CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
S ANTOS STARED AT M IA , his jaw clenched, his head pounding. He really needed those pills to kick in, if just to take the edge off, but so far his head just felt worse. He hadn’t had a migraine this severe in years; he’d learned to deal with them when he felt the first symptoms—the pain, the blurred sight and the dark spots dancing in his vision. But he could hardly take a breather and go and lie down in a dark room with Mia here. And he needed answers, even if, with the way she was coolly gazing at him, it didn’t seem likely she’d give them.
‘Why were you in Ibiza?’ he asked abruptly.
He wasn’t in the right frame of mind, physically or emotionally, to ask the big questions.
Why did you leave me?
Why did you cut me off so completely?
Why did you not want our baby?
No, he definitely wouldn’t ask any of those. Not yet, and maybe not ever.
Mia shrugged one bare shoulder, the slippery satin of her dress tightening over her breasts as she moved, drawing his attention to the curves he knew so well, had loved so well. ‘Why not?’ she asked, her tone almost flippant.
It was no answer at all, of course, and he shouldn’t be surprised. She’d always been good at deflecting. At the start, he had found it charmingly insouciant; with something that actually mattered, much less so.
‘I’m serious, Mia.’ He closed his eyes briefly, willing back the pain throbbing in his temples.
‘So am I,’ she returned, and now she sounded cool. ‘It seemed as good a place as any. I’m a cocktail waitress, Santos, so I went where people drink cocktails.’ She paused and then added indifferently, ‘And it’s crowded and easy to lose yourself. I didn’t think you’d be able to find me there.’
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. ‘And you didn’t want me to find you.’
‘Obviously.’ She smiled wryly then, her eyes lightening to the blue-green of sea foam, reminding him how he’d once felt...as if he could drown in them. When he’d first met her, she’d seemed like such an enigma, and yet at the same time so warm, open and uncomplicated, so different from him, which had been enchanting. He hadn’t expected not just to be charmed by her, but fascinated. When she’d laughed, he’d felt something lighten in him that he hadn’t realised was so heavy. All the responsibilities that had weighed him down, the memories that had been even worse, had fallen away when he’d been with Mia.
How that had changed once they’d made painful memories of their own.
‘And the dress?’ he asked, nodding towards what could only be considered a sexy evening gown. She looked amazing in it, and perversely that made his blood boil. Why was she wearing it? Obviously, it wasn’t for him. ‘Is that part of your job ?’
The wry smile that had lightened her features flickered and died. She crossed her arms across her body. ‘What are you implying, Santos?’
‘I’m just asking,’ he returned evenly. ‘You don’t normally need to wear an evening gown to mix cocktails.’
She sighed, a gust of breath escaping her as her shoulders slumped and she looked down at the floor. ‘Yeah, well, that might have been a mistake,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘I applied to be a bartender but Ernesto—the guy who runs the place—asked me to try being a hostess and gave me this dress to wear. I’ll need to give it back to him at some point.’
‘A hostess,’ Santos repeated evenly. One step up from a paid escort...and maybe not even that. ‘Seriously, Mia?’
‘I didn’t realise.’ She glanced up, her eyes sparkling with anger or tears; he couldn’t tell. ‘He gave me the dress when I arrived tonight and I thought... Well, I don’t know what I thought. I was running out of money, and I really wanted a job. But of course, I wasn’t going to do something like you’re obviously thinking.’
Why would she be running out of money, he thought, when she had access to his? He’d given her a bank card, credit cards, plenty of cash. They hadn’t even signed a pre-nuptial agreement, much to the dismay of his lawyer, but most of the Aguila fortune was tied up in the estate and investments, anyway, and was out of reach. At that point, he’d felt so recklessly heady with what he’d felt with Mia, so certain that being with her was right, that he hadn’t given himself time to think, to be sensible, to be himself . That was the last thing he’d wanted to be. He’d been himself, dutiful and dour, for his entire life. With Mia, he’d been able to be—to feel—different, and it had felt thrilling.
But Mia should not have had to take sketchy bar jobs for a few euros. He took a step towards her, even though it made the room tilt as his head blazed. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘Do you think am I thinking?’
‘I don’t even know,’ she cried, flinging her slender arms out wide. ‘I never know what you’re thinking because you never tell me. You just look at me like—like your dog just died or something.’ The words hovered in the air for a sizzling moment and then fell to the ground like ash.
