“That,” he said in a measured tone, “is for me to decide.”
“Really? Well, I have nothing to say to you—now or ever.” Her chair scraped the parquet floor as she rose abruptly.
“But, Georgiana,” the Condessa murmured, “surely you can spare Juan a few moments?” She frowned. “After all, he is your host.”
Grudgingly Georgiana realised she was not going to be let off the hook. A blush reached her cheeks. “Very well,” she muttered in a tight voice. “But I have to be at the university in an hour.”
“That is not a problem. I will drop you off there myself.”
“But Jacobo is waiting. He—”
“I have already dismissed him.” Juan’s tone was autocratic. It was obvious he wouldn’t take no for an answer. “If you will be so kind?” He opened the door and ushered her out.
Georgiana walked across the hall. She felt like a young queen going to her execution. What could Juan possibly want to say that could not be said in public? Surely he must realise that the less time they spent in each other’s company the better it would be for both of them.
Or perhaps that was where she’d got it wrong.
All at once Georgiana stopped and spun round, eyes narrowed. Was it possible that for him she’d just been an amusement? That he’d found it titillating to be the first man to touch her intimately, to bring her to orgasm? A raw, angry rage stirred and she marched into the study fuming.
“How dare you?” she spat as soon as the door was closed. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” he asked haughtily.
“Call me in here as if—as if—”
“As if nothing had happened between us?” he asked, leaning lazily on the back of the couch, watching as her breasts heaved with restrained anger. God, she was so tempting, so desirable.
Quenching the immediate desire that surged the instant he set eyes on her, Juan looked her over.
“I hear you are going to be a bridesmaid at my wedding.”
“By no choice of mine,” she hissed, turning her back on him and staring out of the window.
“Georgiana, I wanted to talk to you to see if we could come to some reasonable arrangement.”
She whirled round. “What did you say?”
“A reasonable arrangement. Perhaps we could contrive matters so that—”
Stepping forward, she raised her right arm in anguished fury.
Juan caught her wrist as her fingers were about to make contact with his cheek. He stood above her, eyes blazing. “What exactly did you think I was offering?” he bit out, flashing eyes locked with hers.
“I know what you want,” she whispered angrily. “What men like you think you’re entitled to. You want Leticia as your wife and me as your mistress.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Yes. I also think you’re despicable.”
“Really? Let’s make sure about that, shall we?”
In one swift movement he had her locked in his arms. Georgiana struggled for all she was worth. But once Juan’s lips found hers that familiar tingle of heat coursed through her, and her body melted once more, and her anger fizzled out. All she could do was succumb to his will, revel in the hardness of his taut frame against hers.
Her body refused to obey her mind. She could not resist his talented tongue flicking oh, so cleverly, the touch of his fingers grazing her breast through the thin cotton of her T-shirt and bra, the feel of him against her.
She let out a gasp when Juan pressed closer, felt his hardness grinding into her pelvis, the rush of molten desire flow between her thighs. Head thrown back, Georgiana felt Juan’s lips kissing her throat, descending ever further until he reached her taut nipple. Before she could stop him he’d cupped her breast, slipped up her T-shirt and bra. Now his lips, his teeth and his taunting tongue were causing havoc.
“Don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t.” But he ignored her, and, just as before, lowered her to the couch, where he plundered, unable to resist the bewitching feel of her nipples rising to his command. The desire to assuage the delicious ache that he knew was mounting between her thighs was too much to ignore.
Georgiana arched, her eyes closed. It was unbelievably magical. Nothing she had ever known could compare to the ecstasy she was experiencing. Then he moved his lips further, undid her jeans and lowered them. As she felt his tongue discovering her in ways she had not imagined existed, Georgiana stifled a cry of sheer delight. Then, still flicking his tongue on her, he brought her careering to the edge, and held his breath as she plunged headlong into a dizzy, ecstatic haze that left her limp and exhausted.
“Georgiana,” Juan whispered, holding her close and brushing the strands of golden hair from her face. “My beautiful linda Georgiana.”
All at once his words sank home and she pulled away, righting her clothes and sitting up, horrified that she’d allowed him to have his way once again—and in broad daylight. What was the matter with her? Surely she knew he was only trifling with her?
“Juan, leave me alone,” she said hoarsely. “This is dreadful. It’s sordid and degrading.”
“You didn’t appear to feel that way a few minutes ago,” he pointed out, rising and straightening his clothes.
“You’re right.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I should never have allowed you to do what you did. After all, it’s always the woman’s fault, isn’t it?”
The ironic twist of her lips took him by surprise, and he stepped forward, horrified. Not only was he taking shameless advantage of this girl, but he was also deforming her view of life, of men.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said in a low, tense voice, his hands clenched as he paced the room.
“Don’t worry—you haven’t,” she threw, trying to sound nonchalant as she passed her fingers through her hair and rose. “But I think even you will agree that after this it is better I go. How can I possibly be a bridesmaid to Leticia after this? The whole notion is horrible.”
