The Spaniard's Marriage Bargain

‘Sandro…about what just—’

‘Firstly, don’t call me Sandro. I don’t like it.’

‘But I thought you liked it before, when we were—’

Isandro laughed harshly. ‘Before you deserted this marriage? Before you walked away from Zac? Well, that was then; this is now.’

Familiar pain lashed Rowan inwardly. ‘But what about… what about what just happened…?’ She hated the uncertainty in her voice, and was scrabbling to find covers to pull around her in protection.

Isandro started to walk away, his tall, lean and powerful body a vision in perfection. Gleaming golden skin stretched over hard muscles. He turned at the door.

‘That’s the second thing. We just slept together, that’s all. It means nothing. And Rowan?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This time I’ll expect you to be willing when I want you, for however long I want you. Perhaps you’ll be a better mistress than you were a wife.’

Abby Green worked for twelve years in the film industry. The glamour of four a.m. starts, dealing with precious egos, the mucky fields, driving rain…all became too much. After stumbling across a guide to writing romance, she took it as a sign and saw her way out, capitalising on her long-time love for romance books. Now she is very happy to sit in her nice warm house while others are out in the rain and muck! She lives and works in Dublin.

This is for Dr Larry Bacon, Dr Louise Campbell

and Dr Jim Holden, with much thanks.

This is also especially for The Inspiring Ladies of the

fledgling Women’s Writers Circle in Scariff in County Clare, and even more especially for Ruth McMahon— who is soul sister, friend, guru and wise woman.

CHAPTER ONE

ROWAN CARMICHAEL faltered slightly as she stepped into the minimalist lobby of the small boutique hotel. She hadn’t realised it was so exclusive. Even though she was well dressed, well enough to look as if she belonged here, she felt as though everyone must surely be able to see under her skin to the very heart of her, that beat so unsteadily. It had been so long since she’d been in a place like this. Another lifetime, another woman. She should have picked a more down-at-heel hotel. This kind of hushed luxuriousness reminded her of too much and made the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

She was completely oblivious to the several appreciative looks she drew, with her dark red hair and flawless creamy skin, which contrasted with her ever so slightly awkward grace as she moved.

Her expressive full mouth tightened as she looked for a seat, willing herself not to let the rising panic overwhelm her. She couldn’t think of the past now. It was gone, and with it—Her step faltered again as a slicing pain ripped through her, stunning her with its intensity, with its rawness, its newness… even though it was old. And she felt old—a lot older than her twenty-seven years.

She found an empty seat and sank into gratefully. Within moments a waiter had come to take her order for Earl Grey tea. She sat back and crossed her legs, taking a deep breath. She had to get it together. Had to be in control and above all calm.

She would have to discuss with a solicitor in less than ten minutes how she could best contact the husband she’d walked away from two years ago…and her baby. That slicing pain gripped her again, and she was made aware of how tenuous her control was. She needed time to gather herself. Perhaps she’d been silly, scheduling the appointment so soon; she was literally just off the train. This was the first time she’d been out in public again in two years. In the busy, heaving metropolis of London. Somewhere she’d truly never expected to be ever again.

No. She couldn’t think like that. She’d be fine. After all, hadn’t she been through so much worse?

This was the first day of the rest of her life. A new page, a new chapter.

A new beginning. And perhaps… A tiny alien bird of hope fluttered in her chest. Perhaps another chance at happiness? Even though in truth she’d had precious little happiness in her life so far…

Just then her attention was taken by a little boy, who was running and fell headlong at her feet on the marble floor. With instinctive and unquestioning swiftness Rowan was out of her seat and bending to lift the boy gently, her hands under his arms, a reassuring smile on her face.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart. I don’t think you’ve really hurt yourself, have you? You look like a very brave boy.’

He stood unsteadily on chubby legs, his face veering between crying and not crying, a lip wobbling. He was adorable. Dark blond hair, olive skin and huge eyes…they were the colour of violets. Unusual and distinctive.

Too unusual and distinctive.

Shock slammed into Rowan like a punch in the gut. They were, in fact, the exact unique shade of violet that looked back at her in her own mirror every day. With that thought came a surge of something so instinctive, so primal, so inexplicable Rowan felt the world flip over and right itself again at an angle.

She held onto the boy. He’d obviously decided against crying, and looked at her guilelessly, his mouth cracking into a huge grin, showing tiny baby teeth. He rubbed his forehead and babbled something unintelligible, but she didn’t hear him. The shock was so intense that she couldn’t breathe.