Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction

by The Spaniard's Seduction (lit)

  'Dios mio,' he muttered against her lips. 'Te deseo.' And although Cassandra's grasp of his language was limited at best, she was fairly sure he was saying he wanted her.

  Which was madness. Yet, when his tongue probed her lips before plunging deeply into her mouth, she met it with her own, allowing them to mate in a sensuous dance of desire. She was drunk with passion, seduced with longing, lost in the dizzying whirl of the senses.

  Enrique's hand cupped the back of her head, angling her mouth to make it easier for him to kiss her. Easier for him to go on delivering those long, drugging kisses that had ignited the flame inside her. He was oblivious of his surroundings, holding her against him with an urgency that suffered no re­jection, pressing his hips against hers so that she quickly learned how aroused he was.

  She knew her shirt had come free of her trousers when Enrique's hand gripped the bare skin of her midriff. Sliding up beneath the hem of the shirt, his thumb massaged the soft skin beneath her breast. She wound her arms about his neck in mindless surrender. She wished he would touch her breasts; she wanted him to hold them; and for the first time in her life she understood the advantages of not wearing a bra.

  She didn't know which of them heard the sound of footsteps first. She thought perhaps that she did. Certainly, she was in­stantly aware of the sudden chill in the air that had previously been swelteringly hot. But it was Enrique who lifted his head; Enrique whose whole body stiffened in sudden recognition.

  Enrique who drew a hoarse breath and somehow managed to regain the initiative by putting her behind him.

  'Mama!'

  Cassandra understood that word without any difficulty at all. His mother! Her knees felt as if they were about to buckle beneath her. That his mother should find them in such a com­promising situation was bad enough. What she would think of her for allowing it to happen didn't bear thinking about.

  'Enrique.' The voice that answered him was at best shocked, at worst blatantly hostile. 'Que peso? Estas loco?'

  Cassandra stiffened. So, his mother thought he was mad, did she? Well, that was scarcely surprising in the circum­stances. She must have been mad, too, to let him touch her.

  'Speak English, Mama.' Enrique's response was amazingly cool considering that only moments before he had been mak­ing violent love to her. All the same, Cassandra wondered how he was going to explain his actions. In fact, he didn't. 'I did not expect you to arrive so early.'

  'Obviously not.' Señora de Montoya's rejoinder was like chipped ice. 'You had far more—pressing matters to attend to, I see.'

  'Do not be sarcastic, Mama. It does not suit you.' Enrique glanced behind him. 'Allow me to introduce you to your daughter-in-law.'

  'I think not.'

  The contempt in the woman's voice was galling, but Cassandra could hardly blame her. It had been what she was thinking herself, after all. She pulled down her tee shirt and ran smoothing hands over the strands of silky hair escaping from her ponytail. Her swollen mouth would be impossible to disguise, she thought, so perhaps it was just as well.

  'You will have to meet her sooner or later,' Enrique was saying calmly, but his mother seemed indifferent to the fact that there was a third person present.

  'You expect me to speak to her after this—this fiasco?' she exclaimed incredulously. 'Dios, Enrique, I cannot believe you are acting this way. After all these years, I am expected to forget what happened to Antonio?' She gave a gasp. 'Never!'

  'You are overreacting. Mama.' Enrique was polite, but in­flexible. 'As you say, it is ten years since Antonio's death. Life goes on.'

  'And what is that supposed to mean?' His mother was ob­viously taken aback at this apparent defence of his brother's widow. 'Am I to understand that you are attracted to her'.' That you are infatuated with her as Antonio was before you? Dios, Enrique, I thought you had more sense.'

  Now Cassandra had heard enough. She refused to hide be­hind Enrique as if she was afraid of meeting Antonio's mother. She surely deserved the chance to defend herself. Stepping round her unwanted protector, she confronted the irate little woman across the courtyard.

  'Believe me, Señora de Montoya,' she said, annoyed to hear the tremor in her voice, 'I did not choose to be here.' She cast Enrique an accusing look before continuing, ‘And nor did I instigate what happened just now. Your son—accosted me as I was looking for David. If you want to blame anyone, blame him.'

