Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction

by The Spaniard's Seduction (lit)

  Meanwhile, Luis was enjoying himself immensely. The meal was over and for the past fifteen minutes he'd been de­scribing the religious festival that took place on his family's estate when the grapes were harvested. Although Enrique felt sure Cassandra couldn't be that interested, she was gazing at Luis as if every word he spoke was of the utmost importance to her, and it infuriated him.

  Enrique's jaw compressed. He knew what she was doing, he thought. As far as she was concerned, Luis was the first person she'd met since she came here who had treated her with any kind of respect. His mother had insulted her, and Sanchia, although she'd been polite, had made no attempt to hide the contempt in her eyes.

  But what had he expected? Enrique asked himself impa­tiently. In Sanchia's eyes, Cassandra was an intruder; an in­terloper. The woman who had stolen her fiancé and who now had the audacity to come here, bringing an heir to the de Montoya estate with her.

  He dragged his eyes away from Cassandra's expressive fea­tures and stared down, grim-faced, into the wine in his glass. Thinking about David wasn't conducive to his mood either.

  In recent days, as he'd recovered from the shock of learning he had a nephew, he'd discovered that his feelings towards the boy were no less ambivalent. As his unwilling awareness of Cassandra had deepened, he'd found himself disliking the fact that David was Antonio's son and not his. He should have been his son, he brooded, and then was ashamed of the thought. But he had to concede that he resented the idea that Cassandra had turned instantly to Antonio for comfort as soon as he'd deserted her.

  Or had she?

  His head jerked up and he stared intently at her lightly flushed profile. The sun had already laid its fingers on her and the touch of colour suited her, but Enrique noticed these things without really being conscious of them. His mind was full of the question he had just posed himself, and, while it might sound very intriguing to probe the hypothesis, did he really want to know?

  'What are you thinking about, querido? Sanchia spoke softly in Spanish, stretching out her hand to cover his where it lay beside his glass. 'I cannot believe you are enjoying this—this evening any more than I am.'

  'You are wrong.' Enrique spoke in English, aware that his words must have been clearly audible to the other couple at the table. His eyes challenged the Spanish woman's. 'But if you are bored...'

  Sanchia's lips lightened and for a moment he thought she had taken umbrage at his insensitivity. He half hoped she had. But, with an obvious effort, she gathered herself and regarded him with seductive eyes. 'How could I be bored when I am with you, querido?' she asked, using English as he had done, but, judging by the way she included Cassandra in her sweep­ing gaze, for different reasons. She squeezed his hand, is there any chance of us spending the rest of the evening alone?'

  Enrique withdrew his hand with careful deliberation. 'Would you have me neglect my other guests?' he asked smoothly, picking up the wine bottle and offering to refill her glass. 'Shall we have another bottle of this? It is rather good.'

  Sanchia covered her glass with her hand, and almost instinctually Enrique was aware that Cassandra's head had turned in their direction. What had she thought Sanchia had been saying when she'd spoken in their own language? he wondered irri­tably. Certainly not what had been said, judging by what had come after. Did she think be and Sanchia were conducting a flirtation at the table? The idea was distasteful to him.

  'Wine?' he asked, his eyes holding Cassandra's even when he knew she wanted to look away, but she shook her head.

  'Not for me, thank you,' she said, the two long strands of silky-soft hair that she'd left to curl in front of her ears shining red-gold in the candlelight. She'd wound the rest of her hair into a precariously secured knot on the top of her head this evening and Enrique had to stifle an almost uncontrollable impulse to tear out the pins and bury his face in its vivid beauty.

  Whether Cassandra had sensed what he was thinking, he didn't know, but something gave her the will to break that revealing eye contact. And Luis's cheerful intervention at that moment was clearly a relief to her.

  'Por favor, Enrique,' he said, pushing his glass towards the other man. Then, to his companion, 'My cousin keeps an ex­cellent cellar, do you not think so?'

  'I don't know very much about wine,' answered Cassandra honestly. 'I didn't even know that Rioja could be white as well as red until I came here.'

  'Miss Scott is not used to drinking wine with every meal, Luis,' said Sanchia, regarding the other woman slightingly. 'The English drink tea, do they not? In great quantities, I be­lieve.'

