The Spaniard's Woman

by Diana Hamilton

  Butterflies were rampaging around, in Rosie’s stomach and she couldn’t get her lungs to work properly. She’d tried to stop gawping at him but how could she when he was so gorgeous?

  The sharp grey business suit he was wearing did nothing to disguise the raw power of his magnificent physique and, try as she might, she couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he kissed her.

  She’d probably go into a terminal swoon, she thought in dire agitation and managed, finally, to give him the answer he was waiting for. ‘No. I knocked off ages ago. I was looking for something to read,’ she mumbled, uncomfortably aware that her face was bright scarlet. Lying to him made her feel horrible, but what choice did she have? She could hardly tell him the truth.

  And she’d have to explain away the photograph she was holding. Bend the truth again. And the way those sultry, smoky eyes were pinned on her wasn’t helping any. She felt as if she were drowning in wicked sensation. Her throat strangely tight, she croaked out, I was clumsy, I knocked that off the shelf—’ she gestured jerkily to the album on the floor ‘—and photographs fell out.’

  ‘No damage done.’

  Sebastian’s dark brows met. Dio mio—why was she so nervous?

  She looked like a puppy waiting to be beaten for some minor misdemeanour! Was she accustomed to being chastised for the slightest accident? A powerful surge of anger tightened the muscles of his shoulders. He’d like to meet the brute who had done that to her!

  Madre di Dio! —her soft, full mouth was trembling now! He made a conscious effort to stop frowning—it was obviously giving her the jitters—relax his shoulders and approach her slowly.

  ‘May I?’

  Sebastian plucked the photograph from Rosie’s suddenly nerveless fingers and his gentle, velvety tone made a wave of startling heat wash right through her. Her breath coming in short stabs, she tried to come to terms with the weird effect he had on her. It was a new phenomenon as far as she was concerned and one she could well do without, she decided grittily, as she felt her breasts lift beneath their thin cotton covering and crossed her arms over them to hide the embarrassing evidence.

  His lips curved as he glanced at the image he held in his long fingers. ‘This brings back memories—my aunt Lucia giving me my first riding lesson.’

  Silvery eyes met hers, inviting her to share, and, desperately afraid that he would guess that she was helplessly attracted to him and laugh his socks off, she obliged and stared at the picture of the lovely young woman, the fat pony and the grinning little boy.

  He would have been about six or seven, she thought moonily, then made herself snap out of it and tried to sound borderline intelligent as she hazarded, ‘Your aunt was Sir Marcus’s wife?’

  ‘She was.’ A flicker of sadness darkened those sultry eyes as he bent and slotted the loose photographs back in the album.

  ‘Lucia was a truly beautiful person, both inside and out. But unlucky. Shortly after that snapshot was taken she was diagnosed with MS. It progressed rapidly. The unfairness of it used to make me angry. Still does, whenever I think about what her life became.’

  Watching him replace the album in its original position, Rosie felt decidedly queasy. He would be absolutely furious if he ever discovered that his godfather and present business partner had betrayed the aunt he had so clearly idolised and that she, the humble cleaning lady, was the unfortunate by-product of that long ago affair!

  She lowered her eyes in humiliation. She knew she ought to scrub her plans for making herself known to her father before any real damage was done, and yet part of her stubbornly yearned to find out if Sir Marcus really had loved her mother, to discover whether she could trust him or if she should despise him. She couldn’t help wanting to be accepted, to have someone she could call family.

  ‘You OK?’ Sebastian swept her drooping figure with narrowing eyes. He held out the book she had obviously selected, leaving it leaning against the lower shelf when she’d dislodged the album. British Military Swords seemed a strange choice for such a scrap of a kid. ‘You’re very pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled, mortified, clutching the book to her heaving breasts, hoping against hope that he hadn’t noted the title and marvelled at her supposed choice of reading matter and wouldn’t start to ask awkward questions, like how long had she been interested in the subject.