“You cannot leave the house.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
“Frankly, Juan, at this stage what you want or don’t want doesn’t enter the equation. We must do whatever it takes to stop this absurd set of circumstances. Or do you expect me to go on having secret trysts with you while your aunt drinks tea in the dining room?” she threw bitterly, making him realise once again how very badly he’d behaved.
“I will stay away,” he said stiffly.
“You said that once before.”
“This time I mean it. You will not be compromised by my presence again.” With a small bow he turned on his heel and left the study, leaving Georgiana standing alone in the middle of the room seething, not knowing whether to be happy or sad.
Furious, she picked up her books from the hall and left for class. She must end this now.
On arrival in the Faculdad de Filosofia y Letras, where her course was taking place, Georgiana walked absently up the wide staircase to her classroom.
“Hey!” a voice called from above. She looked up to see Sven, a Swedish student to whom she’d talked several times during breaks. “Hi, there,” he called, waiting for her to climb the rest of the steps.
“Hello.”
“So, where have you been? We wanted to invite you to go away with us this weekend.”
“Oh? Who’s ‘us’?” she asked, smiling. Sven was a tall and handsome young man whom all the girls on the course found devastatingly attractive. The first week she had too. Until a tall dark Spaniard had walked into her life, eclipsing every other man within miles.
“Well,” Sven replied, in Scandinavian-accented English, “there’s Tina, Albert from Holland, Anya from Finland, me, and two other guys from Canada you haven’t met yet.”
“Where were you planning to go?”
“We thought it would be fun to go down to Andalusia. We can rent a mini-van.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Georgiana replied thoughtfully a
s they reached her classroom. “In fact it would be lovely. Thanks for remembering me, Sven. Of course I’ll join you.”
Satisfied that a few days in Andalusia would help her forget all that had happened between her and Juan, Georgiana entered the classroom determined to master Spanish grammar and not allow one thought of the man to cross her brain.
But that, she found, was easier said than done.
“But why should we advance the date of our wedding?” Leticia asked, as they sat at the bar in their favourite tasca on the corner of Don Ramon de la Cruz and Goya, working their way through several tapas, consisting of calamares fritos—fried squid—tortilla and chorizo.
“Letti, it doesn’t matter why,” Juan exclaimed, exasperated at her resistance to the idea. “It’ll make things much easier. It means we can go skiing on our honeymoon. We agreed that a month in the sun would drive both of us crazy with only each other for company, remember?” He took a sip of wine.
“Really? I said that?”
“Well, not in so many words,” Juan remonstrated. “But I distinctly remember the conversation.”
“We’re certainly a romantic pair, aren’t we?” she said with a sigh, looking down into her glass thoughtfully.
“Letti, what’s the matter? Neither of us ever pretended this was a love match. But you know how fond of you I am.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly.
“I know. I’m very fond of you too,” she said, looking up, her eyes awash with sincerity. “It’s just that—”
“Look, Letti, if you’ve any regrets, for goodness’ sake say so.”
She hesitated. “No, I don’t have any regrets.” She shook her head, looked up at him and smiled brightly. “When do you want the wedding to be held?”
“I don’t suppose we could do it quietly somewhere?”
“You mean disappear and get married? I wish,” she replied longingly. “But the thought of having to bear my mother’s recriminations for the next few years is a bit off-putting.”
“Yes. You have a point,” he agreed, and they both fell silent and sipped their wine.
“You see, for her, planning this wedding is the highlight of her life. I mean you’re a duke, Juan. My parents think that is marvellous. After all, my father’s a mere marquis,” she said, laughing. “We’re going up a notch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your family and title date back a lot further than mine.”
“I was just joking. But it is a big deal in their world.”
“And that’s not your world?” he asked, quizzing her.
“Of course it is. It’s just that with my work I’ve been exposed to so many experiences, so many other stratas of society. I’m conscious of problems and situations that people like my mother don’t even know exist. Or only peripherally.”
“Letti, you’re a highly intelligent human being. You don’t think I’d want to stand in the way of your work, do you?”
“Of course not, Juan. But the truth is,” she said regretfully, “I may have to consider giving much of it up.”
“Why? I’d never ask that of you.”
“I know. But, you see, being married to you is going to be a job in itself.” She sighed, toyed with a piece of chorizo, then popped it in her mouth.
“That’s your mother speaking, isn’t it?” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Yes. But in actual fact she’s right. You’re going to need a hostess to entertain—someone who can be next to you when you need her. Not a woman rushing off to advise at university sit-ins and student gatherings. I even took part in a protest the other day. Can’t you just see the headlines? ‘The Duquesa de la Caniza marches’ et cetera, et cetera…No, Juan.” She shook her head and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid I have to make a choice.”
“And you don’t want to make it any sooner than necessary, sí? Is that it?” he asked quietly, playing with the bracelet on her right wrist.
She nodded reluctantly.
“I see.” He withdrew his hand and pricked at a piece of omelette with a toothpick. “Then we’ll just stick to our original plan, querida. How about some lunch?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS wonderful to drive out of the city.
