bed.’ He turned and walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
She looked at the door, and almost wished he’d slammed it. It would have made more sense.
Slowly she crossed to the window and looked out over the darkened gardens. The moon was high, a large round white orb that cast a milky light onto the earth below, making long shadows of small shrubs, the trees, and duplicating the shape of the house. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and another joined it in a howling canine melody.
Hannah closed the curtains, then slowly undressed, removed her make-up, then she pulled on the silky slip she wore to bed and slid between the sheets, snapped off the bedside lamp, and lay staring into the darkness. Images filled her mind, prominent and intrusive, and her eyes swam until tears spilled and trickled slowly towards her ears, then dripped onto the pillow.
She brushed them away, twice, then determinedly closed her eyes in a bid to summon sleep.
Except she was still awake when Miguel entered the room a long time later. She heard him discard his clothes, and felt the faint depression of the mattress as he slid into bed.
Hold me, she silently begged him. Except the words wouldn’t find voice, and she lay still, listening to his breathing steady and become slow and even in sleep. It would have been so easy to touch him. All she had to do was slide her hand until it encountered the warmth of his body.
Except she couldn’t do it. Be honest, she silently castigated. You’re afraid. Afraid that he might ignore the gesture or, worse, refuse it. And how would she feel if he did?
Shattered.
HANNAH woke to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining en suite, and she rolled over to check the digital clock. Seven.
She slid out of bed, gathered up fresh underwear, her robe, and adjourned to the next bedroom where she showered and changed.
It would have been easy to join Miguel, just pull open the glass door and step in beside him as she did every morning. Except today she couldn’t, not after last night.
And whose fault was that? a silent voice taunted.
She drew a deep breath, then returned to their room to see Miguel in the process of dressing.
He cast her a long measured look, which she returned, then she discarded her nightwear onto the bed and crossed to her walk-in wardrobe to select something to wear.
‘Do you intend sulking for long?’ His voice was a slightly inflected drawl, which she ignored as she stepped into sheer black stockings, then selected one of three black suits she chose to wear to the boutique.
When she emerged, he was standing in her path, and she just looked at him.
‘Hannah,’ he warned silkily.
‘I am not sulking!’ She never sulked; it wasn’t in her nature.
And I don’t hate you, she added silently, unable to say the words aloud. Dear heaven, what had possessed her to say such a thing? Reaction, angry tension. But words, once said, were difficult to retract. Except the longer she left the anger to simmer, the harder it would be to explain.
‘What do you want me to say?’ Her eyes darkened and became stormy. ‘I’m sorry I acted like a bitch last night? Okay, I apologise.’
‘Apology accepted.’
Hannah looked at him sharply. ‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘Stop it right there,’ Miguel warned.
‘I’m not a child, dammit!’ What was she doing, for heaven’s sake? She was like a runaway train that couldn’t stop.
‘Then don’t behave like one.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t join you for breakfast,’ Hannah said stiffly. ‘I’ll stop off at a café for coffee and a croissant.’
She moved past him and entered the en suite. She picked up the hairbrush and attacked her hair, stroking the brush through its length until her scalp tingled, then she applied minimum make-up.
Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Miguel via mirrored reflection as he moved in to stand behind her, and her fingers faltered and tightened around the tube of lipstick.
She felt like a finely tuned string that was about to snap as he turned her round to face him, and she was powerless to move as his head descended.
‘This, this,’ Miguel breathed close to her mouth, ‘is important. Nothing else.’ And he kissed her, thoroughly, until her head spun. Then he released her, and walked from the room.
Hannah gripped hold of the marbled vanity unit and tried to regain her breath. Dear heaven, what was the matter with her?
She had no idea how long she stood there, only that it seemed an age before she gathered up her bag, slid her feet into heeled shoes, and made her way downstairs to the garage.
Ten minutes later she parked the Porsche, then crossed the road, bought a daily newspaper, entered a coffee bar and joined the patrons enjoying breakfast.
At nine she unlocked the boutique and spent the next half-hour on the phone chasing a courier who had been supposed to deliver late the previous afternoon, and hadn’t.
The morning dragged, and trying to continually pin a smile on her face began to take its toll. How could she pretend to be happy when inside she was breaking into a thousand pieces?
‘Are you ill?’ Elaine enquired with concern at midday.
‘No.’
An inquisitive smile curved her attractive mouth. ‘Pregnant?’
‘No.’
‘You sound hesitant,’ Elaine teased. ‘Could that be a maybe, but it’s too soon to tell?’
Hannah simply shook her head. ‘Go take your lunch break.’ She extracted her purse and took out a note. ‘Can you bring me back a chicken and salad sandwich and bottled water?’ Today she’d eat in the small back room instead of spending her usual half-hour break at a nearby café.
Elaine finished at four, and the afternoon seemed to drag as Hannah checked her stock list, then made a few phone calls. A fax came through alerting that a special order would be despatched by overnight courier, and she made a note to phone the client.
Miguel’s forceful image haunted her, as it had all morning, only now it was worse, for there was no one to talk to, no client entering the boutique to attract her attention, and the phone didn’t ring.
Thinking about last night made her stomach twist into a painful knot. Somehow Miguel’s controlled anger had been worse than if he’d let fly a string of pithy oaths, or thrown something, yelled at her. Instead he’d reduced her angry outburst to a childish tantrum, and that irked and angered her more than she wanted to admit.
