Page 173 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

‘I’m his wife,’ she reminded him—or maybe herself. ‘I’ll take care of him.’

‘Señordoes not like people to see him like this,’ Ronaldo protested quietly, just as Santos let out a groan. He flung out one hand.

‘Mia...’

The sound of her name on his lips, like an entreaty, made something in her both soften and ache.

‘See?’ she remarked to Ronaldo. ‘He wants me here.’ She wasn’t sure about that, but she decided to go with it.

Slowly, reluctantly, the security guard nodded his assent. ‘All right. But you must come for me if he needs anything more. If he gets worse.’

‘I will,’ Mia promised. Ronaldo nodded once and then left, closing the door behind him.

Mia let out a long, low breath as she wondered what on earth she’d done—and why. She wasn’t very good with sickness. Her mother hadn’t been either, which was probably why Mia struggled.

“Pull yourself together, because I can’t handle any inconvenience.” That had more or less been her mother’s motto, said in a briskly practical way.

More than once—whenMia had gone to school—she’d gone with a high fever or a stomach bug. More than once the school receptionist had phoned her mother to come and get her because she’d been too ill to manage her classes, and her mother had come, annoyed that Mia had made a fuss, as if getting sick had been her fault.

She’d learned to act being well even when she wasn’t, to hide anything that could be seen as weakness. It was a lesson that, for better or worse, had become deeply embedded in her psyche, thanks to a mother who resented her very presence. There had never been anyone else to depend on—no father, no friends, no kindly neighbours. It had been a lonely existence, but it had made Mia independent and strong—she hoped.

Now Mia turned to gaze at Santos, stretched out on the bed. His midnight-dark hair was rumpled, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Even in pain and sickness he looked eminently handsome, desirable. She remembered how his eyes had gleamed gold when he’d looked at her, before they’d darkened to bronze as he’d bent his head to kiss her. She remembered how his lips had felt on hers, soft yet firm, moving over her mouth with such tender intention, making both heat and hope flare deep inside her—hope that she’d finally found someone who saw and understood her, who loved her for who she was, because no one ever had before.

A shudder rippled through her and Mia shook herself, doing her best to banish the tempting, taunting memories. Why on earth was she thinking about all that now? Santos hadn’t touched her for weeks before she’d left. But then, she hadn’t touched him either. She hadn’t dared.

Gingerly she perched on the edge of Santos’s bed. He groaned and flung out one hand, and she gently caught it with her own, drawing it back to his side. His fingers clenched on hers, trapping her hand, and she let him hold it. She remembered how much she’d once loved him holding her hand, and how loved she’d felt when he had, his strong fingers twining with hers.

Loved.She hadn’t had a lot of love in her life; she had learned to make do without it, in as briskly practical way as her mother had. Why crave something she could never have? Learning to do without it had been a much better way to live her life.

Except, it didn’t actually stop the craving, Mia reflected. She hadn’t realised that until she’d met Santos and his attention—what she’d believed had been his love—had revealed the big, gaping emptiness inside her and filled it...for a time. Only for a time, until she’d wrecked it all and his blame had made her feel even worse than if she’d never known his attention and kindness at all. Whoever thought it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all had no idea what they were talking about, Mia thought grimly.

A sigh escaped her as Santos moaned again, his eyelids flickering once more. ‘Mia...’

‘I’m here,’ she said softly, as those yearnings she was desperate to push away came rushing back. He might have treated her terribly for a time, but he was a kind man at heart. She’d always known that, which had made his anger and blame so much harder to bear. ‘Rest, Santos. You have a migraine. You need sleep.’

‘Hurts...’ he mumbled, his eyes closing once more.

Her heart ached in a way that surprised her. How had she not known this about her husband? He’d always appeared so strong and invincible, as immovable as a mountain. It had been both incredibly reassuring and, especially towards the end, impossibly frustrating. How could she love a mountain? How could a mountain loveher?

‘Let me get you a cold cloth for your head,’ she said, and she extricated her hand from his as she went to the sumptuousen suitebathroom to wet a facecloth and wring it out. Back at the bed, she gently laid it on his forehead as a groan of something like satisfaction escaped him.

‘Thanks...’ he mumbled.

She smiled—ever the gentleman. He’d been so kind to her at the start. No one had ever treated her with such sensitivity, such gentleness. It hadn’t just been the basic chivalry of opening doors, pulling out chairs or standing when she came into a room, although all thathadmade her feel like a cherished princess. It was the way he’d listened when she’d spoken, the way he’d always enquired after her comfort and her happiness. It was the look of wonder on his face when, just two weeks after they’d married, she’d told him she was pregnant...

No.She wasn’t going to go there. It hurt far, far too much.

Carefully, Mia rose from the bed. She needed just a little distance from this man who made her feel so much, even if it was just from the other side of the room. But, before she could move, Santos’s arm shot out and his fingers circled her wrist, just as they had back at the bar. It hadn’t hurt then, and it didn’t now. It felt like temptation, causing a sweet ache of longing to reverberate through her as she remembered just how his skin felt on hers, his body felt on hers...

‘Don’t go,’ he said, his eyes still closed, his voice a slurred whisper. ‘Mia...please don’t go.’

Her heart ached at the pleading note in his voice, and yet she couldn’t help but wonder if Santos would have made such a request if he’d been in his right mind. He might say he wanted her back, but she didn’t believe he did. Or at least, she didn’t believe he wanted her back for the right reasons. Pride, reputation or integrity might all have something to do with his insistence that she return to Seville with him as his wife, but love? As much as she’d wanted to believe he loved her when they’d first married, she’d come to realise he couldn’t have. Love took time to grow and strengthen. Whatever they’d felt had been no more than facsimile of it.

And yet, with his fingers still circling her wrist, that jagged plea still reverberating through her, she found herself sinking back onto the bed against her instincts. He drew her closer to him, and she came, at first cautiously, but somehow she ended up lying nestled next to him, her head on his shoulder, her legs curled into his. She breathed in the scent of him and remembered the nights she’d lain just like this, feeling ridiculously, incredulously happy. Now she only felt sad.

Santos’s breathing evened out and his fingers relaxed on her wrist, his hand falling limply to his side. Mia could have got up then and crept away, let him sleep. It would have been the smart, sensible thing to do, but somehow she couldn’t make herself do it.

She told herself it was because she didn’t want to risk disturbing him, but she knew that was a lie. The truth was, it simply felt too good to lie there, her head on his shoulder, the steady and reassuring thud of his heart under her cheek and the solid warmth of him making her feel safe, protected. His breathing deepened and his body relaxed but still Mia stayed.

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