  She looked far from ‘fine’, Sebastian decided. And she wasn’t a scrap of a kid, either. She was twenty years old today, he remembered, and said warmly, ‘Happy birthday, Rosie.’

  The commonplace salutation evoked a response way out of proportion to its significance. But it had been worth it to see those drowning sapphire eyes dance as they met his, and her sudden radiant smile was so lovely it took his breath away.

  ‘How did you know? No one else does.’ It was the first birthday greeting she’d had all day, and coming from him it was very special, making up for the fact that she’d not had a card from Jean, who had never—ever since she’d been little and shopping at the mini-market with her mother and Jean had told her to choose from the exciting selection of sweets on offer—forgotten to mark the day.

  ‘Madge happened to mention it,’ Sebastian offered gruffly, his veiled eyes lingering on the flush of wild rose colour that deepened the clear deep blue of her fantastic eyes. In his experience, such genuine pleasure was a rarity in the female of the species. It would take more than a birthday greeting to get a reaction like that from the female sophisticates who moved in his circle—would take something in the order of a suite of diamond jewellery or a new car!

  He felt strangely humble and not a little proprietorial as he commanded a touch thickly, ‘Share a bottle of wine with me to mark the occasion.’

  Now where had that come from? He was as surprised as Rosie looked. After the twenty-four hours of aggravation and frustration he’d just had, he’d wanted nothing more than a simple meal and the chance to relax.

  Her soft mouth had dropped open. She had to clamp it shut and clear her throat before she could say a single thing. She stared at his knock-‘em-dead features, the taut bones beneath the smooth bronzed skin and gulped shakily, ‘No, thanks. There’s no need, honestly.’

  The invitation had been the very last thing she’d expected and she knew he’d only asked because he felt sorry for her, the birthday girl with no party to go to.

  He probably gave to every beggar he came across and rescued stray cats and dogs—and, as far as she was concerned, spending time with him, drinking wine with him, would be disastrous. She’d only go and give herself away and he’d end up knowing what up to now he couldn’t even suspect—that she fancied him rotten!

  If he’d wanted a let-out he’d been handed one on a plate. But, perversely, he wasn’t going to take it. All traces of tiredness had fled. Obviously her birthday had gone unnoticed, Sebastian thought with a stab of annoyance. Remedying that would be his good deed for the day, he decided, finding he rather like the idea.

  ‘You’d be doing me a favour, Rosie. The last twenty-four hours have been hectic. I want to unwind over a glass of wine and I don’t care to drink alone.’

  That had got her, he thought on a surge of satisfaction as he saw her brilliant eyes widen with sympathy, her delicate brows peak. Find the weak spot and go for it was a rule that worked well both in business and personal relationships. He knew little about Rosie Lambert, but his gut instincts told him she had a soft, sympathetic nature and would always answer a cry for help.

  He pressed home his advantage. ‘Please?’

  That dark drawl, the honeyed Spanish accent, sent quivers of something fiery racing down her spine, making her gasp. She met the smoky sultriness of those black-fringed eyes and her mouth ran dry. At least his invitation hadn’t sprung from pity, he was asking a favour, and that gave her the confidence to push out croakily, ‘OK, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Gracias.’

  His smile made her head spin, and when he put a casual arm around her shoulders and led her
from the room it was all she could do to stay upright. The touch of his hand through the thin fabric of her T-shirt scorched her skin right through to the bone and the heat of her body’s instinctive and immediate response curled and tightened low down in her pelvis.

  Get a grip! she snarled silently at herself as she sternly resisted the pressing temptation to sag against him, lay her head against that wide chest, slip a hand beneath that beautifully tailored jacket and feel the warmth of his body beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt.

  So, OK, Sebastian Garcia was lethally attractive, and without even trying he could make things happen to her body that had never happened before, but he wouldn’t look twice at the likes of her, she reasoned as he disappeared to fetch the promised wine after guiding her to one of the squashy sofas in front of the glowing hall fire.

  She sat gingerly in one corner and tucked the book under a cushion out of sight. She’d have to replace it in the morning.

