Surrender to Her Spanish Husband by Maggie Cox

you , she’d said. He could drive himself mad with regret and pain because she’d never say she loved and trusted him again. And it wasn’t easy for Rodrigo to leave Jenny to cry. He’d sensed the hurt she normally held in strict check had just catapulted to the surface and spilled over. Every heaving sob was like a knife slicing through his heart, and it disturbed him to discover that he could be so affected by this woman’s tears.
    Why had it not been that way before? The more she had cried, the more he had been furious with what he saw as typically female behaviour employed to manipulate his emotions. He sat in the rattan chair and dropped his head in his hands. Listening to Jenny’s distress was nothing less than pure torture.
    A few moments later, the sound of her crying ceased. Resisting the strongest urge to knock on the door and ask if she felt better, he heard the relieved groan she released as she settled herself back into the hot water. About five minutes later, lost in his own thoughts, Rodrigo jolted when he heard her call out his name. He was at the door in a second.
    ‘What is it? Are you okay?’
    ‘Can you—can you come in?’
    Surprised, he didn’t hesitate. Such a picture she made, lying there amidst the fragrant pink bubbles, her big blue eyes staring back at him like a crestfallen child’s, that Rodrigo’s heart slammed hard against his ribs.
    ‘Do you want me to scrub your back?’ he joked, although the idea of sliding his hands over that gleaming wet satin skin was definitely no cause for amusement. Even as he stood looking down at her his body throbbed with equal measures of pleasure and pain.
    ‘Could you help me wash my hair?’ Jenny asked softly, her expression clearly nervous in case he should refuse.
    ‘Of course…Where is your shampoo?’
    ‘Here.’ She handed him a tube-shaped bottle.
    Dropping to his knees behind her, Rodrigo breathed her in, stealing a vital couple of moments to contain the lava-flow of desire that rocked through him and stay clear-headed enough to do the job in hand. But every sense he had was already saturated with her essence, even before he touched her.
    Applying some shampoo to her already dampened hair, he could hardly attest to breathing as he began to move his palms slowly over her scalp. Nobody had ever told him that washing a woman’s hair could be so immensely satisfying and erotic. Over one satinysmooth shoulder he glimpsed the delicate swell of her breast, disappearing provocatively down into a sea of pink foam.
    ‘Rodrigo?’
    ‘Yes?’ His voice sounded as if it scraped over gravel, he was so aroused.
    ‘I’m sorry I acted like such an idiot just now. Perhaps we can call a truce?’
    ‘I’m not at war with you, Jenny. I never was.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Jenny turned her head to glance at him, and he painfully observed the tiny collection of moisture bubbles clinging to the delicate furrow above her top lip. He yearned to lick away every one.
    ‘I’ve never thought of you as my enemy…that’s all.’
    ‘So you want us to be friends? Is that what you’re saying?’
    ‘ Dios! I know you are ill, but I don’t want you to delude yourself that it’s friendship I’m interested in! Pass me that jug so I can rinse your hair, would you?’ He clicked his fingers, scarcely able to contain his impatience and—it had to be admitted—his annoyance. Suddenly he was in no mood for playing games. Not when it was all but killing him to wash her hair.
    ‘Are you mad at me for asking you to do this?’ When Rodrigo had finished rinsing, Jenny hurriedly scraped her fingers through her damp shoulder-length locks to move them out of her face, her gaze anxiously tracking him as he stood up and moved round the tub to survey her.
    ‘No. I’m not mad at you at all. But don’t fool yourself that all I want to do is take care of you while you’re ill. Trust me…I’m not as selfless or gallant as you may imagine. Neither am I made of