The Spaniard's Woman

by Diana Hamilton

  He had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. When he’d got over the shock of what she’d claimed he’d had to admit that Rosie was no devious, manipulative, greedy bitch. He’d been the target of that particular breed enough times to recognise one when he saw one.

  He pulled in a harsh breath and said in a raw undertone, ‘No matter how misguided your belief that Marcus is your father, I’m sure your reasons for it are genuine but mistaken.’ He stiffened his shoulders, his proud head high. ‘But for my part, Rosie, please understand that I have known Marcus all of my life. I know him to be an honourable man who loved his wife. And if—and it’s a big if—if he did play away from home and got some woman pregnant, he wouldn’t have shied away from his responsibilities. I just can’t believe that of him.’

  ‘Some woman’!

  That was her mother he was talking about!

  And if that was supposed to be an apology for accusing her of being up to no good, he could forget it! She was trembling with outrage. The emotional anger she thought she’d walked out of her system flooding right back, she watched him open the envelope with a sense of bitter triumph. If he could talk himself out of that little lot then he’d missed his vocation. He should have been a politician!

  Shooting her a searching look as his fingers closed around something wrapped in tissue paper, Sebastian sighed. He hadn’t got through to her. She looked as if she hated him. He couldn’t, in all conscience, blame her. He had gone off at half-cock, by virtue of his cynical view of most of womankind, not stopping to think until after the damage had been well and truly done. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for that.

  As he revealed the pendant in all its harsh, glittering beauty, Rosie saw his face whiten. He glanced from it to her, his dark brows lowered. ‘How did you get this?’

  It was easily recognisable. A family piece. He had never seen the jewel but there had been a portrait of his aunt, as a young and vibrantly beautiful bride, hanging in the main sitting room at Troone Manor. She’d been wearing the pendant.

  Years later, shortly before his aunt’s death, he’d remarked on the portrait’s disappearance. Marcus had told him resignedly, ‘Lucia asked me to take it down. She can’t bear the reminder of how she was, and how she is now.’

  Swallowing the flip retort that she must have stolen it, mustn’t she? Rosie answered his question levelly.

  ‘Marcus gave it to my mother. He wanted her to have it. Just before she died she gave it to me. I didn’t want it then and I don’t want it now. I was going to return it when I finally got to meet him. You can do it for me.’

  No answer to that, just a bleakly unreadable look before he extracted the sheet of paper. As his eyes narrowed, scanning the strong slanting script, Rosie explained without the slightest trace of emotion in her clear voice. ‘Mum never named my father, but after she died I found that. I knew his identity then.’

  Written on Troone Manor headed paper it started, My darling Molly, and ended, I love you always, Marcus. And, in between, the details of a forthcoming assignation. A two-nights booking at a small coastal hotel with the information that, We won’t be known there, it’s right off the beaten track, we can be together, my angel, and treasure every precious moment.

  When he finally looked at her his mouth was grim. With extreme care he refolded the letter and slotted it and the jewel back into the envelope. Pinning her with his cold eyes, he ordered, ‘Get changed. We leave for the airport in less than an hour.’

  Pompous, autocratic louse! ‘No,’ Rosie shot back at him with a definite crack in her voice now. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going with you!’

  Did he really expect her to after what he’d accused her of? So, OK, he had made a roundabout apology, and after seeing the evidence he would have to concede that her claim had some validity—unless it could be proved that her mother had been a promiscuous tramp, which she damn well hadn’t been!

  But his swift and humiliating change of attitude after that long night of lovemaking had left her feeling utterly besmirched and it was something she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It had clearly shown her that he cared nothing for her and had just been using her for sex because she was handy. And randy. Better to part from him right now, forget all about ever meeting her father, and put the whole tangled mess behind her.

  ‘You come with me, whether you like it or not.’ He was slotting the envelope into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. His voice might have softened but Rosie knew he was still bitingly, furiously angry. It was there in his eyes.

  He couldn’t make her. But even as she pointed that out to herself she knew she was in grave danger of losing control of the situation. Snatching at the only subject that could make him change his mind, she knotted her hands together and gabbled earnestly, ‘You’re thinking I might be having your baby, aren’t you? Please don’t worry. I bought that kit, didn’t I? We can find out in a matter of minutes—I already read the instructions.’

  Her face went fiercely scarlet. If she hadn’t conceived that first time, she might have done last night. He hadn’t used any protection that she’d been aware of! So much for learning by past mistakes! The test could not be able to give an accurate result this soon. Oh, why was she so unclued-up?

  He looked as if he was about to say something really cutting, but all he came out with was, ‘Forget the test. The results, either way, won’t change a thing.’

  And what the heck was that supposed to mean? She was about to ask him when his eyes suddenly softened, his warm silver gleaming into her wide, anxious blue, and she forgot her question, melting helplessly because those eyes were reminding her of the most wonderful intimacies—

  Reaching her in one long stride, he put his hands on her shoulders and swung her round. ‘Time to change. Go.’ A tiny shove propelled her forwards, despite all her efforts to dig her heels into the carpet, his, ‘You have every right to meet Marcus. I want to be around when you do. This situation has to be resolved,’ ringing in her burning ears.

