the word. ‘Goodbye, my love.’
Tears brimming in her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her mouth as if to crush down the kiss that he had left her with. It might be—had to be—the last kiss she would ever have from Joaquin and she wanted to hold onto it for as long as she possibly could, taste the faint lingering touch of his mouth on hers for as long as she could make it last.
She hadn’t managed to ask her question outright. In the end she’d chickened out, cowardice and the sheer terror of knowing the truth holding her back and preventing her from speaking even though she had resolved to do so.
But she hadn’t needed to speak. As it happened, Joaquin had answered the question completely and honestly, without her ever having to ask it.
‘I told you I don’t do commitment!’
‘Neither of us wants more than we already have.’
‘No ties, no commitment.’
‘You don’t want any more than I can give.’
What else did she need to know? How much clearer could Joaquin make things? He didn’t see any real future for them together. Didn’t want any more than what they already had. And it was obviously only by sheer luck that he hadn’t already imposed his usual twelve-month-cut-off rule to what was left of their relationship.
No, not luck.
Recalling his last words, the way he had looked at her before he’d left, and the way his black-eyed gaze had gone to the bed, Cassie told herself miserably that she knew exactly why he hadn’t imposed that cut-off rule yet.
Sex.
‘We’ll continue where we left off…’
And where they had left off was in bed. Making passionate love…
No! Not making love, but having hot, passionate sex. Hot passionate, unemotional sex.
That was it. That was all he saw between them. All he cared about. All he wanted.
It was not enough for her. It was not all she wanted. Very definitely not all she cared about.
And knowing it was all that he could offer was not something she could cope with.
She loved him so very much. And loving him so much, she couldn’t endure being with him and knowing he felt nothing for her.
So she had to go.
She didn’t want that either, but she had no choice. What Joaquin could give her was not enough to sustain her, or keep her heart happy in any way. It would kill her eventually. It would drain even the deep, deep well of love she had for him in the end. And it would destroy her more completely than leaving now would do.
If she left now, she would have less pain in the long run. It would be a clean, sharp, single blow—over and done with like an amputation. Like an amputation, the wound would scar over, in the end. It would never fully heal. There would always be a part of her, a large piece of her heart, that would be empty and damaged, but she would at least be able to function.
But if she stayed, she might end up totally destroyed, or, even worse, hating Joaquin so much that she set out to destroy him too.
So she had to go. Though she had nowhere to go to.
Now, while she still had the chance. While Joaquin was out of the way and wouldn’t try to stop her. Because if he tried to stop her, for whatever reasons, then she knew she would give in and would lie down and let him walk all over her, emotionally at least. He would only have to say the single word, ‘Stay,’ and, fool that she was, she would stay, clinging on vainly to the hope that there would one day, in her dreams, be something more.
‘And there never will be,’ she sighed aloud. ‘Never. He’s made that quite clear.’
He couldn’t have made it plainer if he’d tried. The axe might not be falling to sever their relationship right now, but she couldn’t delude herself that it wouldn’t fall, hard and fast, in the end when Joaquin decided that he had tired of her in bed too. He’d just about said as much, and, in pain and too scared to show it, she had reacted in instinctive panic. She had played a role, been colder, harder, more demanding than she would ever be capable of being in reality.
When Joaquin came home and found her gone, he would remember only that role. He would recall how she had been angry—at the fact that he wasn’t celebrating their anniversary, he would believe. He would think that that was what had driven her to pack up and leave. It would never cross his mind to think that maybe, after all, she had been lying when she had said that she didn’t want more than he could give.
Cassie shook her head despondently.
She hadn’t been lying.
She didn’t want from him anything more than he could give—and give willingly and happily. If he couldn’t give her his heart, his love, then she wasn’t going to stay around, making it plain that she wanted, needed more, and making him uncomfortable because he didn’t feel the way she longed for him to do.
No, she would go now, quietly and quickly, while he was out. She would take only the basic minimum of things she needed, and she would be gone before he came back. If she could just think of somewhere to go.
The sound of the telephone on the table beside the bed had her whirling and running to snatch it up, unexpected hope making her heart thud in fearful anticipation.
‘Joaquin?’
Had he changed his mind? Rung back to say he was sorry—that he’d said all the wrong things—that what he wanted was to spend the day with her—and say…
But the voice at the other end of the line, although accented and deep, was not Joaquin’s.
‘Wrong brother, sweetheart,’ Ramón drawled lightly. ‘But I was looking for Joaquin, actually. Do I take it from your tone that he’s not there with you?’
‘No—no, he’s not.’
And never likely to be again.
The truth hit home with a shock that turned Cassie’s knees weak and had her sinking down onto the bed before they gave way completely.
‘He’s not here, Ramón. He went into work.’
She had thought that she had controlled her voice well enough. That she had erased the betraying tremor, the faint shadow of tears. But not well enough. Something had given her away, and Ramón had caught it.
‘What’s wrong, Cassie?’ he demanded, his voice sharpening noticeably.
Cassie smoothed her hand over the crumpled pillow where Joaquin’s dark head had rested just a short time before. The fine cotton was cool now, no heat from his body remaining, but the sheets still bore the lingering traces of the scent of his skin, and she inhaled hungrily, desperate to hold onto this one last physical memory of the man she loved.
‘Cassie?’ Ramón said again, more forcefully this time. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s—it’s over, Ramón…’
