Anger.
The kind of anger Octavio had learned to steer well clear of, because it was counterproductive and clouded one’s judgement. Courtesy of his uncle’s cruelty, most of Octavio’s life had been an exercise in control and restraint.
Only he hadn’t felt restrained tonight.
He hadn’t felt in control. He’d listened to Phoebe and had felt a violent rage towards Christopher. And then, when he’d learned about the text, he’d felt something else. Something that veered a lot towards jealousy.
He scraped his chair back, as if he could physically reject that feeling.Jealousy?
Impossible.
That’s not what he and Phoebe were. So she had a past? Big deal. He was her present and her future, and in many ways, their relationship was exactly what he’d needed. She was providing him with the heirs he badly needed, but more than that, their chemistry was like a drug. He just had to be careful not to get hooked. And not to get confused. She was his wife, his lover, the future mother of his children, but they were not a couple, and that was just how Octavio intended for things to remain.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THEYSLEPTINthe same bed and they made love as if it was the last chance they had to be together—with desperate, fervent passion—but in the morning, a sense of restraint was still between them. A tension that tugged at Phoebe and frustrated her. She didn’t want to fight with Octavio. She didn’t want to be here in this beautiful, beachside paradise and be at odds with the man she’d married. The man she was having twins with.
And so, as he pulled a fruit platter from the fridge and placed it on the counter, Phoebe took a seat on the stool opposite and rested her chin on her palm, doing everything she could to appear nonchalant even when her tummy was in knots.
‘Tell me about your cousin Xiomara,’ she started, her voice a little tremulous.
He glanced at her, offering a smile. A tight smile, but at least it was an attempt at civility. Her gut churned. Why should she care if he was annoyed at her? But whywouldhe be annoyed at her? Because of their argument yesterday? Or because Christopher had messaged her? She wasn’t in control of the latter, or even the former, when it came to it.
‘What would you like to know?’
‘I like her,’ Phoebe said with a lift of her shoulder. ‘She was so kind to me on our wedding day. She didn’t have to be, but she really took me under her wing.’
‘That’s Xiomara.’ He flicked on the coffee machine and slipped a mug beneath it. The kitchen filled with the aroma of caffeine as it whirred to life.
‘You’re friends with her?’
He hesitated almost imperceptibly, but Phoebe caught it. ‘Yes.’
‘Her father is Mauricio,’ Phoebe prompted.
Octavio’s eyes lifted to Phoebe’s. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’
The joke tugged at Phoebe’s lips, drawing a smile from her, and she felt the cracking of their tension, the easing of awkwardness with that one simple quip.
She breathed out.
‘You don’t like him.’
Octavio looked at her with a hint of bemusement. ‘That’s well established.’
‘Why not?’
Octavio slid a coffee across to Phoebe, then set about making himself one. She lifted the drink to her nose and inhaled it. The doctor had assured her coffee—in strict moderation—was fine, and while she’d been happy to give up almost anything for the babies, this cup of half-strength coffee in the morning was one of life’s greatest pleasures.
One of.
Her eyes lifted to Octavio reflexively, as her mind replayed the way they’d spent the small hours of the morning, and she flushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
His gaze was slightly teasing as it fixed on her, as though he’d read her thoughts.
She lifted the cup to her lips partly to conceal her face from him.
‘My uncle is…’ He hesitated, frowning, turning away to make his own coffee, so she realised he was doing his share of face hiding as well. ‘He’s nothing like my father,’ Octavio said after a pause.
