By Request Collection Part 2. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
with me in the car, were you?’
That lightning-quick movement came and went in his gaze again; it was like the hand of an illusionist making something disappear before the audience could see how it was done. ‘No, I was not,’ he said. ‘You were with your—’ he paused for a moment ‘—with Peter Marshall.’
Emelia felt a hand grab at her insides and twist them cruelly. ‘Peter was with me?’ Her heart gave a lurch against her breastbone. ‘Was he injured? Is he all right? Can I see him? Where is he? How is he?’
The ensuing silence after her rapid fire of panicked questions seemed to contain a deep and low back beat, a slow steady rhythm that seemed to be building and building, leading Emelia inexorably to a disharmonious chord she didn’t want to hear.
‘I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but Marshall did not survive the accident,’ Javier said again without any trace of emotion in his voice.
Emelia blinked at him in stunned shock. Peter was dead? Her mind couldn’t process the information. It kept shrinking back from it, like a battered dog cowering out of reach of the next anticipated blow. ‘No…’ The word came out hoarsely in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘No, that can’t be. He can’t be dead. He can’t be…We had such plans…’
Javier’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker of a muscle in his jaw revealed an iota of what he was feeling. It was as if he were reading from a script for a role he had no intention of playing. His words were wooden, cool. ‘He is dead, Emelia. The doctors couldn’t save him.’
Emelia felt tears burst from her eyes, hot scalding tears that ran unchecked down her cheeks. ‘But I loved him so much…’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘We’ve known each other for years. We grew up in the same suburb. He was such a supportive friend to me…’ A thought hit her like a glancing blow and her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh, God…’ she gulped. ‘Who was driving? Did I kill him? Oh, God, God, God—’
He touched her then. His hand came down over hers on the bed just like the doctor’s had done earlier, but his touch felt nothing like the cool, smooth professional hand of the medico’s. Javier’s touch was like a scorching brand, a blistering heat that scored her flesh to the fragile bones of her hand as he pinned it beneath the strength of his. ‘No, you did not kill him,’ he said flatly. ‘You were not driving. He was. He was speeding.’
Her relief was a minute consolation given the loss of a dear friend. Peter was dead? The three words whirled around and around in her head but she wouldn’t allow them to settle. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was nothing but a horrible nightmare. Maybe she would wake up any second and find herself lying in her sunny shoebox flat in Notting Hill, looking forward to meeting up with Peter later to discuss the programme for that night’s performance, just as she did every night before taking her place at the grand piano.
Emelia looked down at her hand beneath the tanned weight of Javier Mélendez’s. There was something about his touch that triggered something deep inside her body. Her blood recognised him even if her mind did not. She felt the flicker of it as it began to race in her veins, the rapid escalation of her pulse making her heart pound at the thought of him touching her elsewhere. Had he touched her elsewhere? Well, of course he must have if they were married…
She gave her head a little shake but it felt as if a jar of marbles had spilled inside. She groaned and put her free hand to her temple, confusion, despair, grief and disbelief all jostling for position.
Javier squeezed her hand with the gentlest of pressure but even so she felt the latent strength leashed there. ‘I realise all this must be a terrible shock. There was no easy way of telling you.’
Emelia blinked away her tears, her throat feeling so dry she could barely swallow the fist-sized wad of sadness there. As if he had read her mind, he released her hand and pulled the bed table closer, before pouring her a glass of water and handing it to her.
‘Here,’ he said, holding the glass for her as if she were a small child. ‘Drink this. It will make you feel better.’
Emelia was convinced nothing was ever going to make her feel better. How was a sip of water going to bring back her oldest friend? She frowned as she pushed the glass away once she had taken a token sip. ‘I don’t understand…’ She raised her eyes to Javier’s ink-black gaze. ‘Why was I in London if I am supposedly married and living with you in…in Seville, did you say?’
His eyes moved away from hers as he set the water glass back on the table. ‘Seville, yes,’ he said. ‘A few kilometres out. That is where I…where we live.’
Emelia heard the way he corrected himself and wondered if that was some sort of clue. She looked at his left hand and saw the gold band of a wedding ring nestled amongst the sprinkling of dark hairs of his long tanned finger. She felt another roller coaster dip inside her stomach and doing her best to ignore it, looked back up at him. ‘If we are married as you say, then where are my rings?’ she asked.
He reached inside his trouser pocket and took out two rings. She held her breath as he picked up her hand, slipping each of the rings on with ease. She looked at the brilliance of the princess cut diamond engagement ring and the matching wedding band with its glittering array of sparkling diamonds set right around the band. Surely something so beautiful, so incredibly expensive would trigger some sort of memory in her brain?
Nothing.
Nada.
Emelia raised her eyes back to his. ‘So…I was in London…alone?’
His eyes were like shuttered windows. ‘I was away on business in Moscow,’ he said. ‘I travel there a lot. You had travelled to London to…to shop.’
There it was again, she thought. A slight pause before he chose his words. ‘Why didn’t I go to Moscow with you?’ she asked, frowning.
It was a moment before he answered. Emelia couldn’t help feeling he was holding something back from her, something important.
‘You did not always travel with me on my trips, particularly the foreign ones,’ he finally answered. ‘You preferred to spend time at home or in London. The shops were more familiar and you didn’t have to worry about the language.’
Emelia bit her lip, her fingers plucking again at the sheet covering her. ‘That’s strange…I hate shopping. I can never find the right size and I don’t like being pressured by the sales assistants.’
He didn’t answer. He just stood there looking down at her with that expressionless face, making Emelia feel as if she had stepped into someone else’s life, not her own. If she was deeply in love with him she would have gone with him, surely? What sort of wife was she to go off shopping—an activity she normally loathed—in another country instead of being by his side? It certainly didn’t sound very devoted of her. More disturbing, it sounded a little bit like something her mother would have done while she was still alive.
After a long moment she forced herself to meet his gaze once more. ‘Um…I know this might seem a strange question but—’ she quickly licked her lips for courage before she continued ‘—were we…happily married?’
The question seemed to hang suspended in the air for a very long time.
Emelia’s head began to ache unbearably as she tried to read his expression, to see if any slight movement of his lips, eyes or forehead would provide some clue to the state of the relationship they apparently shared.
Finally his lips stretched into a brief on-off smile that didn’t involve his eyes. ‘But of course, cariño,’ he said. ‘Why would we not be happy? We were only married for not quite two years, sí? That is not long enough to become bored or tired of each other.’
Emelia was so confused, so very bewildered. It was totally surreal to be lying here without any knowledge of her relationship with him. Surely this was the stuff of movies and fiction. Did this really happen to ordinary