  Elena de Montoya absorbed this outburst in silence, study­ing the other woman with critical eyes so that Cassandra was instantly aware of her own shortcomings. In a short-sleeved silk dress in a becoming shade of blue, Elena made up for in presence what she lacked in stature. She was no more than live feel one or two inches tall, but her coronet of sleek black hair and high heels gave her added height. In addition, a dou­ble string of what Cassandra guessed were real pearls encircled her throat, and her watch and rings sparkled with jewels. Her appearance would not have disgraced a royal investiture, thought Cassandra wryly, guessing the older woman had dressed this way deliberately Girded for battle, she reflected, feeling inadequate in her cut-off trousers and cotton top. If only she'd known that Enrique's mother was coming today.

  But Elena apparently had no intention of indulging in any verbal sparring with her. 'David?' she said instead, turning back to her son. That is the boy's name, is it not? Antonio's son? Where is he?'

  'He is watching Juan examine the calves,' replied Enrique at once, without looking at Cassandra, and she realised with a sense of outrage that his mother was not going to demand any further explanation from him. Whatever she said, what­ever she did, Cassandra was the one Elena blamed; Cassandra, who would feel the chill of her displeasure. Cassandra could only hope that David would forgive her if ever the truth of this encounter was exposed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  'IS that agreeable to you, Enrique?'

  Miguel de Guzman pointedly cleared his throat after asking the question and Enrique, who had been staring unseeingly through the long windows of the boardroom, turned uncom­prehending eyes on the three other men who were gathered at one end of the long polished table.

  'I—beg your pardon?'

  'I asked if you were willing to allow Viejo to experiment with the vines he brought back from Italy,' explained Miguel patiently. 'Naturally, his experiments would not interfere with current production but, as we all know, without experimenta­tion many of our finer blends would not have been discov­ered. '

  'That is true,' echoed one of his fellow directors, and Enrique inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  The famous story of how a wine-maker in the mid-nineteenth century accidentally shipped a barrel of the crystal-clear wine his uncle favoured to England, instead of the dark sweet wine that had been ordered, was the stuff of legend. The wine, subsequently called Tio Pepe, in honour of Manuel Gonzales's uncle, was now one of the top-selling wines in the world, and vintners were constantly experimenting with unique combinations of soil and grape and climate, as well as ageing methods, in the hope of discovering some new favour­ite.

  'I am sure you are right,' Enrique said now, but he had little interest in their concerns today. He had a headache; had had a headache for the past three days, actually. And although he knew he owed it to his father to give his full attention to the business, it was difficult to concentrate when he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since David's letter had arrived. It had been a stressful week, and ever since his mother's arrival at Tuarega things had gone from bad to worse. The whole household had been left in no doubt as to her feelings and although she had returned to Seville now, Enrique knew it was a temporary reprieve at best.

  'Are you all right?'

  Miguel de Guzman was looking at him with some concern and Enrique guessed a little of the strain he was feeling must be showing in his face. But, dammit, he had reason to be stressed. His mother had found him kissing the woman he'd sworn he despised more than anyone else on earth.

  Yet, when he'd been kissing her, he hadn't despised he
r. When he'd held her in his arms, when he'd pressed her slim lissom body against his, he'd wanted nothing so much as to— admit it!—bury himself in her soft flesh. He'd wanted, he couldn't deny it, to make love with her, and if his mother hadn't come upon them as she had...

  He raked his scalp with agitated fingers. That was what had made his contact with his mother so awkward. Elena de Montoya had been angry at first. He'd known that. But she'd soon recovered and she'd done her best since then to make it easy for him to put the blame elsewhere. She'd wanted him to blame Cassandra. She'd wanted him to say that the woman he had to remember was Antonio's widow had invited his attentions, had encouraged him to take advantage of her so that she could use it against them later.

