‘Why have you come here?’ he growled.
‘I came to see the Duque de Herrera.’ Grace felt at a distinct disadvantage kneeling before him and, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to her feet. She still felt weak and disorientated, and swayed unsteadily, but the man made no offer of support and simply watched her in a brooding silence.
‘For what reason?’ The barely disguised insolence in his tone set her teeth on edge. She lifted her chin and glared at him, wishing she could see his face.
‘For personal reasons.’ She paused, her eyes drawn to his strong arms and broad chest. Fortunately she had no recollection of falling from the top of the wall, but the memory of her terror when she had balanced precariously on its summit still haunted her. Undoubtedly the groundsman or security guard, or whoever he was, had saved her from a fall that would have resulted in broken bones. She couldn’t bear to contemplate the outcome had she fallen the other way, down the sheer side of the mountain.
‘Thank you for catching me,’ she murmured huskily. ‘I appreciate that this is a private garden, but I came to see the Duque, and…’ She tailed off miserably as she remembered her abortive attempt to gain an interview with the elusive Duque de Herrera.
‘The Duque does not like to be disturbed by uninvited guests,’ the man informed her in a haughty tone that stirred the embers of her temper. Now that her feet were once more on firm ground her fear was receding, and she remembered her reason for stepping into the garden in the first place. She was determined to find a way into the castle, and with luck this boorish groundsman could help her.
‘I’m not uninvited, I … have an appointment,’ she lied, her tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. The man made no response, but his body language spoke plainly of his disbelief, which only served to fuel Grace’s irritation. ‘Yes. I arrived early, and rather than wait in the car I decided to explore the grounds. I’m sorry,’ she said, lifting limpid blue eyes to him and offering a hesitant smile. ‘I think the Duque may be ready for me now. Perhaps you would escort me to him?’
His silent scrutiny lasted so long that Grace felt like an elastic band stretched to snapping point, and she jumped when his voice suddenly cut through the still air. ‘Are you sure you want to enter the Castillo de Leon, Miss Beresford?’
Was that a faint hint of menace in his voice? Grace gave herself a mental shake and cursed her overactive imagination. ‘Of course,’ she replied briskly. ‘I’ll follow you, shall I?’
‘By all means.’ This time there was no mistaking the insolent amusement in his tone, but he said no more, simply swung on his heels and began to stride across the garden while his dog ran alongside. He didn’t bother to turn and check if she was following, and Grace was forced to break into a trot to keep up with him.
She was hot and breathless by the time they entered the castle through a side door, and she followed her guide up a steep stone staircase. To her relief there was no sign of the officious butler who had earlier refused her pleas to see the Duque. Now she was here, in the lion’s den, she thought, fighting the feeling of panic when she stepped into a large, book-lined room that she guessed must be the Duque de Herrera’s study.
To her dismay the man followed her into the room, and her heart jolted when he closed the door behind him and she caught the faint snick of the lock. Ignoring her, he pulled a mobile phone from the pocket of his coat and murmured a few words into it, his voice so low that she couldn’t make them out.
She made a show of glancing at her watch. ‘Will the Duque be here soon?’
‘I promise you won’t have to wait long, Miss Beresford,’ he replied silkily, but yet again Grace caught the edge of sarcasm in his voice and her apprehension increased. She watched as he unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it, her eyes drawn to his formidable physique. Slim-fitting black trousers moulded his thighs, while his white shirt was open at the neck to reveal the tanned column of his throat. With long leather boots that delineated his powerful calf muscles, he reminded Grace of a medieval baron, and the image was reinforced when he finally removed his hat. ‘The police will be here very soon,’ he told her with a smile that slashed across the hard planes of his face, but which was devoid of any warmth.