  He could be right, she wearily admitted as she made it to the bedroom she’d been using. Unresolved, she would always wonder. Wonder what her father was like as a person, wonder if he would accept the relationship or throw her out of the door because he didn’t want to be reminded of a past indiscretion he had probably long since wiped out of his memory.

  And strangely, since falling in love with Sebastian, she didn’t blame her father too much for what he had done. Wasn’t the average man primitively programmed to cast his sexual favours far and wide to ensure his genes had the best chance of surviving, constitutionally unable to resist temptation?

  If her poor besotted mother had behaved as she herself had done with Sebastian then Marcus wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  So, no, she no longer felt in danger of whacking him with her handbag, she decided as she changed into her cream cashmere suit with no enthusiasm at all, threw her old clothes out of her suitcase and replaced them with this and that from the lavish choice of garments Sebastian had gifted her. Then trudged out to present herself and her subdued face to the impatiently striding male she now realised she loved and hated in equal measure.

  Hatred was simmering uppermost as Rosie buckled her seat belt when the plane began its descent. He hadn’t spoken one word to her during the flight. Not one single word that really counted!

  He’d drawn a sheaf of closely typed papers from his briefcase as soon as they’d been seated and that had been that. She might not have existed. And when, feeling really resentful by that time, she’d poked him in the ribs to get his attention, the implacably hard look he’d turned on her, the rasp in his voice as he’d asked her what she wanted, had had her muttering, ‘Nothing’, and flopping back in her seat, doing her best not to cry and embarrass herself.

  Didn’t he know how truly awful she was feeling? Didn’t he care?

  Obviously not. All knotted up with nerves over the prospect of at last meeting her father and feeling physica
lly ill because she’d worked out why Sebastian was still too angry to do anything other than ignore her.

  Having sex with the temporary cleaning lady had been fine by him. An anonymous creature he could do his Pygmalion act on, sort out the awkward possible pregnancy problem and then wave goodbye with a clear conscience because he’d bought her a load of fancy clothes.

  But having a very good idea that she was a nasty stain on his precious godfather’s family escutcheon, something the family would rather not speak of in polite company, changed everything.

  The warmth hit her as they walked out of the small terminal: a pleasant shock to the system after the chilly English spring. A big black car was drawn up on the tarmac, a uniformed driver walking towards them. Rosie wanted to take to her heels, run as fast and as far as she could. Her stomach churned sickeningly.

  Nothing short of sheer panic would have made her forget he would rather not be reminded of her unmentionable presence, so it had to be panic that had her grasping his arm, her fingers digging into the hard muscle and bone, her voice verging on the hysterical. ‘I want to go home! I can’t do this! My—Marcus won’t want a nasty secret from his past popping up in his life! I can’t go through with this, honestly I can’t!’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ Sebastian contradicted firmly, his voice deep and low. ‘You can’t start something as serious as this and then run away from it. I thought you had more backbone,’ he added disparagingly, then broke off to greet the driver in his own language.

  Stinging under his rebuke, Rosie felt her soft mouth wobble.

  Backbone, what backbone? Her spine had disintegrated and she felt all weak and floppy, as if her legs would give way under her at any moment.

  ‘Come,’ Sebastian commanded, unpicking her fingers from his arm and placing his hand in the small of her back, propelling her towards the waiting car where the driver was loading their luggage into the boot. ‘It is not far to the quinta. You’ll feel better when you’ve changed into something cooler and had a chance to relax. My mother will help put you at your ease.’

  He had the rear door open, his hand still burning against her back. Instinctively, Rosie resisted. Committing herself into this car would mean committing herself to heaven only knew what kind of mayhem.

  She wanted to fling herself on to Sebastian’s mercy and weakly beg him to save her! Oh, how she wished she’d kept her mouth shut this morning!

  Being open and honest obviously didn’t always pay. They could have been here together, still in her fantasy, with him liking her and looking at her as if he found her the most desirable woman on the planet. And she could have taken her time, got to know her father before she decided whether to toss him her bombshell. Now that decision was out of her hands.

  ‘Get in.’ The grit in his voice told her he thought she was enough to try the patience of a really saintly saint, and it was still there as he added, inclining his savagely displeased and far too handsome face towards the driver, who was settling himself into his seat, ‘If it helps, Tomas tells me he drove Marcus to the Cadiz office this morning. He won’t be picking him up until later. You’ll have time to calm down and start behaving sensibly before you get to meet him.’

  An extra firmness of that inescapable hand and all the fight drained out of her. Victimised by her own big mouth, she fumbled her way into the car and sat like a sack while he walked round to the other side, opened the door and joined her.

  As the big car pulled away Rosie’s heart rattled against her breastbone. Now there really was no way out. And the speed with which they eventually zoomed round the outskirts of Jerez made her stomach twist itself into tight knots.

  And then they were in open countryside, arid-looking plains punctuated by fertile valleys, squat white-painted farmhouses among groves of trees. Never far from the sea. Rosie tried to concentrate on the Andalucian scenery but she couldn’t get past the nerve-shredding prospect of coming face to face with her father. And even worse than that was the way the man who had made such unforgettable love to her, making her feel so desired, so special, was now treating her like a pariah.