‘Not my dog,’ Santos said quietly, and Mia’s face crumpled.
‘Don’t, Santos,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t.’
Was there any point to this discussion? Santos wondered wearily. He was a reasonable man; he prided himself on it. But he did not know how to reason with Mia. Not when there were so many unsaid things between them, things neither of them could bear to talk about, because he didn’t think either of them could handle the answers.
And yet...she was wife . He’d meant what he’d said about taking his vows seriously. He wasn’t going to walk away from their marriage, and he wasn’t going to let her walk away either. Yet what did that mean for their future? How could they possibly work this out when he couldn’t trust her and obviously, for whatever reason, she didn’t trust him?
Everything felt impossible. Part of him wanted to go back to that moment in the bar when he’d met her and relive that enchantment, the way she’d wound around his soul. Another part of him wanted to go back to that moment and walk away—turn in the other direction and never slide onto that bar stool, never ask her what she’d recommend he drink. Never watch the way her hair flew about her face, the way her freckles seemed to dance across her nose when she laughed.
A whole lot of nevers, and it was all too late now. They were married. They’d married on a beach in Lagos Old Town, the waves glinting behind them as they’d held hands and said their vows. They’d known each other for a little less than two weeks.
In hindsight, it had been utter insanity. It was the kind of thing he’d never, ever done, which was why he’d done it. All he could remember now was always wanting to feel the way Mia had made him feel—happy and light, as if anything was possible, as if freedom and joy were the very air he breathed. For a little while, a very little while, he had felt like that and it had been wonderful.
That felt like a long time ago now, and he didn’t know if he would ever get it back—if they would—but they certainly wouldn’t if he Mia didn’t come back with him. They wouldn’t even have a chance.
‘Fine,’ he told her. ‘I won’t talk about all that. But you’re coming back with me to Seville, Mia.’ That much was non-negotiable. He was not going to have his wife running around Europe, bar-tending in dives.
Her mouth twisted into something like a smile. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to kidnap me.’
‘I’m not.’ Even though part of him was actually tempted. He could give the order to sail right now, and there’d be nothing she could do about it, but that was not the way he operated. ‘You’ll come willingly, I hope, for the sake of our marriage.’
Slowly, despairingly, she shook her head. ‘Why, Santos? You know we weren’t happy together. We made each other miserable—’
‘Don’t.’ Now he was the one begging her to stop the reminders, because they hurt . Yes, they’d been miserable—neither of them could deny it—but they had been happy once. Maybe they couldn’t be again—heaven knew there was a lot of surging, muddy water beneath that particular bridge—but they still belonged together. At least, they could. It wasn’t just about being a man of his word, he realised. He and Mia had shared something special and important. He didn’t want to walk away from their marriage...even if Mia had already tried.
But what if it’s the smartest, safest, most sensible option?
The possibility felt like a betrayal—and not just of his vows, but of himself. He was an Aguila: he was a man of his word. It had been instilled and drilled into him since he’d been a small boy, looking up adoringly at his father, a man who had spoken with such grave intent.
Never forgot you’re an Aguila. Never forget what it means.
The Aguila family had always been known for its loyalty and integrity. They’d never broken their word, never been questionable in business. All through Spain, the name Aguila meant something, his father had reminded him again and again—something both powerful and good. And, now that he was the only male left, the weight of that responsibility was all the heavier and more important.
‘Mia...’ he began, and then had to stop, because as he moved the pain in his head suddenly reached a shrieking crescendo. He blinked as the room swayed and blurred. With a hazy sensation of unreality, Santos realised he was about to pass out.
‘Santos?’
Mia stared at her husband in concern as his face leached of colour and he swayed where he stood. He blinked several times, but his gaze was unseeing, vacant. His jaw slackened and then, with obvious effort, tightened again.
‘I...’ he began, only to start slumping forward, one hand flung out to steady himself on the bar.
Mia rushed forward to try to catch him in her arms. She wrapped them around him, breathing in the familiar, pine scent of his cologne and feeling the warmth of his body that still managed to cause a treacherous tendril of desire to wind right through her, even though he was practically unconscious. What on earth was happening? She’d never seen him like this.
‘Ronaldo!’ she called, her voice hoarse and panicked as she attempted to keep him upright, his powerfully muscled chest pressed against her, his head lolling downward. ‘Ronaldo!’