‘The police?’ Grace was so shocked that she was momentarily lost for words. But innate honesty forced her to admit that it was her physical reaction to the surly stranger which had struck her dumb. Handsome was hardly an adequate description of him, she thought numbly. His face was chiselled perfection—an arrogant, faintly cruel face with razor-sharp cheekbones and square jaw. Black brows and hair the colour of a raven’s wing complemented his olive-gold skin, while his curious amber eyes flashed fire as they trailed a bold path over every inch of her.
She felt as though he was mentally undressing her, stripping her bare, and outrage brought hot colour storming into her cheeks while to her horror she was aware of a tingling sensation in her breasts. ‘You’re not the gardener, are you?’ she snapped, desperate to hide her embarrassment at the traitorous reaction of her body. ‘I assumed you were a member of the castle staff. I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re the Duque de Herrera?’ she added thickly as the sickening realisation hit her. What other explanation could there be for his imperious air, or the way his eyes travelled over her with such haughty disdain? Feeling utterly humiliated, she sent up a brief prayer that a hole would open up beneath her feet, but sadly the Almighty wasn’t listening.
One brow lifted in sardonic amusement. ‘And you, Miss Beresford, are a liar as well as a thief.’ He paused for a heartbeat and then murmured, ‘It must run in the family.’
Of course he knew who she was, Grace acknowledged dismally. The name Beresford was one that he was unlikely to forget. She took a deep breath, struggling for the words to explain her visit. But her brain seemed to have gone into meltdown, and for the life of her she couldn’t stop staring at him. He was the most gorgeous man she had ever met. The sharp angles of his face, the arrogant tilt of his head, and his unusual golden eyes seemed to exert a hypnotic effect on her, and she felt trapped within his spell.
‘I admit I told a small untruth, but I’m not a thief,’ she mumbled, blushing furiously as she recalled the story she had concocted about having an appointment with the Duque. In normal circumstances she prided herself on her honesty, but it was going to be difficult to convince Javier Herrera that she was trustworthy.
‘No? Then who gave you permission to steal from my garden?’ He strolled across the room and stopped in front of her, so close that her senses quivered as she caught the spicy tang of his cologne. She stood dazedly while he ran a bold finger down from her jaw to the valley between her breasts. Her breath was trapped, and she felt dizzy from lack of oxygen. Wordlessly she stared up at him, and then gasped when he suddenly snatched the rose that she had tucked in her buttonhole.
‘It’s just one rose,’ she whispered.
‘And what is the theft of one rose, when your father has already fleeced me of three million pounds?’ he murmured sardonically.
‘Oh God!’ Grace gave a despairing groan as once again she was hit by the enormity of her father’s crime. ‘I know it looks bad …’
‘It doesn’t look bad, Miss Beresford, it looks awful,’ Javier commented mildly, but Grace wasn’t fooled by his smile. He was the lion waiting to strike and she was the prey who had foolishly crept too close.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, aware that the words were totally inadequate. She swallowed the tears that clogged her throat as she acknowledged the full scale of Angus Beresford’s embezzlement from the bank—three million pounds that over a period of time he had transferred into false accounts.
Her father’s slide into deep depression had been coupled with a manic belief that one lucky win on the roulette table would enable him to appease his creditors and repay the money to the bank. But somewhere along the way he had lost his grip on the situation and now his life was in free fall.
‘I kno
w my father has done wrong—but he had his reasons,’ she began.
‘I’m sure he did,’ the Duque de Herrera drawled in a bored tone. ‘And he can tell them to a judge.’ The phone on his desk rang and he picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and then replaced it before giving her another hard smile. Grace knew instinctively that the call had been to inform him that the police had arrived, and panic overwhelmed her. This was her only chance to plead her father’s case and she wouldn’t give up without a fight.
‘It’s been fascinating to meet you, Miss Beresford, but I’m afraid it’s time for you to leave,’ Javier said coolly.
‘Please! You have to listen to me. My father …’
‘Deserves everything that’s coming to him.’ He was already at the door, his body language warning her that his patience was at an end, but Grace was desperate.
