Page 55 of Consequence of One Reckless Night

She loved Alexandre? No, she didn’t—or did she?

Her brow creased as her heart began to thud manically in her chest, blood pounding in her veins as the nun’s words swirled around in her brain. Was she really falling for her husband? Hadn't these past couple of days been absolute bliss—especially with Alexandre taking time off so he could spend more time with her? After consummating their marriage, their relationship had taken a drastic turn, with Alexandre becoming a kind and attentive husband, waiting on her, fulfilling every desire of hers, both in and out of bed.

They’d spend days travelling the state and had even managed a three-day honeymoon in the Maldives. And while he’d managed to sneak in a business meeting or two, hadn't she loved his otherwise undivided attention? She loved how he took care of her every need and was quick to indulge her every whim. She loved falling asleep in his arms and waking up beside him.

Didn’t she loathe being away from him, and hadn't she begun to spend time in the home-office reading on the sofa while he worked just so she could be physically close to him? Didn't her eyes always seek him out in a crowd? Didn’t her heart rejoice when he took her in his arms and kissed her?

Was the desire to spend every minute with Alexandre an indication of love? Was it love that made her heart gallop when she opened her eyes and saw his face first thing in the morning? Was it love that made their lovemaking no more just an explosive coming together of two hungry bodies, but a more spiritual experience that had her weeping every time she came apart in his arms?

Surprisingly, she didn’t feel panicky at the thought of falling in love with Alexandre. Instead, she was filled with an exquisite feeling—a mix of joy and hope, which calmed her thudding heart and cleared her mind.

Perhaps falling in love with her husband wouldn't be so bad after all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Raquel’s mind was ahodgepodge of thoughts and emotions as they drove back from the orphanage. The nun’s words resonated in her ears, and so did the conviction that she was falling for Alexandre.

Stealing a glance at him, her eyes hungrily raked over his handsome face—his features relaxed, and lips curved in a beautiful smile. On an impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, quickly slipping back into her seat when he turned his head to deepen the kiss, taking his eyes off the road.

“Eyes on the road, buddy,” she told him, chuckling when he narrowed his eyes on her.

“You distracted me.”

She turned to look out of the window, a small smile lifting the corners of her lips. “I know this place!” she said suddenly, sitting upright, peering through the window. “I used to live around here.”

The twin palm trees which curved toward the sea was a familiar sight from her childhood, and Raquel remembered spending many hours playing under it while her sisters and brother frolicked in the sea on long summer afternoons.

“Take the right turn here,” she instructed Alexandre as excitement filled her.

Since leaving Pérola, she’d never returned to her family home. But being here now, it felt sacrilegious not to visit her childhood home. Alexandre followed her directions and soon they arrived at the small house which had once belonged to her family.

When she didn’t exit the car, he asked, “Don't you want to go out and look around?”

Raquel peered at the small brick house with the red-tiled roof, and the familiar terracotta rooster standing proudly on the roof indicating the family’s Portuguese heritage. The familiar yellow ochre of the walls, the dark brown windows and doors brought back a flood of memories—of her running around the small verdant garden picking up vinca flowers and swinging from the prop roots of the banyan tree which once stood majestically in their front yard.

But good memories had been few. She recalled the incessant arguments between her brother and her father, while she cowered in the shadows with her sisters. In his drunken stupor, her father had always picked on Arcanjo, but she knew his real problem had been Sylvia—or rather, her absence.

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