  When the car swept down a narrowing road into one of the valleys where a village clustered and swept halfway up the far hillside Sebastian leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

  ‘You look very pale,’ he explained as the car slowed to a stop outside a small white house which boasted an awning, an orange tree, a chicken scratching in the dust and a few metal tables and chairs. ‘Maybe a long cold drink will help.’

  Rosie doubted it. Nothing but a magic wand could help her now. But she’d gratefully fall in with anything that could delay their arrival, she thought wretchedly, pushing a hank of hair away from her sweaty forehead with the back of a shaky hand.

  ‘You could take your jacket off,’ he remarked with hateful masculine superiority when he’d given his order to a short fat lady clad all in black who had pounced on their arrival as rapidly as if they were the only people to patronise her establishment in a hundred years. ‘That suit’s far too warm for this climate. The jacket’s not welded on to your back.’

  He spoke as if she were a sandwich short of a picnic! A sharp spike of resentment gave her the energy to snap back at him, ‘I can’t, can I? I’m not wearing anything underneath!’

  Not strictly true. She was wearing one of the delicate lacy bras he’d had delivered to his apartment with all the other stuff. But mentioning underwear in this present hateful situation seemed far too intimate.

  But intimacy invaded his eyes and honeyed his tongue as he drawled, his slightly accented velvety voice sending shivers down her spine, ‘That prospect has much appeal. But you are right. I would not want any other eyes but mine feasting on your loveliness.’

  Rosie’s mind was in a dizzying whirl as the fat lady approached with two tall glasses of orange juice. What was going on here?

  What was he doing? Why had he brought the sex thing up again when she was trying her hardest to cope with the undisputed fact that, ever since she’d opened her mouth about her relationship with his so-honourable godfather, he’d been angry with her and disgusted by her?

  When they were alone again at the small metal table she was still feeling horribly confused. If what they’d had was over—as his whole attitude had clearly shown it was as far as he was concerned—then why say things calculated to make her go weak at the knees? Did he really want to torment her? Was he that cruel?

  ‘Drink your juice; it will help to cool you.’

  The stab of impatience in his voice startled her back into the reality of why he’d broken their journey.

  Rosie sat up very straight and picked up her glass.

  Condensation was forming on the outside and the freshly squeezed juice slid like icy cold nectar down her throat, and when he drawled, ‘I take it you answered the advertisement for the temporary cleaning post because you thought you would get to meet Marcus,’ she choked.

  When her spluttering fit was over. Sebastian took a fresh white handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

  ‘Well? That was your only reason for being there, wasn’t it?’

  He wasn’t going to let up on the pressure, she thought resignedly as she mopped her face, and it got worse, really humiliating, when he added, ‘And you weren’t looking for something to read on the night of your birthday. You were snooping.’

  Rosie tugged in a stricken breath. He was spot-on and he made her feel low-down and sneaky. Uncomfortably aware that some response was required, she nodded her bright head and started tying the handkerchief he had loaned her into knots.

  Risking a rapid glance to see how he had received her affirmation, she noted that the eyes that were brittly trained on her were like shards of ice, and she knew an almost uncontrollable need to crawl under the shelter of the table and hide.

  ‘I can understand why you didn’t take me into your confidence at that time. You scarcely knew me. But after—’ he allowed a pause, to punch home the shaming fact that, scarcel
y knowing him, she had jumped into bed with him ‘—after we became close you could have told me why you were there.’

  Close. Did his mind only work on the sexual level where she was concerned? Of course it did. ‘We were only close in the physical sense,’ she mumbled, blushing like fury. In every other way we’re miles apart.’

  ‘Really?’ Bitter?

  ‘Of course.’ Not bitterness. Probably sarcasm. What could he possibly have to be bitter about in that context? A cleaning woman brought up on a sink estate, and someone like you who has never had to worry about mundane things like how to pay the gas bill.’ Another knot in the soggy handkerchief. ‘We’re not remotely close in anything that matters. But the real reason I didn’t say anything was because I didn’t want to upset you,’ she explained, her conscience pricking her into confessing.

  ‘You obviously thought the world of your aunt. And you’d have been sickened if I’d told you your aunt had been betrayed and the result had been me. I just knew you’d despise what I was. A nasty stain on your family. And I wasn’t going to do anything horrible, like blackmailing him into paying up for all those years of neglect,’ she said in breathy self-defence.

  ‘I just wanted to find out what kind of man my father was. If I liked him I would have told him who I was and that my mother had passed on and had never stopped loving him. Given him the pendant back and vanished. If I hadn’t liked him I would have sent the wretched thing back anonymously.’

  ‘Yet you did tell me, in the end,’ he pointed out with supreme dryness, ignoring the greater part of her gabbled speech.

  ‘Why?’

  Rosie wriggled on her seat. He asked the most awkward questions in the coolest of voices. How could she possibly tell him she had fallen in love with him and couldn’t bear to go on deceiving him?