Todos os capítulos de Being Yours : Capítulo 211 - Capítulo 220

For one gut-wrenching moment Matt thought that the woman walking toward him was Adriana. Same dark curls and olive skin, same compact figure, same ridiculously high heels tapping across the airport concourse. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was standing beside him while she anxiously scanned the crowd gathered around the arrivals gate.He scowled. He really must get a grip. Close up she was nothing like Adriana. The curls were softer and shot with chestnut streaks, and her skin was honey-colored with a tiny smattering of freckles across her nose. What was the matter with him that he thought every small, dark-haired woman was his wife? Why, this one wasn’t even dressed like Adriana. Instead of high gloss and sparkle, she was wearing varying shades of beige. The slouchy trousers and T-shirt, as well as the thin sweater tied around her shoulders, were obviously aimed at travel comfort rather than elegance. Only the shoes, copper- colored sandals with a four-inch heel,

Much later, replete after a meal of fish served with a green salsa, tiny baked potatoes, and a tomato salad, Alex sipped the last of her wine and listened to Rufino and Cristina reminiscing about a touring holiday they had once had in England.“We ended up in the Yorkshire Dales,” remembered Rufino.Cristina nodded. “Yes, and the scenery was beautiful—all soft curves lit by pale sunshine and shadow—and so many sheep! Even the food was good most of the time,” she added in her attractively accented English. “It wasn’t at all what we expected. We had heard so many bad things about England and its weather.”“You were just lucky.” Matt held his empty wineglass out for a refill. “Usually it’s gray and wet, or cold and wet, or windy and wet, or just wet. Why do you think I've settled over here? What’s to choose between wet and continuous sunshine?”“That is such an exaggeration!” Alex protested as Rufino topped up her gla^s. “We have loads of good weather. Think of all the poets who’ve writt

Alex arrived at Miguel & Anderson’s office at eight thirty the following morning after an evening spent settling into her new home. She had refused Cristina’s offer of an evening meal but had agreed to meet up again later in the week.After unpacking her clothes and putting the food she had bought at the market into the kitchen cupboards, she had made herself a coffee and taken it onto her balcony to enjoy the last of the evening sun. When it turned into a spectacular sunset that bathed the roofs below her in pink and gold, she congratulated herself anew on her good fortune and decided that she would make the most of this unexpected chance to stay in such a beautiful, sunny place. She would use it to provide the energy she needed to restart her social life. She would forget people like Rory and his friends, who had all sucked her dry. Any liaisons she enjoyed in Tenerife would be casual and fun and conducted solely on her terms, while she concentrated on making a success of the Alcasz

Alex woke in the early hours of the morning, uncomfortably aware of the throbbing in her ankle. For the briefest moment she wondered where she was, but then everything came flooding back to her as she reached out and switched on the bedside light. Seeing pills and water on the table, she realized that Matt must have come into the room while she was asleep, and she was filled with embarrassment at the thought of such an intimate action. Somehow her plan to work hard and play hard while keeping all emotional involvement at bay seemed to be falling about her ears before it had even begun.With a sigh she swallowed the painkillers and, recognizing that she was unlikely to fall asleep again very quickly, used her one good arm to plump up the pillows behind her head. She looked around the room. All the furniture was carved pine, and the sprigged and ruffled curtains and bedcovers reflected the cream and blue bathroom, as did the square rug on the pale, tiled floor. It was a pretty room with

On the sixth day of Alex’s forced incarceration, Conchita arrived as usual, except that this time she was hidden behind an enormous bouquet of flowers. A surprised Alex took it from her, wondering, for one heart-stopping moment, if it was from Matt. She had tried not to mind the fact that he hadn’t once telephoned to see how she was. Common sense told her that he was busy and that, anyway, Conchita would keep him up to date with her progress, so she was surprised at how disappointed she felt when she saw that the flowers were from Francesco Pascual. The writing on the accompanying card was black and bold and full of flattery as well as good wishes for a speedy recovery. He had printed his phone number under a flamboyant signature.“He came to the office to invite you to lunch,” Conchita explained with a twinkle in her eye. “So naturally I was forced to tell him about your injuries, and within two hours he had delivered this to your desk with strict instructions that it should be conve