Free The Accidental Bride by Portia Da Costa Page B

numberwas a mobile one, though, and she’d have the phone with her, anticipating this very call.
    His luck ran out.
    ‘Clara Sanchez de la Villareal.’
    The sound of that soft, familiar voice made him angry. A great start! She knew the Dalethwaite number, and he’d not concealed it. So why play games and answer as if he might just be anybody?
    Why? Because she was Clara, and that was her style, and there’d been a time when her provocations had bewitched him.
    ‘Good evening, Clara. It’s John.’
    ‘Jonathan, darling, how wonderful to hear from you. How are you? I was so hoping you’d call this evening.’
    Her tone was husky, intimate, as if they’d seen each other only yesterday, as if they’d been lovers the night before. John clenched his fist against the desk, digging his nails into his palm. There’d been a time when he’d craved the sound of this voice, ached for it. Long, agonised wakeful nights in his prison cell, listening for the slightest change in another man’s breathing, he’d consoled himself with the thought of Clara whispering sweet nothings to him when they were reunited. Her laughter. Her moans when they’d made love. As the months had passed, without a word from her, that voice had faded, but still he’d hoped. And hoped.
    ‘You’ve been leaving messages for me. What can I do for you, Clara?’ He schooled his own voice to easy friendliness. He wouldn’t let her get to him. With his free hand, he scrolled through images on his computer, double-clicked one, and brought up a picture of Lizzie on the terrace at their Provençal villa. She was wearing a polka dot bikini and cats-eye sunglasses, the very image of a 1950s filmgoddess with her glossy black hair tied back with a vintage Pucci scarf she’d treated herself to from New Again.
    ‘Can’t an old friend ring you up for a chat, darling? Just to touch base? There’s no need to sound so suspicious, Jonathan.’ His faux friendly tone clearly hadn’t fooled Clara. He could almost see the pout that he’d once thought so adorable, and it irked him. As did her calling him ‘Jonathan’, as she’d done in the old days. In New York, he’d specifically told her, more than once, that he always went by ‘John’ now.
    ‘Forgive me, Clara … It’s late here …’ Of course, she’d know the precise time. ‘And I’m just back from a trip and I’m slightly jet-lagged.’ He grimaced at the little lie. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded a bit curt.’
    There was a pause. Clara was the mistress of keeping a man on tenterhooks. ‘Business, darling? You work far too hard, Jonathan. It was wonderful to see you in New York, but you did look weary. Surely you have people you can delegate to?’
    ‘No, it was a holiday, actually. A week or so in the south of France, staying at a villa belonging to some friends. It was a welcome break … I have been working hard.’ He flipped through to another photo. This one a selfie, on timer, of Lizzie and himself together, in the evening. Not always comfortable in front of the camera, he looked a bit tense, but Lizzie was doing rabbit ears above his head, and despite the situation he now found himself in, he smiled. Happy days … they’d done at least as much laughing as fucking.
    ‘Ah … France … Sounds divine. I wish I’d known. I could have flown over to keep you company. We could have caught up … had some fun.’
    So blatant! Her breath-taking gall sideswiped him. Didshe not remember that she’d dumped him? Not once, but twice? It was his turn to pause, flailing around for his biofeedback … but then abandoning it, and focusing hard on Lizzie’s happy grin in the image.
    ‘I wasn’t alone, Clara. I’m with someone now. I told you in New York, don’t you remember?’
    Yes, someone who won’t dump me just when I need her most. Someone decent, who’ll stand by me, unless I behave like a total shit and end up driving her away.
    ‘Oh … I see … I rather thought that was just one of