His stomach soured as he recalled her reaction. It was as if he’d thrown a pot of boiling water over her.
He took a breath and pushed her bedroom door open.
She was in the adjoining room, sitting at the large desk below the window, papers spread out before her.
‘We need to leave in an hour.’ He’d informed her over breakfast that morning that they would be dining out with friends that evening.
She didn’t look at him. ‘I’ll be ready.’
‘Charlotte, it takes you at least two hours to get ready for a night out.’ And that was if he was lucky. She had a tendency to try on her entire wardrobe before deciding on an outfit, then she would tease her hair into a dozen different styles before deciding which was the ‘right’ one. It didn’t matter how many times he told her, she never seemed to believe him when he said she was beautiful in whatever she wore.
A sudden memory brushed through him, of their honeymoon, where he’d flown her to a private island in the Caribbean. It had been the last time he’d truly seen her full of spirit and abandon. One night, when he’d been gently chivvying her to get ready for dinner, she’d stripped her clothes off with glee and charged off to the private cove the island’s staff were banned from, splashing naked in the water with such joy it had compelled him to strip off his own clothes and join her, and make love to her.
His chest filled as he recalled how special that moment had been, the freedom he’d felt with the sun bathing down on his naked form and his wife’s supple limbs wrapped around him.
Of all the good moments within their marriage, this was the memory that stood out for him, the vivid remembrance of the belief that they were the happiest, most perfect couple in the world.
‘I’ll be ready,’ she repeated.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going over the plans for the development.’
‘What for? I told you, I’ll be using my own team.’
Her shoulders raised stubbornly. ‘I’ve put hundreds of hours into this. It’s stupid not to at least take it into account.’
‘I’m sure my architect will be delighted to have your input,’ he drawled.
Shoving her chair back, she got to her feet. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ she said, her voice tight.
‘One hour.’
‘So you keep telling me.’ She closed the adjoining door firmly behind her. He heard the lock slide into place.
Raul flexed his fingers and took a deep breath.
The past four days had been like living with a sullen teenager. He’d given her a little leeway, which had been decent of him under the circumstances, but from now on he would not put up with it.
Tomorrow, the deeds would be signed and she would be indebted to him.
Curiosity made him look at the papers sprawled over her desk.
A few moments later he sat on the chair still warm from her body heat with a frown on his face.
Peering more closely through the stack before him, he saw she’d taken each room of the new building and committed to paper her ideas for the renovations. Each drawing was done to scale.
Charley had said she’d done these plans.
Had she been lying in an attempt to impress him?
But no—the notes in the margins, the numbers indicating the measurements, these were all in her girlish writing.
He rubbed at his temples, his chest tightening as he imagined her sitting in that tiny study in the tiny home she’d been living in, working diligently on these plans. Alone.
* * *
After a quick shower and shave, Raul found Charley in the living room.
‘You’re ready?’ he asked, astonished to find her waiting for him. He was equally astounded at what she was wearing: a pair of cropped grey figure-hugging patchwork trousers and a sheer black blouse. On her feet were a pair of flat black strappy sandals.
‘Yes.’ Rising from the sofa, she passed the window, the low early evening sun shining through to allow him to see perfectly the lacy black bra she wore beneath the seemingly modest blouse.
‘What?’ she asked, a scowl forming.
‘Are you really intending to go out for a meal with friends wearing that?’
‘Yes, Raul, I am. Why? Is there something wrong with it?’
‘I’m surprised, that’s all.’ She looked good—she looked beautiful—there was no denying that but he could not recall a single time after they’d married when she’d worn trousers or jeans. Now, other than the party she’d gatecrashed and the morning of her meeting with the bank manager, he’d not seen a single sign of her legs. The Charley he’d been married to wouldn’t have dreamed of going out for dinner in anything less than a designer dress and five-inch heels. She would hardly breakfast in anything less.
‘This is what I have in my wardrobe.’
‘What happened to the rest of your clothes?’ Charley had had a wall at the back of her walk-in wardrobe filled with shoes alone. Thinking about it, he couldn’t see how her tiny Valencian bedroom would fit even a fraction of her clothes in it.
‘I gave most of them to charity shops.’
‘What did you do that for?’
She shrugged. ‘There’s not much call for Dolce & Gabbana at Poco Rio.’
‘I’ll give my sister a ring and see if she’s free to go on a shopping trip with you over the next few days.’ He reached into his pocket for his phone.
Charley folded her arms and shook her head, but the scowl disappeared, replaced by a look that was almost...sad. ‘I don’t want to go on a shopping trip. I like my wardrobe just fine as it is.’
‘Charlotte,’ he said, striving for patience, ‘over the next four months we will be dining out and socialising as we always used to do. The clothes you have are fine for what you’ve been doing at the centre but those days are currently over. You’re my wife and you know what that means.’
‘That I have to dress up like a doll?’
‘No.’ She was being deliberately obtuse. ‘But being a Cazorla does mean projecting a certain image—’
‘Why?’
He rubbed the nape of his neck and whistled air through his teeth. ‘We discussed this when we first became engaged. My family is highly respected here, our hotels some of the finest in the world. People look up to us.’
It had been for her sake that he’d wanted her to fit in. He knew what it was like to be judged as not good enough and had