  'Then you must allow me to take you on a tour of my family's vineyard,' said Luis at once, watching Enrique refill his glass. 'I can teach you all there is to know about wine, Cassandra.'

  'And about other things, too, no doubt,' put in Sanchia in­sidiously. 'But I hardly think Miss Scott will he here long enough to have time to visit La Calida, Luis. Is that not so, Miss Scott?'

  'Her name is de Montoya, declared Enrique harshly, before Luis could answer her, unable to deny the automatic reproof. ‘Cassandra de Montoya. Or Señora de Montoya, if you will. But not Miss Scott. I realise this is not easy for you, Sanchia, but she is Antonio's widow. Entiendes? Do you understand?'

  Sanchia sucked in her breath, but it was Cassandra who saved her from taking offence at his words. 'I'm sure Señora de Romero understands that very well,' she said firmly, al­though she still avoided looking at him. 'And she's right. I'm sorry. Luis, but I don't think I will be able to accept your invitation.’

  ‘There, you see.' Now, Sanchia arched narrow eyebrows at Enrique. 'Even your guest understands that she and her son will be leaving soon.'

  ‘That depends.' said Enrique, refilling his own glass, aware that Cassandra had leaded to the challenge. He was drinking too much, he thought, and the wine was loosening his tongue.

  'That depends?' echoed Sanchia, determined to have her way. 'When your father returns from the hospital, Enrique, he will not want his home to be full of strangers, no?'

  'Hardly strangers. Sanchia.' Enrique didn't know why he was pursuing this. It wasn't as if he cared what she thought. 'Cassandra is my father's daughter-in-law; his nuera. And David is his grandson. They are family.'

  'But strangers, nonetheless,' insisted Sanchia, albeit a little stiffly now. She paused. 'I did not realise you had told your father that—that they are here. When I spoke with your mother, she said that your father was unaware of David's ex­istence.'

  'But she is not,' said Enrique grimly, wondering when Sanchia had spoken to his mother. What had Elena de Montoya told her about their unexpected visitors'.' It infuriated him that his mother might confide her feelings to Sanchia when she'd scarcely spoken a word to Cassandra.

  'In any case,' Sanchia continued quickly, as if she'd sud­denly realised that allying herself with his mother might not have been the wisest choice, 'I am sure discovering he has a grandson may be exactly what your father needs to implement his recovery.'

  Are you? thought Enrique dourly, sure she didn't think any such thing. He scowled. Why was this evening going so badly wrong? Why, when his original intention in inviting Sanchia here had been to prove to himself that he and Cassandra had nothing in common, did he find her so much more appealing than the woman he'd known for half his life? And why was he spending his time defending her when it was towards Sanchia he should feel some remorse?

  'I am sure when Julio meets Cassandra, he will be as en­chanted with her as I am,' Luis inserted gallantly, evidently deciding the conversation was getting too heavy, and, setting down his glass, Enrique pushed back his chair.

  'I think we should all adjourn to the salon for coffee,' he said non-commitally, and then felt another twinge of irritation at Sanchia's smug expression. He crossed to the sideboard where a bell-cord summoned a wailing manservant, 'Is that agreeable to everyone?'

  Cassandra folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. But it was Luis who answered him. ‘It is okay with me, amigo,' he said,
getting to his feet. 'It will give me time to persuade Cassandra that La Calida is only an hour's drive from here.' He smiled down at her. 'What do you say, cara?'

  'I think I should go and check on David,' she responded, lifting her head, looking at him, not at Enrique. 'If you'll ex­cuse me...'

  'Pero—'

  'I will come with you,' said Enrique, pre-empting any offer Luis might have made to accompany her, earning an annoyed look from both his other guests. The arrival of a dark-coated retainer prevented any argument, however, and he ordered cof­fee to be served in the Salon de Alcazar. Then, before Cassandra could think of any objection, ‘Make yourselves comfortable. We will not be long.'

  'There's no need for anyone to come with me,' declared Cassandra shortly, as he followed her towards the door, and he heard the tremor in her voice she was trying hard to dis­guise. She looked up at him now and there were tears of outrage as well as anger in her eyes. 'Really, I would prefer to go alone.’