Santos had passed out now, his body a dead weight on hers as she staggered back. He wasn’t overly tall, just a hair’s breadth over six feet, but he was powerfully built, and he was heavy.
‘Ronaldo!’
The security guard burst into the room, flinging the doors back so hard, they hit the wall with a bang. Santos let out a groan.
‘Madre mia!’ Ronaldo exclaimed as he rushed towards her. ‘What has happened to the se?or ?’
‘I... I don’t know.’ Mia’s arms ached with the effort of holding Santos up, and her knees trembled with fear. Was he deathly ill? Was that why he’d come and found her? ‘He just...collapsed.’
‘Ronaldo,’ Santos mumbled, his voice slurred, as if he’d been drinking. ‘Migrena.’
Ronaldo nodded and heaved Santos up with one powerful arm underneath his shoulders. ‘I’ll take him to his room,’ he told Mia, and it sounded cutting, like a dismissal.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Mia said.
Ronaldo frowned. ‘It is not—’
‘I’m his wife ,’ she reminded him. Even if she’d been trying to forget that fact for the last six weeks. ‘I’m coming.’
Mia wasn’t even sure why she insisted. Surely this was the perfect opportunity to leave the yacht and hightail it out of Ibiza so Santos couldn’t find her again? Except he would, because he’d found her once already; she had absolutely zero doubt that he would do it again. That didn’t mean she had to follow him into his cabin and act as his nurse maid, yet that was exactly what she was doing.
Ronaldo deposited Santos on the wide double bed and Mia found herself taking over.
‘He has a migraine,’ she surmised, from what Santos had said. Even she, with her very limited Spanish, had been able to understand that much.
Ronaldo nodded. ‘He gets them sometimes. Not usually this bad.’
Something she hadn’t known about him. Mia supposed there were a lot of things she didn’t know about her husband, considering how they’d only met seven months ago. ‘I can manage from here,’ she told Ronaldo. ‘I’ll take care of him.’
The security guard frowned. ‘I don’t...’
‘I’m his wife,’ she reminded him—or maybe herself. ‘I’ll take care of him.’
‘ Se?or does not like people to see him like this,’ Ronaldo protested quietly, just as Santos let out a groan. He flung out one hand.
‘Mia...’
The sound of her name on his lips, like an entreaty, made something in her both soften and ache.
‘See?’ she remarked to Ronaldo. ‘He wants me here.’ She wasn’t sure about that, but she decided to go with it.
Slowly, reluctantly, the security guard nodded his assent. ‘All right. But you must come for me if he needs anything more. If he gets worse.’
‘I will,’ Mia promised. Ronaldo nodded once and then left, closing the door behind him.
Mia let out a long, low breath as she wondered what on earth she’d done—and why. She wasn’t very good with sickness. Her mother hadn’t been either, which was probably why Mia struggled.
“Pull yourself together, because I can’t handle any inconvenience.” That had more or less been her mother’s motto, said in a briskly practical way.
More than once— when Mia had gone to school—she’d gone with a high fever or a stomach bug. More than once the school receptionist had phoned her mother to come and get her because she’d been too ill to manage her classes, and her mother had come, annoyed that Mia had made a fuss, as if getting sick had been her fault.
She’d learned to act being well even when she wasn’t, to hide anything that could be seen as weakness. It was a lesson that, for better or worse, had become deeply embedded in her psyche, thanks to a mother who resented her very presence. There had never been anyone else to depend on—no father, no friends, no kindly neighbours. It had been a lonely existence, but it had made Mia independent and strong—she hoped.
Now Mia turned to gaze at Santos, stretched out on the bed. His midnight-dark hair was rumpled, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Even in pain and sickness he looked eminently handsome, desirable. She remembered how his eyes had gleamed gold when he’d looked at her, before they’d darkened to bronze as he’d bent his head to kiss her. She remembered how his lips had felt on hers, soft yet firm, moving over her mouth with such tender intention, making both heat and hope flare deep inside her—hope that she’d finally found someone who saw and understood her, who loved her for who she was, because no one ever had before.
A shudder rippled through her and Mia shook herself, doing her best to banish the tempting, taunting memories. Why on earth was she thinking about all that now? Santos hadn’t touched her for weeks before she’d left. But then, she hadn’t touched him either. She hadn’t dared.