Sitting in the back of the mini-van between Greg the Canadian and Lucy, a pretty Australian brunette, who’d decided to join them at the last minute, Georgiana stared out of the window at the flat brown countryside rolling on and on into the distance. It reminded her of Don Quixote of La Mancha and his windmills—of which, she noted as they headed south, there were a few.
The other students were in good form. Everyone was happy to be spending a long weekend away, glad to discover more of this fascinating country.
After a while Georgiana fell asleep. But her dreams were fraught with images of Juan, of his magical hands coursing over her body, awakening her senses.
All at once the mini-van jolted to a stop.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, wake up!” Sven gave Georgiana an affectionate shake and she smiled sleepily. She followed the others and entered a roadside tasca. Outside the low whitewashed building, bottles of wine hung in straw canisters. Inside the dark beamed tasca, they headed to the bar. In the corner several men sat drinking wine and beer, their eyes glued to a large television set showing a soccer game. There were occasional shouts of enthusiasm and loud exchanges when the favourite team pushed ahead.
Georgiana sat next to Sven at the bar and ordered vino con gaseosa—a delicious combination of red wine and fizzy clear lemonade that she’d grown to like—from the portly barman poised proudly beneath an impressive array of Serrano hams hanging from the ceiling beams. They ordered some, and he sharpened a lethal-looking knife, then sliced the ham with artistic expertise.
“I’m so glad you came,” Sven said, pulling his bar stool closer to hers. “I hadn’t seen you for a couple of days. Everything okay? You look a bit tired. You’ve lost weight,” he added observantly.
“Fine. Just had a bit of a cold, that’s all.”
“Going south will do you good,” he said, his handsome broad smile lighting up his good-looking features. “Some time you must come and visit Sweden. It’s also a beautiful country.”
“I’m sure.” How could she tell Sven that Sweden was the last thing on her mind right now? Rather, she was wondering desperately where Juan was and what he was doing. Suddenly Andalusia seemed a long way away, and she sighed.
The kids were all laughing and joking and having fun. The last thing she wanted was to be a party-pooper. But somehow it seemed dreadfully juvenile. Had she become so blasé that she couldn’t appreciate her peers any longer? Damn Juan and the windows he’d opened! She was darned if she’d allow him to monopolise her existence. She’d come on this trip because of him, hadn’t she? And Sven was a sweetie. Just the kind of boy she should be going out with.
Making a superhuman effort, Georgiana concentrated on her surroundings and told herself to jolly well forget the Duque de la Caniza and enjoy herself.
That was what she’d come for, wasn’t it?
As he strolled through the orange groves of his finca near Seville, where he’d come to attend to some pending business, Juan found it hard to get two things out of his mind. The first was Georgiana, whom he’d vowed never to touch again. The second was his conversation with Leticia, which had left him in a sober frame of mind.
When he’d thought of their marriage he’d only ever considered what it would be like for him: a convenient way of sorting out a problem. Now, for the first time, he was struck by what Leticia might be forced to give up. Another woman might not have considered it a sacrifice, would have considered becoming a duchess sufficient compensation for anything she might be leaving behind. But not Leticia. She loved her work, believed in the causes she espoused, and was the bulwark of the group of activist lawyers who often took risks and put their names on the line to speak up for what they believed in.
Snapping his fingers at the two pointers snuffling at his heels, Juan walked further into the grove. H
e loved this family home. The beautiful seventeenth-century farmhouse that had been in his mother’s family for generations was so different from his paternal family seat in Navarra, the rugged mountainous region near the French border from where his ancestors hailed. This house reminded him of his mother, of his childhood, of hot summers riding wonderful horses, some of which he still kept down at the stables.
His mother had loved the place, and had spent her declining years here. He’d only returned briefly since her death last year, but now he felt the need for solitude, for the peace the place afforded him. It was the one spot he could truly think.
It was late afternoon when he walked back to the house, dogs in tow, and entered the cool flagstoned hall. The furnishings in the farm were of dark jacaranda—Spanish antiques as old as the house. His mother had made considerable improvements to the place, but essentially it had remained the same for several generations. Realising that the staff all had the day off to attend a fiesta in the local village, Juan decided to shower, then head to town for a bite to eat.
Half an hour later, hair damp and sleek from his shower, he donned a pair of old jeans and a white shirt, and looped a navy sweater over his shoulders. Soon his Ferrari was racing down the beaten-earth road, through the orange groves, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Then he got on the highway and headed towards Seville.
He was five miles out of town when all of a sudden his eye caught a group of young people entering a mini-van outside a roadside restaurant. He did a double take and nearly crashed as he slammed on the brakes. Was he seeing straight? Surely that could not be Georgiana climbing into the van, helped by a tall, handsome, blond Viking?
Staying in the slow lane, Juan allowed the mini-van to overtake him. A flash of Georgiana’s lovely face in one of the rear windows of the van confirmed his doubts.
Juan let out an oath, then carefully trailed the mini-van into the centre of Seville, circling behind it as it sought a parking spot in the busy city centre, his temper frayed. What the hell was she doing here? His aunt hadn’t mentioned her going on any trip when they’d last spoken. But then he hadn’t mentioned Georgiana to his aunt either.
At the Spanish Duke's Command Page 5
