And a queen.
Octavio’s wife.
Her heart raced as she looked down at her hand for confirmation and saw two bands there—the stunning engagement ring and a simpler platinum band with several small diamonds set into it.
She reached for her throat and felt the locket, opened it and saw her mother’s face and frowned, a maelstrom of feelings rolling through her.
She was alone in this room; she presumed Octavio was somewhere in this place though. It was, after all, their honeymoon.
She grimaced at the idea, because theirs was so far from a normal relationship, but she stood up, realising she was still in the pantsuit she’d been wearing last night. He hadn’t even undressed her. Because he hadn’t wanted to? Or because he hadn’t felt that he had a right?
Whatever.
She was relieved, she told herself, moving from the bedroom and out into a corridor that was light and airy, the walls rendered white, the doorways carved and arched. She scanned the rooms and found him, not in the kitchen, where she’d been heading for her one and only coffee of the day, but rather on the balcony, shirt off, body ridiculously honed and tanned, staring out to sea.
Her mouth went dry.
Her insides squirmed.
And though she made no noise, somehow he must have detected her presence because he turned and looked right at her, so their eyes clashed and her whole body responded with a pulsing, aching need.
She glanced away quickly, her cheeks hot, the ground beneath her seeming trembly. She felt scared.
Scared to be here, alone with him. Scared of what it would mean for her and her ability to resist him. She’d spent a full week longing for him and managing to be strong, but how realistic was it to stick to that?
Would she really spend her whole life ignoring this desire?
Would he?
Did she want to?
Her legs moved of their own volition, across the floor towards the sliding doors and out onto the balcony. The air herewas sweet, tinged with the fragrance of the Mediterranean Sea and the greenery that bounded it. There were white and pink Oleander trees forming a border and a heap of lavender scrambled beneath it, growing quite wild. Though not native to the Mediterranean, at some point a heap of palms had been planted around the beach and they gave the impression of being stranded on a tropical island rather than somewhere in Castilona.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice a little raspy from disuse.
‘It’s a private beach, not far from Costa de las Estrellas,’ he said. ‘Do you know it?’
‘I’ve never heard of it, but I love the sound of the name.’
‘Coast of the Stars,’ he said with a nod, but there was something in his eyes that gave her pause. ‘It’s a coastal town; an old fishermans’ village, but over the years it’s become synonymous with good food and wine and some of the best beaches in the world. As a result, it’s an exclusive tourist destination. My family has had a holiday home here for a long time. This is our beach.’
‘Our beach? You mean it’s really private?’
He pointed down the sand in one direction and then the other. She noticed that the Oleander trees had been planted to follow the line of the coast, shielding the beach from view. On each side of the house, there was only vegetation.
‘Completely private.’
She let out a low breath. ‘So we’re alone?’
‘A housekeeper is available if we want one, but generally when I come here, it’s because I am seeking my own counsel.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Do you come here often?’
‘I used to, before the coronation.’
She returned her attention to the beach. It was a warm day and the thought of swimming tugged at her.
‘I grew up near the beach,’ she found herself admitting. ‘In the summer, you’d be hard-pressed to get me out of the water. I loved to surf.’