‘He’s ill, mentally ill. He didn’t know what he was doing.’
‘Oh, come on, surely you can do better than that? Angus Beresford took advantage of his position and was systematically transferring money into false accounts for the last eighteen months. He knew exactly what he was doing,’ Javier told her scathingly. His hand closed around the door handle, but before he could open it Grace flung herself against the wood.
‘He could see no other way. Please—give me five minutes of your time,’ she implored. ‘And let me try and explain his reasons for doing what he did.’ For a heart-stopping moment she thought Javier was going to drag her forcibly away from the door. His hand closed around her wrist in a bruising grip, but suddenly a sharp rap sounded from the other side of the door.
‘What is it?’ he demanded tersely in his own language, unaware that Grace could understand the question or his servant’s reply that the police were waiting in the hall. She’d failed, she thought numbly. Her father’s solicitor had warned her that Angus faced a lengthy prison sentence and nothing could save him now. Suddenly she was bone-weary, and the tears that had hovered perilously close to the surface since her earlier terror in the garden slid silently down her cheeks.
CHAPTER THREE
TRUST a woman to turn on the water works, Javier thought contemptuously as he stared at the twin rivulets of moisture trickling down Grace’s face. It never ceased to amaze him how the fairer sex was able to dissolve into tears whenever it suited.
At thirty-five he lived life in the fast lane in every sense of the word—fast cars and even faster relationships, some of which didn’t even get off the starting block but made a pleasant diversion for a night or two. He’d seen it all—every devious twist of a woman’s mind as she’d sought to gain her own way. And for him, weeping was the biggest turn-off of them all.
Why then did the sight of this woman’s tears make him feel as though a knife was twisting in his gut? Something about her huge, navy blue eyes brimming with tears was getting to him, and he didn’t like it. It made him feel uncomfortable, and the urge to pull her against his chest and thread his fingers through her mane of silky brown hair was downright ridiculous.
He should dismiss her this minute, he told himself. He should hand her over to the police, and then sue her for trespassing on his land, so why was he hesitating? From the moment he had learned her identity his emotions had swung between fury and another, rather more basic urge that was no doubt responsible for the fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Muttering an oath, he dropped his gaze to her mouth, noting the perfect curve of her Cupid’s bow and the fullness of her lower lip. Soft, pink and deliciously kissable, he acknowledged grimly, feeling his body’s unmistakable reaction.
He favoured tall, elegant blondes with endlessly long legs and full breasts—even if most of the women he met sported the surgically enhanced variety, he thought cynically. Grace Beresford was small and slender, an unremarkable woman with her pale complexion and light brown hair with streaks of pale gold that were, he would lay money on it, entirely natural rather than due to the skill of a good colourist.
She would never stand out in a crowd, and yet there was something about her face, an air of serenity. Perhaps it was the hidden message in her astonishing blue eyes, the hint of sensuality in the elusive smile she had offered him earlier that was responsible for the ache in his loins, he thought derisively. Whatever it was, it was hellishly inconvenient.
‘You have two minutes,’ he said coldly, forcing himself to stroll nonchalantly over to the window. ‘Although I must warn you that I already have a good idea as to the reasons for your father’s financial problems, and I don’t regard them as an excuse for abusing the trust I put in him.’
‘You know that he’s addicted to gambling?’ Grace said urgently. ‘He can’t help it. In many ways, he’s a victim of the easy availability of online betting.’
‘My heart bleeds.’ Javier’s cool sarcasm incited her temper, and she marched across the room to plant herself firmly in front of him.
‘My father is a good man, an honourable man,’ she insisted fiercely when Javier’s brows quirked in disbelief. ‘A few years ago he made some unwise financial investments, and unfortunately he lost a lot of money.’
‘I fail to understand why I should suffer for his recklessness,’ Javier snapped.
