The Spaniard's Pleasure: The Spaniard's Pregnancy Proposal / At the Spaniard's Convenience / Taken: the Spaniard's Virgin

‘You can wheel out as many clichés as you like, it’ll still need more than a sticking plaster.’

‘You really think it’ll need stitching…?’

‘I’m not a doctor, but, yes, I think so.’

‘Right.’

‘Is that a right you’ll stop being obstructive? Or a reference to my lack of medical credentials?’

Mutely Fleur nodded. ‘I’ll go…I’m not very…’ her eyes slid from his ‘…not terribly…I don’t like hospitals much.’

He looked at her keenly but only shrugged and said, ‘Who does?’

At that moment the housekeeper returned carrying a box, which Fleur presumed held the items he had requested.

She grimaced as she saw the gaping wound and said sympathetically, ‘Oh, my, that does look painful.’

‘Not really.’

‘Very stiff upper lip,’ Antonio interrupted. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Saunders, I’ll do it. Could you ask John to bring the Mercedes around to the front? We’ll go straight off to the hospital.’

With a smile in Fleur’s direction the woman excused herself.

‘I’d prefer you let your housekeeper do this,’ Fleur said as she watched him extract a dressing pad and some tape from the box.

‘Don’t worry, I can cope with a dry dressing. I’ll be gentle,’ he promised when she remained silent.

It wasn’t his level of competence she was concerned about, and what really worried her most was the suspicion he knew that.

Antonio was actually as proficient as he had claimed. In a matter of moments he had covered the area with a clean dry dressing and secured it with tape.

‘Fine, that’s done,’ he said, leaning back on his heels and surveying his handwork.

It was actually a bit of an anticlimax. She barely even needed to call on the breathing technique she had been taught in her yoga class.

‘Thanks,’ she said, getting to her feet. As she pulled up her wet jeans he walked over to the wardrobe.

‘Try this,’ he suggested, pulling something off a hanger and tossing it to her.

Fleur automatically caught it. It was a cotton tee shirt. A pair of trousers landed at her feet a moment later.

‘My sister’s. You can’t stay in those wet things.’

Only too aware of the wet fabric chafing her skin, Fleur could not disagree.

However, she made no attempt to pick them up—just stood there.

‘I can’t find any underclothes, I’m afraid.’ His narrowed eyes moved in a casual assessing sweep over her slim body. ‘And I doubt if Sophia’s would fit you anyway.’

Fleur’s response to his scrutiny was anything but casual. She felt a compulsion to cover herself with her hands, but instead she lifted her chin and stared at him with what she hoped passed for cool defiance.

It was Antonio who finally broke the nerve-shredding silence.

‘I suppose you expect me to turn my back…?’ he observed, sounding amused.

‘No, I expect you to leave the room,’ she retorted, trying to inject as much dignity into her words as a person who looked like a drowned rat could.

She didn’t expect him to comply with her edict. When he did she felt weak with relief.

The moment he was out of the room she began to tear off what remained of her sodden clothes. The possibility of him walking in when she was practically naked made her perform the task with feverish speed.

Fleur had just pulled the loose-fitting trousers, which were several inches too long, over her hips when she happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length cheval-mirror. She stopped dead, one hand still holding her hair back from her face, the other anchoring the waistband of the trousers, and let out an anguished groan of horror.

The fine silky tee shirt had been intended for a woman with a lot less up top than she had. It clung in a positively indecent way to her unfettered breasts.

‘Oh, my, I look like a…’ Fleur never got to voice the un-complimentary comment.

‘I was wondering what was underneath the layers…now I know.’

Antonio had used his time outside the room to ring the hospital. The doctor he had spoken to had been reassuring—to quote him, ‘She was a very lucky girl; she’ll be fine.’ It was Antonio who felt he was lucky; he had been given a second chance.

Filled with a new sense of purpose and buoyed by the news that Tamara was in no danger, he’d actually been able to feel the tension leave his spine as he had walked back into the room.

But one look at Fleur and he no longer felt relaxed or anything even closely related.

Fleur spun around so fast the unconsidered action sent a stab of pain shooting up her injured leg.

Wincing, she bent forward, her hand pressed to her mouth.

‘You little idiot!’

‘Thanks for the sympathy vote,’ she snapped as she straightened up.

‘Are you all right?’

She pushed the damp strands of hair from her eyes and found he wasn’t looking at her leg, but her breasts. Her lips tightened and she brought up her crossed hands in a protective gesture, hating the fact she had no more control over the hot colour that flooded her cheeks than she did her quivering stomach muscles.

‘Do you mind?’

His heavy-lidded eyes lifted, the predatory glitter in his cerulean eyes cancelling out his amused smile. For a moment they stood, their eyes meshed.

Then without a word he walked across to a chest. After opening several drawers he pulled out a cream cashmere cardigan. ‘Try this,’ he suggested.

Fleur, her eyes lowered, took it, and hoped the fact she had taken the utmost care not to let her fingertips graze his was not too obvious. By the time she had fought her way awkwardly into it her heart rate, if not normal, at least allowed her to breathe fairly normally.

If she had been given the option of jumping into an icy lake for the second time that day or getting into a car—an enclosed space—with this man there was no contest. She would opt for the lake every single time!

Only she wasn’t being offered that option, so the best she could hope for was that she didn’t make it too obvious that her hormones were totally out of control around him.