Gingerly she perched on the edge of Santos’s bed. He groaned and flung out one hand, and she gently caught it with her own, drawing it back to his side. His fingers clenched on hers, trapping her hand, and she let him hold it. She remembered how much she’d once loved him holding her hand, and how loved she’d felt when he had, his strong fingers twining with hers.
Loved. She hadn’t had a lot of love in her life; she had learned to make do without it, in as briskly practical way as her mother had. Why crave something she could never have? Learning to do without it had been a much better way to live her life.
Except, it didn’t actually stop the craving, Mia reflected. She hadn’t realised that until she’d met Santos and his attention—what she’d believed had been his love—had revealed the big, gaping emptiness inside her and filled it...for a time. Only for a time, until she’d wrecked it all and his blame had made her feel even worse than if she’d never known his attention and kindness at all. Whoever thought it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all had no idea what they were talking about, Mia thought grimly.
A sigh escaped her as Santos moaned again, his eyelids flickering once more. ‘Mia...’
‘I’m here,’ she said softly, as those yearnings she was desperate to push away came rushing back. He might have treated her terribly for a time, but he was a kind man at heart. She’d always known that, which had made his anger and blame so much harder to bear. ‘Rest, Santos. You have a migraine. You need sleep.’
‘Hurts...’ he mumbled, his eyes closing once more.
Her heart ached in a way that surprised her. How had she not known this about her husband? He’d always appeared so strong and invincible, as immovable as a mountain. It had been both incredibly reassuring and, especially towards the end, impossibly frustrating. How could she love a mountain? How could a mountain love her ?
‘Let me get you a cold cloth for your head,’ she said, and she extricated her hand from his as she went to the sumptuous en suite bathroom to wet a facecloth and wring it out. Back at the bed, she gently laid it on his forehead as a groan of something like satisfaction escaped him.
‘Thanks...’ he mumbled.
She smiled—ever the gentleman. He’d been so kind to her at the start. No one had ever treated her with such sensitivity, such gentleness. It hadn’t just been the basic chivalry of opening doors, pulling out chairs or standing when she came into a room, although all that had made her feel like a cherished princess. It was the way he’d listened when she’d spoken, the way he’d always enquired after her comfort and her happiness. It was the look of wonder on his face when, just two weeks after they’d married, she’d told him she was pregnant...
No. She wasn’t going to go there. It hurt far, far too much.
Carefully, Mia rose from the bed. She needed just a little distance from this man who made her feel so much, even if it was just from the other side of the room. But, before she could move, Santos’s arm shot out and his fingers circled her wrist, just as they had back at the bar. It hadn’t hurt then, and it didn’t now. It felt like temptation, causing a sweet ache of longing to reverberate through her as she remembered just how his skin felt on hers, his body felt on hers...
‘Don’t go,’ he said, his eyes still closed, his voice a slurred whisper. ‘Mia...please don’t go.’
Her heart ached at the pleading note in his voice, and yet she couldn’t help but wonder if Santos would have made such a request if he’d been in his right mind. He might say he wanted her back, but she didn’t believe he did. Or at least, she didn’t believe he wanted her back for the right reasons. Pride, reputation or integrity might all have something to do with his insistence that she return to Seville with him as his wife, but love? As much as she’d wanted to believe he loved her when they’d first married, she’d come to realise he couldn’t have. Love took time to grow and strengthen. Whatever they’d felt had been no more than facsimile of it.
And yet, with his fingers still circling her wrist, that jagged plea still reverberating through her, she found herself sinking back onto the bed against her instincts. He drew her closer to him, and she came, at first cautiously, but somehow she ended up lying nestled next to him, her head on his shoulder, her legs curled into his. She breathed in the scent of him and remembered the nights she’d lain just like this, feeling ridiculously, incredulously happy. Now she only felt sad.
Santos’s breathing evened out and his fingers relaxed on her wrist, his hand falling limply to his side. Mia could have got up then and crept away, let him sleep. It would have been the smart, sensible thing to do, but somehow she couldn’t make herself do it.
She told herself it was because she didn’t want to risk disturbing him, but she knew that was a lie. The truth was, it simply felt too good to lie there, her head on his shoulder, the steady and reassuring thud of his heart under her cheek and the solid warmth of him making her feel safe, protected. His breathing deepened and his body relaxed but still Mia stayed.
Santos might not be aware she was there, but she certainly was. And it offered her battered, wounded heart a comfort she knew she needed...more than Santos would ever know or believe.