  But he hadn't been able to do it. Which was why he and his mother had tailed to have any meaningful conversation while she was here. Cassandra had been foremost in both their minds; Cassandra had stood between them.

  Not so with David, however. Although the boy had been somewhat in awe of his Spanish grandmother, he had shown a touching desire to get to know her. Enrique knew that the boy's behaviour left a lot to be desired as far as his mother was concerned: he was far too outspoken for one thing and he didn't behave towards his elders with the respect that Enrique and his brother had had drilled into them from an early age. But although Señora de Montoya had had mixed feelings about the whole situation, she had had to accept that David was her grandson and that her son had had no choice but to tell her about it.

  In the end, Enrique had taken the letter to Seville and shown it to his mother. It had seemed the simplest, and possibly the kindest, way to break the news to her. And, although she'd initially expressed doubts about David's parentage, those doubts had ceased, as Enrique's had, as soon as she'd laid eyes on the boy. It was up to her now when, and how, she would tell Enrique's father. Until then, Enrique could only wait and hope that learning he had a grandson would prove a stimulant to Julio's recovery.

  Which didn't make his situation any easier, he acknowl­edged, pulling the file under discussion towards him. It was hard enough to concentrate on everyday things like sleeping and eating at regular times without having to take on the re­sponsibility of making decisions that might affect the future of the estate. All he could think about was that Cassandra was back in his life; Cassandra was at the palacio. And that, how­ever eagerly she'd appeared to respond to his lovemaking, her feelings towards him were as hostile as ever.

  'I—would prefer we put off taking a vote on this until my father is capable of participating in the discussions,' he said now, aware that he was disappointing them but unable to do anything about it. How could he pass judgement on something so important when he wasn't willing to look beyond the next few days?

  The men took his decision resignedly. They weren't pre­pared to argue with Julio de Montoya's chosen successor, and, with a few polite expressions of goodwill for his father's re­covery, they left the boardroom.

  Enrique rose at their departure and went to stand at the window. Gazing out at the sweep of the Bay of Cadiz, visible from the elevated heights of the de Montoya building, he mas­saged the back of his neck with a weary hand. He had handled that well, he thought ironically. Julio would be furious if he knew how ineffectual his contribution had been. His father was depending on him to keep De Montoya y Hijo on course in his absence, but Enrique wondered if he wouldn't have been wiser to appoint Miguel de Guzman as his deputy instead of himself.

  He scowled, balling a fist and pressing it against the carved wooden shutters that were folded back against the wall beside the windows. What was wrong with him, for God's sake? Why couldn't he stop thinking about Cassandra and concentrate on the fact that in less than a week his father would be home from the hospital? His mother had said that Julio's doctor was delighted with his progress and that, although he was sixty, Julio apparently had the constitution of a much younger man. It was his father's health that was important, he told himself now, not his own maudlin desire for a woman who had been out of reach as long as he'd known her...

  Enrique had been introduced to the woman his brother in­tended to marry just two weeks before the wedding was due to take place.

  He had flown to England on his father's orders to do what­ever was necessary to stop the marriage. But, although Julio had told him to warn Antonio that he'd cut him off without a peseta if he went ahead with his plans. Enrique had known that that was a sure-fire way of achieving the exact opposite of what he wanted. Like himself, Antonio had been stubborn, and just quixotic enough to announce that his father could do his worst. And mean it.

  In consequence, Enrique had devised a different strategy. He'd had no choke but to admit that his father had sent him, but he'd pretended he was on their side that he was in favour of the marriage.

  It had been pathetically easy to delude Antonio, he remem­bered, with a pang. His brother had been so open-hearted, so innocent. So sure that what he was doing was right that he hadn't suspected that Enrique might have a different agenda from his own,

  In the beginning, Cassandra had been suspicious of him. Perhaps she'd realised even then that he was not to be trusted, though she'd managed to hide her feelings from Antonio.

  And, after a few days, even she'd seemed inclined to accept him at face value. After all, he'd been the only member of her future husband's family apparently willing to come to the wed­ding, and she must have been able to see how delighted Antonio was that he was there.

