Spaniard's Seduction / Cole's Red-Hot Pursuit: Spaniard's Seduction

Phillip shook his head. “Not until yesterday. After Maria left she never returned.”

“But she tried to contact you.” Rafaelo’s mouth curled. “She came to New Zealand to visit the grave of her great-uncle Fernando, a monk who’d come from a Spanish monastery to follow his faith in Hawkes Bay. He’d died tragically in the earthquake of nineteen thirty-one. My mother was given the journals that he’d kept by a local historical society. She made the mistake of showing them to her lover—” he glared at Phillip “—who stole the methods Fernando had perfected.”

Journals? Caitlyn’s stomach tightened.

Phillip bent his head and stared blankly at the table in front of him. Then he murmured, “I do not have any such journals in my possession.”

Misgivings filled Caitlyn. She was acquainted with the journals that she suspected Rafaelo was ranting about. Three volumes. Bound in black leather. Penned in black ink in a stylish sloping hand. A learned man’s handwriting. Probably a monk’s writing. Possibly Rafaelo’s great-great-uncle’s handwriting.

She opened her mouth. Phillip lifted his head and caught her eye. She closed her mouth.

Right now those volumes lay in her possession. In her bedside drawer to be precise. Her stomach heaved. Why was Phillip obfuscating? Could it be true? Had Phillip Saxon stolen the works from a young, impressionable woman? Was it possible that Phillip had seduced Maria only for the diaries?

Caitlyn didn’t want to think about it. It was too awful. But Phillip’s life’s passion had been his fascination with creating a fortified wine that would win international awards and respect—it was a vision he’d ignited in Caitlyn when she’d started working at Saxon’s Folly as a raw student.

The sound of a snort of disgust roused her from her uneasy reflections.

“If this share that you claim belongs to you is based on the fortune we supposedly make from sherry, then you’re sadly misinformed,” Heath said. “With the increase in taxes on fortified wines, it’s hardly a prize worth pursuing. My father and I have had differences of opinion over his stubborn persistence in continuing down this road before.”

The sick feeling in Caitlyn’s stomach intensified. Along with guilt. Because she’d shared Phillip’s obsessive interest. They’d discussed…dreamed…of buying a tract of land in the Jerez region of Spain, of producing a blend that could be properly labelled and sold as sherry. It would be a winner.

“Or perhaps it’s nothing more than an opportunistic get-rich-quick scheme?” Heath’s voice was filled with derision.

The Spaniard drew himself up, his gaze turning to black ice. “I don’t need a get-rich-quick scheme. I am the Marques de Las Carreras.”

Megan gasped. “The Marques de Las Carreras? Then you spoke about manzanilla sherry at a show in Paris—”

Rafaelo switched his gaze to the youngest Saxon. “Yes, we met briefly.”

“I congratulated you on the silver medals your estate attained for the world-renowned fresh, light manzanilla sherry you produce.”

Rafaelo nodded. “Unfortunately not quite as magnificent as the Saxon’s Folly fino product.”

Joshua was frowning. “So if it’s not a question of money, what do you really want?”

“I want him—” Rafaelo nodded his head toward Phillip without sparing him a glance “—to make good the wrong he did me—and my mother.” He slid off the window seat and dusted off his hands. “I want a proportionate share of Saxon’s Folly—and, as the eldest son, I would expect an additional portion. And I want Fernando’s journals back.”

Four

“Have you no pity?” Caitlyn caught up to Rafaelo as he strode out into the blinding sunlight. She shuddered at the memory of the uproar that had erupted after Rafaelo’s demand. He’d simply looked down his nose and told the Saxons that his lawyers would be in touch. “The Saxons are grieving.”

Rafaelo didn’t answer as she bowled along beside him, her long legs easily keeping up with him.

“If it’s revenge that you’re after, you’re making a massive mistake. The biggest loser will be you.”

He stopped and swivelled around to face her.

“How can I lose?” Thankfully the black void had gone. The fire was back snapping in his eyes. “And what if I do want revenge? After what that bastard did to my mother, I’m entitled to it.”

Caitlyn blinked at the virulence in his tone.

“It’s not about whether you’re entitled to the satisfaction it brings you, Rafaelo,” she said finally. “It’s about whether you can let it go.”

“I’m not listening to this mumbo jumbo. I will have my revenge. I will get my share in Saxon’s Folly—and then I will sell it.”

“Sell it?”

“Yes, sell it.”

Caitlyn stared at him aghast at the utter finality in his voice. This, then, was what he’d come for. And he’d ruthlessly honed in on the Achilles’ heel of the Saxon family. “The Saxons have always kept control of the business. They’ve fought off attempts by conglomerates to buy them out. You can’t do this.”

He gave her an evil smile. “Just watch me.”

His timing was perfect. There had never been a better time to destroy the Saxons. It would take time for the family to regroup after the shock of Roland’s death. Time that they didn’t have…if Rafaelo made good on his threat.

Couldn’t he see what he was doing—what he was destroying?

He couldn’t do this. A sense of calm settled over her. Caitlyn squared her shoulders, her spine stiff and straight and stared him down. “I won’t let you do this.”

His gaze was implacable, revealing no emotion. “I never expected you to say anything else, Ms. Ross. You’re on their side.”

Rafaelo could see that Caitlyn Ross was fighting not to argue with him. Her shoulders rose and fell under the ridiculous oversized sports shirt that served only to emphasise her slender femininity. The slim column of her throat framed by the crisp white collar, her wrists so narrow under the banded cuffs.

He watched in silence as she released her breath in a shaky sigh. So she’d seen the wisdom of refraining from arguing—but the effort to remain mute was costing her dearly.

“Nothing to say?” he raised an eyebrow and suppressed a triumphant smile when she gave him a searing look.

“Plenty,” she said from between tightly gritted teeth, “but I’m trying not to antagonise you.”

Her honesty surprised a shout of laughter from him. “Why hold back? You’ve been forthright until now. Say what you think.”

“But where has it gotten me?” she asked. “All I’ve done is make everything worse. Because of me Kay’s hurting—”

“She would’ve found out.” His mouth slanted. “The appearance of a bastard son is hard to hide.”

“Thanks for that.” But her expression remained tight.

Rafaelo wanted the sparkle back. “Come, heckle me, tell me what you were going to say.”

“You think I’m too outspoken, don’t you?”

“It’s refreshing.” He couldn’t tell her that few people—much less women—argued with him these days. That would sound conceited. It was clear she already considered him an arrogant, entitled bastard.

“Tell me what you wanted to say. Would it have antagonised me? Or did you want something from me?” He added the last with a certain degree of wearied resignation.

Most women wanted something from him—marriage, his title, his wealth. A life of indolent luxury as Marquesa de Las Carreras. Even those who gave up on the wedding ring and settled for a skirmish in his bed, expected to be lavishly showered with jewels and clothes and to be royally entertained during their tenure as his mistress.

When had it all grown so tedious?