In The Spaniard's Bed

Damn Cameron. Damn the whole sorry mess.

‘There’s just one more thing.’

She registered Diego’s silky drawl, recognised the underlying threat, and paused, turning to look at him.

‘Cameron’s homosexuality.’

Two words. Yet they had the power to stop the breath in her throat.

Diego del Santo couldn’t possibly know. No one knew. At least, only Cameron, his partner, and herself.

Anxiety meshed with panic at the thought her father might catch so much as a whisper…

Dear God, no.

Alexander Preston-Villers might find it difficult to accept Cameron had steadily sent Preston-Villers to the financial wall. But he’d never condone or forgive his son’s sexual proclivity.

An appalling sense of anguish permeated her bones, her soul. Who had Diego del Santo employed to discover something she imagined so well-hidden, it was virtually impossible to uncover?

How deep had he dug?

No stone unturned. The axiom echoed and reechoed inside her brain.

It said much of the man standing before her, the lengths he was prepared to go to to achieve his objective.

‘I hate you.’ The words fell from her lips in a voice shaky with anger. She felt cold, so cold she was willing to swear her blood had turned to ice in her veins.

Diego inclined his head, his eyes darkly still as he observed her pale features, the starkness of defeat clearly evident in her expression. ‘At this moment, I believe you do.’

He’d won. They both knew it. There was only one thing she could hope for…his silence.

‘Yes.’ His voice was quiet. ‘You have my word.’

‘For which I should be grateful?’ she queried bitterly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he indicated the chair she’d previously occupied. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

He crossed to the credenza, extracted a glass, filled it with iced water from the bar fridge, then placed the glass in her hand.

Cassandra didn’t want to sit. She preferred to be on her feet, poised for flight.

Diego moved towards his desk and leaned one hip against its edge. ‘Shall we begin again?’

Dear heaven, how did she get through this? With as much dignity as possible, an inner voice prompted.

‘The ball’s in your court.’

Did she have any idea how vulnerable she looked? The slightly haunted quality evident in those stunning blue eyes, the translucence of her skin.

He remembered the taste of her, her fragrance, the soft, tentative response… He’d sought to imprint her with his touch, unclear of his motivation. A desire to shock, to punish? A lesson to be wary of men whose prime need was sex?

Instead, it had been she who’d left a lingering memory, unexpectedly stirring his soul…as well as another pertinent part of his anatomy. A pubescent temptress, unaware of her feminine power, he mused, wondering at the time how she’d react if he took advantage of her youth.

Sixteen-year-old girls were out of bounds. Especially when this particular sixteen-year-old was the cherished daughter of one of the city’s industrial scions. Her brother, the elder by two years, should have known better than to bring her to a party where drinks were spiked and drugs were in plentiful supply. A fact he’d cursorily relayed before bundling brother and sister out of the host’s house, then following in their wake.

Relationships, he’d had a few. Women he’d enjoyed, taking what was so willingly offered without much thought to permanence. As to commitment…there hadn’t been any woman he’d wanted to make his own, exclusively. Happy-ever-after was a fallacy. Undying love, a myth.

For the past year one woman had teased his senses, yet she’d held herself aloof from every attempt he made to date her, and he’d had to content himself with a polite greeting whenever their social paths crossed.

Until now.

‘As soon as our personal arrangement has satisfactorily concluded,’ Diego drawled, ‘I’ll attach my signature to the relevant paperwork and organise for funds to be released.’

Cassandra registered his words, and felt her stomach contract in tangible pain. ‘And when do you envisage our personal arrangement will begin?’

‘Anyone would think you view sex with me as a penance.’

‘Your ego must be enormous if you imagine I could possibly regard it as a pleasure.’

‘Brave words,’ Diego drawled, ‘when you have no knowledge what manner of lover I am.’

The mere thought of that tall, muscular body engaged intimately with hers was enough to send heat spiralling from deep inside.

Instinct warned he was a practised lover, aware of all the pleasure pulses in a woman’s body, and how to coax each and every one of them to vibrant life with the skilled touch of his mouth, his hands.

It was there, in the darkness of his gaze…the sensual confidence of a man well-versed in the desires of women.

A tiny shiver started at the base of her spine, and feathered its way to her nape, settled there, so she had to make a conscious effort to prevent it from appearing visible.

‘Wednesday evening I’m attending a dinner party. I’ll collect you at six-thirty. Pack whatever you need for the night.’

The day after tomorrow?

An hysterical laugh rose and died in her throat. So soon? Oh, God, why not? At least then the first night would be over. One down, one and a weekend to go.

‘The remaining nights?’ Dear heaven, how could she sound so calm?

‘Saturday.’

She felt as if she were dying. ‘And the last?’

‘The following weekend.’ His gaze never left hers. ‘One million dollars will be deposited into the Preston-Villers business account following each of the three occasions you spend with me. Monday week, Preston-Villers’ creditors will be paid off.’

‘A condition, tenuously alluded to in the documentation as “being met to Diego del Santo’s satisfaction”, doesn’t even begin to offer me any protection. What guarantee do I have you won’t declare the offer documented as null and void on the grounds the condition hasn’t been met to your satisfaction?’

‘My word.’

She had to force her voice to remain steady, otherwise it would betray her by shattering into a hundred pieces. ‘Sorry, but that won’t cut it.’