  'And lose your way back?' he suggested in a low voice that only she could hear, and she pressed her hands together as if to the quell the urge to scratch his eyes out.

  'I'm not completely stupid,' she said, her lips tight. She looked at the other woman, who was watching them with hard resentful eyes. 'If I don't see you again, Señora de Romero, it's been a—singular pleasure.'

  Sanchia was taken aback. Enrique guessed she'd thought Cassandra was too intimidated by her surroundings to notice her veiled hostility, but she'd been wrong. They'd all been wrong about Cassandra, he admitted wryly. Including himself.

  But he had the advantage in that this was his father's house and as his guest Cassandra could hardly order him not to go with her. Nevertheless, she set a brisk pace along the corridor that linked the family apartments with the other areas of the house and he was forced to quicken his step to keep up with her.

  He didn't know how she walked as fast as she did in the high-heeled sandals she was wearing this evening; high heeled sandals that drew his attention to the slim ankles appearing below the hem of her long skirt. Her stride gave tantalising glimpses of the pale thighs exposed as her long steps parted the wrap-around folds.

  He'd wished earlier that she'd worn a shorter skirt until he'd seen the way Luis was looking at her. Sanchia was wearing a short chiffon gown that displayed her silk-covered thighs to advantage, but the sequinned vest Cassandra had teamed with the ankle-length skirt was revealing enough. He'd found he objected to the other man ogling her narrow shoulders and slim arms, and he'd known a quite uncharacteristic desire to behave as his ancestors might have done and shut her away from any male eyes but his own.

  Which was not something he wanted to think about at this moment. He tried to convince himself that his only motive in offering to accompany her was, as he'd said, to ensure that she found her way back. But now that they were alone together all he could think about was his own intense attraction to her. His hand went out almost involuntarily to fasten around her upper arm.

  'Slow down!'

  'I don't want to slow down.' Cassandra glanced scornfully at him. 'If you don't like the way I'm walking, why don't you do us both a favour and stop embarrassing me?'

  'Embarrassing you?' Enrique exerted himself and brought her to a halt. 'How am I embarrassing you?'

  'By behaving as if I'm not capable of finding my own way about the palacio.' Cassandra looked pointedly at his hand gripping her arm. 'I found my way here, didn't I? You have no right to do this.’

  'In my culture, escorting a guest to her room is not consid­ered to be embarrassing her,' retorted Enrique stiffly.

  'Well, in mine, forcing your company on someone else is considered harassment,' replied Cassandra tersely. 'T wish you would leave me alone.'

  Enrique didn't know how to answer that. She had every right to resent his actions and he would find it very hard to explain to himself why he was persisting with this. Far better to let her go and return to the others, to Sanchia, who would welcome him back with open arms. Why was he pursuing Cassandra when he'd already stirred up a storm by kissing her in the courtyard the morning his mother had arrived at the palacio? What did he want from her, for God's sake? Why didn't he just put the past behind him and let her go?

  The truth was, he didn't want to let her go. And he was finding it far too easy to delude himself that she felt the same. If David was his son... But that way lay madness. David was Antonio's child. She'd told him so herself.

  Or had she?

  He looked down at her flesh beneath his hand and knew a surge of emotion. He liked holding her; he liked the warmth the connection was generating throughout the rest of his body. He liked the sense that she was his prisoner, though that was not a thought he wanted to pursue. But he liked the contrast between his dark tan and her much paler skin, the notion that, like the warp and weft of the tapestries behind him, they be­longed together.

  Trying not to look at the too-tempting beauty of her mouth, he said, 'I thought you might be glad of my company.' He spread a hand to encompass the long corridor with its high vaulted ceiling and sombre portraits of his ancestors. 'The Galera de los Inocentes can feel intimidating at night. I used to feel ghostly eyes watching me when I was a child.'

  'But I'm not a child.’ Cassandra glanced indifferently about her and he realised she had been too incensed by his behaviour to notice her surroundings. Now she acknowledged his words with a careless shrug of her shoulders. 'I'd say these paintings are more likely to haunt you than me. I've done nothing to arouse their—disapproval.'

  ‘And I have?’

