Latin Lovers: A Convenient Bridegroom / In the Spaniard's Bed / The Martinez Marriage Revenge. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      ‘Brute force, Carlo? Isn’t that a little drastic?’

      ‘Not when your well-being and safety are at stake.’

      Her chin tilted in a gesture of defiance. ‘Somehow that doesn’t quite add up, does it?’ She held up her hand as he began to speak. ‘Don’t.’ Her eyes held a brilliant sheen that was a mixture of anger, pride, and pain. ‘At least let there be honesty between us.’

      ‘I have never been dishonest with you.’

      She felt sick inside, a dreadful gnawing emptiness that ripped away any illusions she might have had that affection and caring on his part were enough.

      Without a further word she turned and walked towards the front door, released the locking mechanism, then took the few steps necessary to reach the bank of lifts.

      Please, please let there be one waiting, she silently begged as she depressed the call button.

      The following twenty seconds were among the longest in her life, and she gave an audible sigh of relief when the heavy stainless steel doors slid open.

      Aysha stepped inside and turned to jab the appropriate floor panel, only to gasp with outraged indignation as Carlo stepped into the cubicle.

      ‘Get out’

      Dark eyes lanced hers, mercilessly hard and resolute. ‘I can drive you, or follow behind in my car.’ The ruthlessness intensified. ‘Choose.’

      The lift doors slid closed, and the cubicle moved swiftly down towards the car park.

      ‘Go to hell.’

      His smile held little humour. ‘That wasn’t an option.’

      ‘Unfortunately.’

      The flippant response served to tighten his expression into a grim mask, and his anger was a palpable entity.

      ‘Believe you wouldn’t want me to take you there.’ His drawl held a silky threat that sent shivers scudding down the length of her spine.

      The doors whispered open, and without a word she preceded him into the huge concrete cavern. Her car was parked next to his, and she widened the distance between them, conscious of her heels clicking against the concrete floor.

      Carlo crossed to the Mercedes, unlocked the passenger door, and held it open. ‘Get in.’

      Damned if she’d obey his dictum. ‘I’ll need my car in the morning.’

      His expression remained unchanged. ‘I’ll collect you.’

      Aysha felt like stamping her foot. ‘Or I can have Teresa drop me, or take a cab, or any one of a few other options.’ Her eyes were fiery with rebellion. ‘Don’t patronise me, dammit!’

      It had been a long night, fraught with moments of sheer anger, disillusionment, and introspective rationalisation. None of which had done much to ease the heartache or the sense of betrayal. Each of which she’d examined in detail, only to silently castigate herself for having too high an expectation of a union based solely in reality.

      Worse, for allowing Nina’s deviousness to undermine her own ambivalent emotions. Nina’s success focused on Aysha’s insecurity, and it irked unbearably.

      Carlo watched the fleeting emotions chase across her expressive features and divined each and every one of them.

      ‘Get in the car, cara.’

      His gentle tone was almost her undoing, and she fought against the sudden prick of tears. Damn him. She wanted to maintain her anger. Lash out, verbally and physically, until the rage was spent.

      Conversely, she needed his touch, the soothing quality of those strong hands softly brushing her skin, the feel of his mouth on hers as the sensual magic wove its own spell.

      She wanted to re-enter the lift and have it transport them back to his apartment. Most of all, she wanted to lose herself in his loving, then fall asleep in his arms with the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

      Yet pride prevented her from taking that essential step, just as it locked the voice in her throat. She felt raw, and emotionally at odds.

      Did most brides suffer this awful ambivalence? Get real, a tiny voice reminded her. You don’t represent most brides, and while you have the groom’s affection, it’s doubtful he’ll ever gift you his unconditional love.

      With a gesture indicating silent acquiescence she slid into the passenger seat, reached for the safety belt as Carlo closed the door, and fastened it as he crossed in front of the vehicle. Seconds later he fired the engine and cruised up the ramp leading to street level.

      ‘Call your parents.’

      Aysha reached into her purse and extracted the small mobile phone, and keyed in the appropriate digits.

      Giuseppe answered on the third ring. ‘Aysha? Something is wrong?’

      ‘No, Papà. I’ll be home in about fifteen minutes. Can you fix security?’

      Thank heavens it wasn’t Teresa who’d answered, for her mother would have fired off a string of questions to rival the Spanish Inquisition.

      Aysha ignored Carlo’s brief encompassing glance as the car whispered along the suburban street, and she closed her eyes against the image of her mother slipping on a robe in preparation for a maternal chat the instant Aysha entered the house.

      A silent laugh rose and died in her throat. At this precise moment she didn’t know which scenario she preferred... The emotive discussion she’d just had with Carlo, or the one she was about to have with Teresa.

      Aysha had no sooner stepped inside the door than her mother launched into a series of questions, and it was easier to fabricate than spell out her own insecurities.

      She justified her transgression by qualifying Teresa had enough on her plate, and nothing could be achieved by the confidence.

      ‘Are you sure there is nothing bothering you?’ Teresa persisted.

      ‘No, Mamma.’ Inspiration was the mother of invention, and she used it shamelessly. ‘I forgot to take the samples I need to match up the shoes tomorrow, so I thought I’d come home.’

      ‘You didn’t quarrel with Carlo?’

      Quarrel wasn’t exactly the word she would have chosen to describe their altercation. ‘Why would I do that?’ Aysha countered.

      ‘I’ll make coffee.’

      All she wanted to do was go to bed. ‘Don’t bother making it for me.’

      ‘You’re going upstairs now?’

      ‘Goodnight, Mamma,’ she bade gently. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

      ‘Gianna and I will meet you for lunch tomorrow.’ She mentioned a restaurant. ‘I’ll book a table for one o’clock.’

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