In The Spaniard's Bed

For a millisecond she thought she glimpsed some unspoken signal pass between the men, then she dismissed it as fanciful.

‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

Tonight’s event was a charity fundraiser aiding state-of-the-art equipment for a special wing of the city’s children’s hospital.

Without doubt there were a number of guests with a genuine interest in the nominated charity. However, the majority viewed the evening as a glitz-and-glamour function at which the women would attempt to outdo each other with designer gowns and expensive jewellery, whilst the men wheeled and dealed beneath the guise of socialising.

Diego del Santo didn’t fit easily into any recognisable category.

Not that she had any interest in pigeon-holing him. In fact, she did her best to pretend he didn’t exist. Something he seemed intent on proving otherwise.

He could have any woman he wanted. And probably did. His photo graced the social pages of numerous newspapers and magazines, inevitably with a stunning female glued to his side.

There was a primitive quality evident. A hint of something dangerous beneath the surface should anyone dare to consider scratching it.

A man who commanded respect and admiration in the boardroom. Possessed of the skill, so it was whispered, and the passion to drive a woman wild in the bedroom.

It was a dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and latent sensuality. Lethal.

Some women would excel at the challenge of taming him, enjoying the ride for however long it lasted. But she wasn’t one of them. Only a fool ventured into the devil’s playground with the hope they wouldn’t get burnt.

Eluding Diego was a game she became adept at playing. If they happened to meet, she offered a polite smile, acknowledged his presence, then moved on.

Yet their social schedule was such, those occasions were many. If she didn’t know better, she could almost swear he was intent on playing a game of his own.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Cassandra ventured. ‘There’s someone I should catch up with.’ A time-worn phrase, trite but true, for there were always a few friends she could greet by way of escape.

Cameron wanted to protest, she could tell, although Diego del Santo merely inclined his head.

Which didn’t help at all, for she could feel those dark eyes watching her as she moved away.

Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and something tugged deep inside in a vivid reminder of the effect he had on her composure.

Get over it, she chided silently as she deliberately sought a cluster of friends and blended seamlessly into their conversation.

Any time soon the doors into the ballroom would open and guests would be encouraged to take their seats at designated tables. Then she could rejoin Cameron, and prepare to enjoy the evening.

‘You had no need to disappear,’ Cameron chastised as she moved to his side.

‘Diego del Santo might be serious eye candy, but he’s not my type.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ She managed a smile, held it, and began threading her way towards their table.

‘Do you know who else is joining us?’ Cassandra queried lightly as she slid into one of four remaining seats, and took time to greet the six guests already seated.

‘Here they are now.’

She registered Cameron’s voice, glanced up from the table…and froze.

Diego del Santo and the socialite and model, Alicia Vandernoot.

No. The silent scream seemed to echo inside her head.

It was bad enough having to acknowledge his presence and converse for a few minutes. To have to share a table with him for the space of an evening was way too much!

Had Cameron organised this? She wanted to rail against him and demand Why? Except there wasn’t the opportunity to do so without drawing unwanted attention.

If Diego chose the chair next to hers, she’d scream!

Of course he did. It was one of the correct dictums of society when it came to seating arrangements. Although she had little doubt he enjoyed the irony.

Cassandra murmured a polite greeting, and her faint smile was a mere facsimile.

This close she was far too aware of him, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes, the subtle aroma of his exclusive cologne.

Yet it was the man himself, his potent masculinity and the sheer primitive force he exuded that played havoc with her senses.

A few hours, she consoled herself silently. All she had to do was sip wine, eat the obligatory three courses set in front of her, and make polite conversation. She could manage that, surely?

Not so easy, Cassandra acknowledged as she displayed intent interest in the charity chairperson’s introduction prior to revealing funding endeavours, results and expectations.

Every nerve in her body was acutely attuned to Diego del Santo, supremely conscious of each move he made.

‘More water?’

He had topped up Alicia’s goblet, and now offered to refill her own.

‘No, thank you.’ Her goblet was part-empty, but she’d be damned if she’d allow him to tend to her.

Did he sense her reaction? Probably. He was too astute not to realise her excruciating politeness indicated she didn’t want anything to do with him.

Uniformed waiters delivered starters with practised efficiency, and she forked the artistically arranged food without appetite.

‘The seafood isn’t to your satisfaction?’

His voice was an accented drawl tinged with amusement, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity, almost inclined to offer a negation just to see what he’d do, aware he’d probably summon the waiter and insist on a replacement.

‘Yes.’

The single affirmative surprised her, and she deliberately widened her eyes. ‘You read minds?’

The edge of his mouth curved, and there was a humorous gleam apparent. ‘It’s one of my talents.’

Cassandra deigned not to comment, and deliberately turned her attention to the contents on her plate, unsure if she heard his faint, husky chuckle or merely imagined it.

He was the most irritating, impossible man she’d ever met. Examining why wasn’t on her agenda. At least that’s what she told herself whenever Diego’s image intruded…on far too many occasions for her peace of mind.