  Her words provoked him. He was attempting to convince her that his motives were genuine, and all she was doing was trying to pick a tight.

  'Haven't you?' she countered now, her voice low and scorn­ful. 'Why don't you go back to your guests, Enrique? What­ever you say, Señora de Romero obviously considers she has some prior claim to your affections and I wouldn't like her to suspect that there was anything between us. Except contempt, of course.'

  'Maldita sea! Damn you!’ The words were wrung from him in spite of himself. It was hardly a surprise to learn that she had noticed Sanchia's proprietary attitude towards him but he resented the indifference she displayed. 'There is nothing be­tween Sanchia and myself. Nothing!'

  'If you say so.'

  Patently she didn't believe him, and Enrique's patience grew close to breaking point. In the name of God, he thought, didn't she realise he had feelings? That when he was with her, he couldn't think about anyone else, let alone admit to a pre­vious liaison?

  ‘It's the truth,' he said, grasping her shoulder with his free hand and forcing her to face him. 'Bien, perhaps we did turn to one another in the past, but it did not mean anything to either of us.'

  'Like when you slept with me? That didn't mean anything to you either, did it?' she asked through suddenly tight lips, and he groaned aloud at the chasm he'd inadvertently dug for himself.

  'Not like that, no.'

  'Are you sure?'

  Her eyes were glistening in the muted illumination from a dozen shaded wall-lights and for a moment he thought she was exulting in her victory. But then he realised that the shim­mering between her burnished lashes was caused by tears and with an exclamation of remorse he gathered her into his arms.

  'Querida ma,' he breathed unsteadily against her lips. Then, capturing her mouth with his, he pushed his tongue greedily into the moist yielding cavern that opened up for him. 'Te deseo—I want you,’ he found himself confessing as he had said once before. 'Tocame, carina! Touch me! Dejame— Let me—'

  He sensed she wanted to resist him. The tears were now spilling down her cheeks. But although her hands came to grip his wrists, as if she would push him away from her, her lips told a different story. When he drew back to take a breath, she made a protesting little sound and sought his mouth again, twining her tongue with his and pressing her slim frame against him.

  Enrique swayed back against the wall behind him. uncaring of the chill tha
t shivered his spine. He took her with him, his hands sliding possessively from her shoulders to her hips, ca­ressing the inch of skin that hared her navel. He didn't care that she must be able to feel the hard thrust of his arousal. As he rubbed himself against her he was speculating on the very real possibility that he might have to have her here, in the galeria, with all the disapproving faces of his ancestors look­ing down at them. He'd never felt such desire for any woman except Cassandra, and the knowledge that she had been his brother's wife was like a knife that tore him apart.

  His mouth captured hers again and he sucked on her lips, drawing a moan of intense pleasure from deep inside him. She ought to have been his, he thought frustratedly, as the ache between his legs grew ever more insistent. She was his; he wanted her. And if his penance was that he should have rec­ognised that fact sooner, then he was more than ready to pay the price.

  His mouth moved from hers, along the silken curve of her cheek and jawline to the scented hollow of her throat. He said the strap of the sequinned vest aside to taste the luscious skin of her neck, knowing as he did so that he wanted to bite her, to devour her, to make her his woman, his beloved, his amante...

  'Enrique,' she whispered weakly, but it was hardly a protest. Even when he parted her skirt with his thigh and slipped his fingers into the soft folds, she didn't object. Beneath the hem of her lacy panties, which were all she was wearing under the skirt, a pulse beat against his fingers. Damp curls guarded die quivering core of her womanhood, and when he pressed be­tween, he found her wet and ready for him. 'My God, Enrique,' she gulped. 'What are you doing to me?'

  'I think you know what you are doing to me, querida' he countered breathlessly, his lungs labouring for air as his fin­gertips probed the slick honeycomb of muscles he'd found. He couldn't prevent a groan of satisfaction. 'Dios, Cassandra, I should never have let you marry Antonio. You were mine before you were his. David should have been my son. Mine! How could I have been such a fool as to let you go?'

  He heard her catch her breath, felt the sudden shudder dial rippled over her body and for a moment he thought it was a response to his stroking fingers. But then, with an agonised cry, she tore herself away from him,