‘He was desperate. My mother was seriously ill and he was prepared to do anything … anything … to help her.’ Javier’s expression of aloof uninterest did not flicker, and Grace ran a hand over her face in despair. She wasn’t getting through to him, and time was running out.
‘Gambling seemed his only way out,’ she faltered. ‘He had one or two wins and he believed his luck would continue. Instead, he started to run up massive debts. Incredible debts,’ she whispered bleakly. ‘Which he had no way of ever settling. After Mum died, I think he just felt utterly overwhelmed. The only thing he had of value was our house, which had been registered in Mum’s name but was now his. His creditors were threatening to take Littlecote, but he was desperate to hang onto it … for me,’ she said thickly, fighting the tears. ‘Angus did what he did—took the money—because he wanted to keep the home that he knew I loved.’ She broke off and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of this man who looked as though his heart was carved from stone.
‘It’s a touching story,’ Javier remarked in a bored tone. ‘And undoubtedly there are some grains of truth in it. I’m quite ready to believe that Angus stole for your benefit. You have expensive tastes, Miss Beresford.’
‘How can you possibly know my tastes?’ Grace demanded indignantly.
Javier threw her a disdainful glance that seemed to question her intelligence. ‘Naturally a thorough investigation has been made into your private affairs. I know everything there is to know about you—and you don’t come cheap,’ he informed her coolly. ‘The upkeep of two thoroughbreds which you show at dressage events,’ he listed when she opened her mouth to argue. ‘The private education at an exclusive college for young ladies, not to mention the luxury flat while you were at university. There was no slumming it in student digs for you, was there, Miss Beresford?’
‘I paid the rent on the flat with money released from an insurance policy set up for me by my grandparents,’ Grace said tightly. Her anger was bubbling inside like molten lava beneath the earth’s crust. Any minute now and she would erupt, but the release of pressure and the torrent of furious words she wanted to throw at Javier Herrera would scupper all chances of helping her father. ‘And I worked damned hard for my degree,’ she defended herself.
‘In the history of art?’ The derision in his voice made her long to hit him. ‘I’m sure it’s proved very useful.’
‘Extremely, in my profession,’ Grace said coldly. ‘As you seem to know so much about me, I’m sure you’ve discovered that I run my own antiques business.’
‘I know that you like to play shop in a pretty little establishment in Brighton,’ he murmured, his accent sounding particularly strong as he pronounced the name of the English seaside town where G
race had spent most of her life. ‘But The Treasure Trove is hardly a thriving business, is it? Oh, come on,’ he derided when she frowned. ‘You barely make enough profit to cover your overheads. Your business acumen leaves a lot to be desired, Miss Beresford,’ Javier told her flatly.
‘It’s true that my profits haven’t been as good as I hoped, but it takes time to build up a good reputation in the world of antiques,’ Grace muttered, her cheeks flaming at his scathing comments about her fledgling business. Before opening her shop, she had loved her work as a junior cataloguer with a famous auction house, but her life in London had come to a crashing halt when she’d ended her engagement to Richard Quentin. Heartbroken at Richard’s betrayal, she had fled back to Brighton, and with her father’s support had opened The Treasure Trove. But in her first year of trading, business had been slow. After paying her bills, she’d had little money left over for extras, and it was true that she had allowed her father to treat her sometimes.
Angus had loved to spoil her and take care of her, just as he had taken care of her mother, she acknowledged painfully. She’d enjoyed an extremely comfortable lifestyle, but the realisation that her father had paid for those treats with money he’d stolen from the bank was unbearable. Sick with shame and mortification, she lifted her eyes to Javier, who was watching her expressionlessly, his golden eyes hooded so that she had no clue to his thoughts.
‘I should share the blame for this whole terrible mess,’ she said huskily. ‘I have to face the fact that my father stole from your bank, not just to pay for my mother’s medical expenses, but because he wanted to continue giving me the lifestyle I’d been used to. You don’t know how terrible that makes me feel.’
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