  Bedtime reading—as if! He must think she was pretty strange!

  Dismissing it from her mind, she tried to relax. She’d drink one small glass of wine, toss a few aimless remarks in his direction and keep her eyes firmly fixed on anything other than him.

  Looking at all that masculine perfection would be her downfall.

  She would never survive the humiliation if he guessed she was hopelessly attracted to him.

  He was taking much longer than she’d expected and with every minute Rosie got more uptight. Had he got sidetracked, forgotten all about her? Unlike him, she was easy to forget, she thought on a sickening surge of shame. She felt a real fool, sitting here like a lemon, and was about to slink off to bed when he re-entered the hall.

  Her heart jumped and she forgot to breathe as he put two glasses and an opened wine bottle on a side table, then turned to her. In the dim light his smoky eyes mesmerised her. She could drown in those silvery depths, she thought helplessly, forgetting her earlier clear-headed decision not to look at him if at all possible.

  Trouble was, her head was a total muddle when he was around.

  He took something from the tray and walked towards her with the indolent grace that made her toes curl in her scuffed old plimsolls.

  ‘For you.’ Bending slightly from the waist, one of his hands uncurled her bunched together fist while the other deposited a single, perfect white camellia, slightly tinged with pale lemon colour at the ruffled centre, in the palm of her small hand.

  A corner of his mouth curled wryly. ‘I stole it from Marcus’s greenhouse—though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Not much of a birthday gift, ciertamente, but perhaps it will make you smile?’

  Sebastian straightened abruptly. Madre di Dio! She would think he was shooting a line! The impulse that had sent him to cut that bloom now seemed ridiculous.

  Until he had what he’d unconsciously known he’d been missing.

  That smile. And then he knew that the impulse hadn’t been ridiculous at all.

  Her eyes were on the blossom she held cupped in the curve of her hands, thick sweeping lashes hiding her expression, her silky blonde hair falling forward, a stray tendril kissing the petal-soft skin of her cheek. And then it began. A slight trembling of those luscious lips, an upward curve and then that radiant, brilliant smile her fathomless eyes winging towards his, deepest purest blue sparkling with dancing lights.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ she breathed, and then, propelled by something far stronger than his formidable will, he bent towards her again, dipped his dark head, and kissed her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rosie’s enticing lips were even softer and sweeter than he could have imagined they would be in his wildest dreams. Cool and still for that first split second—a challenge to his male ego.

  Then warm, warmer, exploding into an earth-shattering response.

  As Sebastian’s body leapt with a charge of forceful passion he felt an answering deep shudder of pleasure pulse through her slight frame and he placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her, or himself—he wasn’t sure which—as a wave of atavistic male lust gripped and tightened every muscle in his own body.

  As her lips parted, welcoming his entry, his kiss deepened and his mindless hands slid down to find her breasts. And Dio mio! they were so very beautiful. Small, pertly rounded, peaking nipples, blatantly aroused—perfect—

  Her husky mew of drowning pleasure finally penetrated the red mist of lust that had fogged his brain. He went still, turned to stone as her sweet mouth clung, her small hands rising, fingers tangling in his hair, inviting, tormenting.

  He dragged in a harsh breath. What in the name of all that was sacred did he think he was doing?

  With a ragged inner groan for his own crass stupidity, he jerked upright, away from her, away from a deeper temptation than he had ever known, struggling to regain some semblance of his shattered self-control.

  His heart crashing around against his ribs, he staunchly ignored the sudden, bewildered, lost look in her wide eyes, and turned away to hide the evidence of his aching sex.

  ‘Wine,’ he said, his voice roughened and raw. Dio! It had been a near disaster. A few more seconds and he’d have been making wild love to her right there on the sofa, and she would have been a pushover. Little Rosie Lambert deserved better than that!

  His hand shook as he poured wine into two glasses. For the first time in his life he despised himself. It was a vile sensation! He’d been without a woman for so long he was turning into an animal!

