The Spaniard's Defiant Virgin

He gave her an amused smile, but his dark eyes glittered with anger and something more—bitterness? “And to think I almost believed your little show of compassion. ‘I care, Marcos’,” he mimicked. “‘You aren’t alone, Marcos’. You really are a Winter through and through—a thief and a liar. I almost believed that you actually hated Aziz.”

“I wasn’t lying about that!” she cried.

“Yes, you hate him so much you can’t wait to throw yourself in his bed. Fresh from mine, presumably. Tell me, does it ever get difficult to keep your lovers straight? Sleeping with multiple men each day must make it hard to keep count. Do you give out tickets, or do men just queue up outside your bedroom door?”

With a gasp, she drew back her hand and slapped him across the face.

CHAPTER THREE

MARCOS touched his stinging cheek. He’d deserved that, he supposed.

But, damn it, she’d played him like a guitar. And he’d fallen for it. Kissing her had been far too intoxicating. He should have expected it after their kiss on the yacht, but he’d told himself that was a one-off. He’d thought he was completely in control where Tamsin Winter was concerned.

He had been wrong.

“You owe me an apology,” she said.

His eyebrows lowered. “I owe you nothing.”

“I’m not the tart you think I am.”

He gave an expressive snort.

She shook her head wearily. “All right, so I dated a lot of men in London. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t under anyone’s control, and I did exactly as I pleased. I didn’t care what it did to my reputation. I stayed out all night, but I never fell in love with any of the men I dated. And I never—”

“Never what?”

She turned away. “Forget it.”

Her face looked so sad, he almost moved closer. He felt drawn to comfort her. And, most of all, to kiss her again.