The Perfect Cazorla Wife. Michelle Smart

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СКАЧАТЬ closer her steps took her, the louder the thuds of her heart grew. By the time she reached the door, the beats inside her were so loud the ambient music was completely drowned out.

      A barrel of a man materialised, preventing her entry into the room.

      ‘Your invitation, please,’ he said, holding out his hand.

      ‘My husband arrived earlier,’ she answered in hesitant Spanish. She’d lived in the country for over five years but only in recent months did she feel she’d got an actual grip on the language. She still kept her phrasebook in her handbag just in case. ‘He left word that I would be getting here late,’ she lied.

      ‘Your husband?’

      Charley reached into her silver clutch bag, removed her passport and handed it over. ‘Raul Cazorla.’ She imagined how her soon-to-be ex-husband would react if he were in this situation and tried to channel some of his arrogance. She held her phone up. ‘Would you like me to call him so he can come and verify who I am?’

      She could see the guard debating what to do. No doubt he had taken Raul’s invitation himself. No doubt he had clocked the flame-haired lingerie model on his arm too.

      Thinking of that lingerie model...

      A host of bitter feelings curdled in Charley’s belly, just as they had two weeks ago when the first picture of the happy couple had been spread on the cover of one of Spain’s high-end glossies. Raul had looked like the cat who’d licked the bowl dry of all the cream, which Charley supposed wasn’t all that surprising. Physically, Jessica was perfect.

      She doubted the model was his first lover since she’d left, just the first he’d publicly acknowledged.

      Who he saw was none of her business, she reminded herself. In a few short weeks their divorce would be finalised. He would be a free agent.

      She inhaled deeply and narrowed her eyes, little signs she had seen Raul perform hundreds of times to denote his displeasure at whatever situation was occurring. ‘Perhaps you would prefer to find him yourself and ask him to confirm who I am?’

      She knew her words had done the trick when the guard placed his hand on the door to admit her. Who wanted to be the man to seek out Raul Cazorla, one of Spain’s richest men, in the middle of a high-society party, to ask him if the woman bearing his name really was his wife?

      ‘Enjoy the party,’ he said, opening the door.

      The function room of Barcelona’s Hotel Garcia was a mass of glitz and silver and heaving with glamorous bodies. Unlike the easy jazz music of the lobby, here a DJ was playing a set, popular dance music throbbing beneath her already aching feet. It had been nearly two years since she’d last worn high heels and all the bones in her feet were protesting.

      Waiters and waitresses armed with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres mingled discreetly, but close enough for Charley to swipe a flute of champagne and drink it in one swallow.

      As she scoured the room she became aware of curious eyes watching her, imagined she could hear the whispers of, ‘Is that Charlotte...?’

      She tuned them out, focusing her attention on the open French doors that led out into the expansive gardens and the balmy night air.

      The garden was alive with revellers sitting on the many iron tables and chairs scattered over the lawn, people talking, smoking, kissing...

      Her heart recognised him first, accelerating to a gallop as she spotted the tall, muscular frame standing in the far distance, his back to her, a hand in his pocket. He was deep in conversation with a man she didn’t recognise. On the table beside them sat two women chatting between themselves. The redhead took a long drag of a cigarette.

      Raul hates smoking, she thought faintly.

      For a horrible moment she thought she was going to be sick.

      She’d barely taken a step when he turned his head as if sensing eyes upon him.

      He tilted his face a touch in her direction then turned back to the gentleman he was talking to and carried on his conversation.

      Gathering all her courage, Charley began to walk. She’d only taken a few steps when he turned his head again. This time his eyes fixed directly on her.

      He twisted his body round fully to face her.

      As she neared him he became more than just a figure in the distance. Step by step he seemed to expand and flesh out, becoming solid. Becoming Raul.

      He was as handsome as her tortured mind remembered.

      Dimly she noted the dark hair cropped short, the black bow tie loosened around his neck, the perfectly tailored handmade suit hugging his snake hips...

      By the time she reached the table, all conversation between his companions had stopped. In particular, she could feel the redhead’s eyes boring into her.

      ‘Hello, Raul,’ Charley said softly, the anger that had propelled her to gatecrash this party diminishing as she took in the face she had last seen in the flesh almost two years ago.

      If her appearance shocked him, he hid it well. He’d always been able to hide his emotions well. Apart from in the bedroom...

      ‘Charlotte,’ he said, leaning forward to place a kiss on both her cheeks. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

      At least, those were the words his mouth said. His eyes spoke a different tale. Even through the tingling on her cheek where his lips had met her skin, she could see the fire spitting from them.

      When he next spoke she could hear the tightness of his vocal cords. ‘Excuse me, Andres, ladies.’ With those polite parting words, he bore her away, taking hold of her arm and clasping it tightly enough to prevent her escaping but not so hard as to hurt.

      Eyes followed them as they walked in silence to the far corner of the garden, the part where discreet benches were placed amongst the blooming flowers for lovers to be alone. With every step she took, Charley forced her mind to concentrate, to remember the words she’d spent the day rehearsing.

      Being here with him was a thousand times harder than she’d imagined it would be.

      The last time she’d seen her husband had been exactly six hundred and thirty-three days ago.

      The last time she’d seen her husband they’d been screaming at each other, real hate and fury spilling out like a bunch of fireworks detonating in one big bang. She’d left that night and hadn’t seen him since.

      She’d thought all the hurt and anger from that evening and everything that had led up to it had gone, that she was over it and moving on with her life. To feel the same maelstrom of emotions stirring within her scared her more than anything she’d experienced since that night.

      She could feel him trying to rein in his own fury too, in subtle ways that only someone who’d been intimate with him for a long time would recognise. Someone like his wife.

      Only when they were safely out of sight, hidden behind a cherry tree laden with fruit, did he drop her arm and glower down at her. ‘What are you doing here, Charlotte?’

      ‘I’m СКАЧАТЬ