  Antonio had spent much of his time at the university, Enrique remembered. He had been working for his finals. With a degree in art history, he would have had no difficulty in getting a job with or without his father's approval, but it had meant that Enrique and Cassandra had spent a lot of time alone together. Her job at the local library had been much more flexible, and Antonio had insisted that she should get to know his brother.

  Looking back now, Enrique knew a reluctance to re-examine his feelings at that time. When had he determined that the only way to stop the marriage had been to seduce her himself? When had he finally decided that his brother was making a mistake and it was up to him to prove it?

  God, how arrogant he had been! Of course, he'd been con­vinced that she was only marrying Antonio because of what she expected to get out of it. Antonio's declaration that it had been love at first sight had sounded far too convenient, and he'd been sure that if Cassandra thought he was attracted to her, too, she'd instantly see the advantages of marrying the elder son. He was his father's heir, after all. Not Antonio.

  He blew out a breath. Had he really thought it would be that simple? All right, he had only been twenty-four, and life had still been painted in colours of black and white, but he found it hard now to credit his belief in his own infallibility.

  Nevertheless, he had sensed that Cassandra was aware of him. No matter how she'd tried to hide it, he'd seen the way she'd looked at him, the way she'd listened intently to every­thing he'd said. She'd thought she was just being friendly, but Enrique had recognised the signs. Unfortunately, she hadn't until it was much too late to save herself.

  And he hadn't been totally indifferent to her, he remem­bered grimly. She had been—she was—a beautiful woman, and, with short skirts and bare legs, she had been much different form the constrained Catholic girls he'd known back home. In Spain, even today, young women of good families did not go about so freely. They were guarded and protected until they had a ring on their finger.

  Perhaps that was what had attracted Antonio to her, too, although his brother had always been drawn to tall slim women with long legs and high breasts. Even without the curly mass of red-gold hair that tumbled about her shoulders, she'd been stunning, and Enrique had to concede that he wouldn't have been human it he hadn't found her stunning as well.

  But it wasn't just her looks that had appealed to him, he acknowledged. In the days they had spent together, it had been her warmth and her personality that had made the task he had set himself so enjoyable. But also so difficult
. She had shown him parts of London he hadn’t known existed, sharing her knowledge generously, making him laugh with the many an­ecdotes she could recite about the famous people who had once lived in the city.

  Perhaps that was when she'd started to lower her guard with him. Enrique reflected. She'd still been wary of him, of course, still unconvinced, perhaps, that both brothers would be pre­pared to defy their father in such a way. She'd known that Julio de Montoya was not in favour of their marriage, and that had made her cautious of trusting his deputy. But, gradually, Enrique had gained her confidence, and, despite himself, he'd been drawn to her unaffected charm.

  So much so that he'd begun to resent the evenings when his brother had joined them, remembered Enrique bitterly. He wasn't proud of it, but he'd resented his brother touching her in ways he himself had wanted to touch her. And when Antonio had put his arms around her and kissed her, Enrique had Celt emotions he didn't even want to identify today...

  Cassandra was sitting in the shade of the balcony outside their apartments when David came to find her.

  She hadn't seen her son since early that morning. Now that his grandmother had gone back to Seville, he'd taken the first opportunity to go and find Juan Martinez. And, although

  Cassandra was always anxious when he was out with the stockman, she'd accepted Carlos Mendoza's word that no harm would come to him at the palacio.

  'He is el patron's heir,' he'd said simply, and Cassandra had wondered if he knew how true that was.

  But of course he didn't. None of them did. David was Antonio's son; Julio de Montoya's grandson. That was enough.

  She and Carlos had struck up an unlikely friendship. Enrique's major-domo had done his best to make her feel at home at the palacio, and it was he who had taken her to the small chapel in the grounds and shown her where her husband was buried. Antonio had joined his ancestors in the stone sepulcro that bore his family's name, and Cassandra had stood for several minutes, feeling the peace that enveloped the place stealing about her.