relocate.’ She watched him with caution. ‘Two of those months have already gone.’
The owner of the building that housed Poco Rio had died unexpectedly, leaving the team who worked there rudderless. Worse still, his family had not shared his sentimentality and opted to sell to a developer, only telling the staff about it when it was a done deal.
‘Four months to complete the purchase and the renovations?’
‘It sounds like a long time but it isn’t. We need to make it as safe and as suitable for the children’s needs as it can possibly be. Walls need to be knocked down, doorways need to be extended...’
Raul made a dismissive motion with his hand. ‘All of that can be discussed when we have reached an agreement.’
‘But what is it you want me to agree to?’ she asked in bewilderment. ‘The centre receives sufficient funds to repay any loan.’
His lips curved upwards. It was like looking at a sensuous