spell which enfolded them, and shattered it.
'Senhor.' Rosita was standing a few yards away, her brown face a
mask of outrage. 'Basta.'
With a groan Riago let Charlie go, and stepped backwards.
Trembling, hot with embarrassment, Charlie stumbled away towards
her room as Rosita embarked on a lengthy tirade of shocked
expostulation.
Clearly he was no longer the respected patrao in the eyes of his
former nurse, but someone who'd once again betrayed the family
notions of honour, Charlie thought as she closed her door thankfully
behind her.
She threw herself across the bed, burying her burning face against
the coolness of the linen sheet, pummelling the pillow with clenched
fists, raging inwardly, despising herself for her own weakness.
What was happening to her? she asked in silent despair. Weren't
things bad enough already without offering herself to him like
that—in a passageway where anyone might have seen them? Where
someone, in fact, had seen them, and thank God it was Rosita, who
would scold and then be discreet.
If she hadn't interrupted, Charlie thought, shivering... if she hadn't
arrived when she did... he might have been here with me now on
this bed. Oh, God, how could I have been such a fool?
It was shattering to realise how near she'd come to complete and
utter surrender. She'd never realised she could be capable of such
overwhelming sensations, or that her body could be such a traitor.
And all this for a man who'd admitted openly that he loved another
woman, and that he would never love again.
But then men did not have to be in love to satisfy their physical
appetites, she reminded herself sadly. Riago could take and enjoy all
she had to give while remaining emotionally aloof.
Yet, for her, passion without love would deteriorate into a soulless
nightmare. And this was why she had to escape from Riago while
she still could—before her heart and mind echoed her body's
betrayal.
She stayed where she was for the remainder of the day, and was
sorely tempted to ask for dinner to be brought to her there.
But pride demanded that she get up, bathe and change, as she had
done each evening so far, when the maid came to knock on her door.
Riago must not be allowed to think she was afraid to face him, she
told herself with steely determination. She had nearly made a fatal
mistake, but there would be no more moments of weakness.
Slowly but surely she was transforming Fay Preston's wardrobe, and
the black dress she chose for the evening bore little resemblance to
its former self. Now it flattered her slender curves without clinging,
and the knee-length skirt showed off her slim legs. The plunging
neckline too had been reduced to more discreet proportions.
When she arrived at the sala de jantar she found to her
astonishment that Philip Hughes was already there, pouring himself
a whisky. He was wearing cream cotton trousers and a bronze silk
shirt, both of which hung on his thin body.
'Cheers.' He raised his glass to her with exaggerated courtesy.
'You'll have to forgive my appearance, but these are my host's
clothes, and he's built on somewhat larger lines.'
'Are you sure you're well enough to get up for meals?' Privately
Charlie thought he looked dreadful, pale, haggard and sunken-eyed.
'I'm a bit wobbly, but otherwise fine. And I don't enjoy playing
invalid.'
'Is that something you've remembered?'
He shrugged easily. 'Pure instinct, I guess. There are some things
about yourself that you just... know.'
And others that shake every preconception you ever had to its
foundations, Charlie thought with a little inward sigh.
She said, 'We have to talk.'
Philip flung up a hand in alarm. 'No way, sweetheart. I saw the
warning light when your boyfriend interrupted us this afternoon.
You didn't mention the fact you were engaged.'
'We're not,' Charlie said shortly. 'He's asked me to marry him. I've
refused. End of story.'
'I've got amnesia, darling, not brain damage.' He
'Senhor.' Rosita was standing a few yards away, her brown face a
mask of outrage. 'Basta.'
With a groan Riago let Charlie go, and stepped backwards.
Trembling, hot with embarrassment, Charlie stumbled away towards
her room as Rosita embarked on a lengthy tirade of shocked
expostulation.
Clearly he was no longer the respected patrao in the eyes of his
former nurse, but someone who'd once again betrayed the family
notions of honour, Charlie thought as she closed her door thankfully
behind her.
She threw herself across the bed, burying her burning face against
the coolness of the linen sheet, pummelling the pillow with clenched
fists, raging inwardly, despising herself for her own weakness.
What was happening to her? she asked in silent despair. Weren't
things bad enough already without offering herself to him like
that—in a passageway where anyone might have seen them? Where
someone, in fact, had seen them, and thank God it was Rosita, who
would scold and then be discreet.
If she hadn't interrupted, Charlie thought, shivering... if she hadn't
arrived when she did... he might have been here with me now on
this bed. Oh, God, how could I have been such a fool?
It was shattering to realise how near she'd come to complete and
utter surrender. She'd never realised she could be capable of such
overwhelming sensations, or that her body could be such a traitor.
And all this for a man who'd admitted openly that he loved another
woman, and that he would never love again.
But then men did not have to be in love to satisfy their physical
appetites, she reminded herself sadly. Riago could take and enjoy all
she had to give while remaining emotionally aloof.
Yet, for her, passion without love would deteriorate into a soulless
nightmare. And this was why she had to escape from Riago while
she still could—before her heart and mind echoed her body's
betrayal.
She stayed where she was for the remainder of the day, and was
sorely tempted to ask for dinner to be brought to her there.
But pride demanded that she get up, bathe and change, as she had
done each evening so far, when the maid came to knock on her door.
Riago must not be allowed to think she was afraid to face him, she
told herself with steely determination. She had nearly made a fatal
mistake, but there would be no more moments of weakness.
Slowly but surely she was transforming Fay Preston's wardrobe, and
the black dress she chose for the evening bore little resemblance to
its former self. Now it flattered her slender curves without clinging,
and the knee-length skirt showed off her slim legs. The plunging
neckline too had been reduced to more discreet proportions.
When she arrived at the sala de jantar she found to her
astonishment that Philip Hughes was already there, pouring himself
a whisky. He was wearing cream cotton trousers and a bronze silk
shirt, both of which hung on his thin body.
'Cheers.' He raised his glass to her with exaggerated courtesy.
'You'll have to forgive my appearance, but these are my host's
clothes, and he's built on somewhat larger lines.'
'Are you sure you're well enough to get up for meals?' Privately
Charlie thought he looked dreadful, pale, haggard and sunken-eyed.
'I'm a bit wobbly, but otherwise fine. And I don't enjoy playing
invalid.'
'Is that something you've remembered?'
He shrugged easily. 'Pure instinct, I guess. There are some things
about yourself that you just... know.'
And others that shake every preconception you ever had to its
foundations, Charlie thought with a little inward sigh.
She said, 'We have to talk.'
Philip flung up a hand in alarm. 'No way, sweetheart. I saw the
warning light when your boyfriend interrupted us this afternoon.
You didn't mention the fact you were engaged.'
'We're not,' Charlie said shortly. 'He's asked me to marry him. I've
refused. End of story.'
'I've got amnesia, darling, not brain damage.' He
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