  Alcohol wasn’t the best idea in the world, not in his inflamed state. But if he removed himself from her presence, as common sense dictated he should, she would know that what had happened back there had affected him catastrophically.

  He had to act as though that kiss hadn’t meant a thing to either of them. He wouldn’t even apologise and suggest it was best forgotten. Just act as though it had been neither here nor there.

  Transmit the message that it had been just one of those things, not worth a mention.

  Rosie was in shock. Her body was threatening to go up in flames. Sensations she hadn’t known existed were bombarding her so that she didn’t know whether she was on her head or her heels.

  Why had he kissed her?

  Why had he stopped?

  Didn’t he know that she hadn’t wanted him to stop?

  That kiss had been magic, heaven and excitingly scary all rolled into one and she’d wanted it to happen ever since she’d first clapped eyes on him! Didn’t he know that?

  Of course he did, the cool voice of rapidly returning sanity tartly informed her. He’d only meant to give her a brotherly birthday peck.

  Because he’d been sorry for her?

  And what had she done? Practically eaten him alive, begging for something he would never want to give! Then, to make matters even worse, his hands had sort of slipped down off her shoulders and come into contact with breasts that were still straining avidly against her top.

  And while she’d gone all delirious, and so much out of her head she would have done anything he wanted her to do, he had jumped away just as if he’d had a very nasty shock and she’d never felt so humiliated and ridiculous in the whole of her life!

  A solitary tear slipped down the side of her face and dripped on to the mangled petals of the camellia she’d scrunched up in an excess of sexual excitement. She scrubbed her damp cheek with the back of her hand and tried to smooth out the tattered blossom. She would probably press it and keep it for ever; she was daft enough, she thought despairingly.

  Sebastian had turned. He held two glasses of wine. He looked as cool as a cucumber, she noted numbly. She couldn’t bear it if he joked about her shameless behaviour or looked wary, as if he thought she was slightly insane and might jump on him and start tearing his clothes off!

  But his gorgeous features were bland—just a small polite smile playing around the sexy mouth that had so recently played havoc with every last one of her senses. He handed her a glass and took his own to the other end of the sofa and angled
himself into the corner, his endless legs outstretched, casually crossed at the ankles, as far away from her as he could get without looking as if he were trying to avoid contact.

  ‘You could have invited family or friends over this evening to help you celebrate your birthday, Rosie,’ he remarked carefully, hoping his voice didn’t give his dark thoughts away, give her the least intimation that he burned to kiss her again, run his hands through that tangled silky hair, explore every delicious inch of her lovely body, possess her.

  He shifted uncomfortably, trying to blank the ache of sex from his mind and body, and said as levelly as he could manage, ‘You’re entitled to have visitors at any time when you’re not working; I hope you know that. Neither Madge nor I would want you to feel imprisoned while you’re working here.’

  Relief shuddered through Rosie. Thank heavens he wasn’t going to mention her awful behaviour. He was back in kind-employer mode and she couldn’t regret that, not if she wanted to have some pride left.

  So she cleared her throat and floundered for the cool part she knew she was expected to play. ‘Thank you. But I don’t have anyone to invite.’ And could have bitten her tongue out when she saw his dark brows peak in what looked embarrassingly like sympathy. She had only been telling the truth, but how humiliating if he thought she was angling for his pity!

  For something to do—something that didn’t involve scurrying up to her room to hide her head under the pillow—she took a healthy gulp of the wine in her glass. It wasn’t the cheap stuff, like the bottles she and Mum had shared on their birthdays because they couldn’t afford anything halfway decent. It slipped down her throat like the softest of dark velvet.

  Sebastian expelled his breath slowly. ‘No one? Forgive me—Madge mentioned that you’d recently lost your mother—but what about your father, brothers, sisters?’

  Skirting around the touchy subject of her father, Rosie said, ‘No siblings. There was only ever Mum and me.’ And took another long swallow of wine to disguise the sudden wobbling of her mouth.