The Spaniard's Seduction

by Anne Mather

  And how intelligent was that?

  Peering at her reflection in the long carved mirror in her bedroom, Cassandra couldn’t avoid the sudden anguish in her eyes. She had thought, she’d really believed, that nothing Enrique did could hurt her any more. But it wasn’t true. He’d always had the power to reduce her defences to ashes and she just kept on letting him do it…

  * * *

  When had she first realised that she was attracted to Enrique? How long before she’d begun to look forward to the time they spent together? Why had she fooled herself that her feelings for Enrique were innocent of any sexual intent?

  Because she hadn’t wanted to admit it, she acknowledged now. All those days they’d spent together when Antonio was finishing his exams: she’d let Enrique get close, so close, never suspecting that his agenda had been so cruelly different from her own.

  Looking back, it was easy to be wise after the event. Easy to tell herself that she should have known that a man like Enrique de Montoya, a man with his background, his prospects, was unlikely to be seriously attracted to a penniless librarian. Yet he’d been so likeable, so charming, so unconsciously sexy that, before she’d known it, she’d been totally fascinated.

  Totally infatuated, she amended bitterly, remembering with a shameful pang how helpless she’d been against his sensual assault.

  But it had begun innocently enough, she remembered. So innocently that she hadn’t known what was happening until it was much too late to do anything about it.

  Ten years ago, she’d been living in a bedsit just off the Edgware Road. Although her widowed father lived just a few miles away in the suburbs, she’d decided to get her own place when she’d got the job at the Kensington Historical Library. She’d wanted to be independent; she’d wanted to live her own life.

  And it was through the library that she’d met Antonio. He’d come into her department to do some research, and until his brother came on the scene she’d never had any doubts that she loved him.

  Of course, Antonio hadn’t told her he was engaged to a young woman back home in Andalucia. He’d let her think he was as unattached and fancy-free as she was herself. It hadn’t been until they’d started talking about getting married that he’d confessed that he hadn’t told her the complete truth.

  At first, she’d wanted to call the whole thing off. But Antonio had persuaded her that, whatever happened between them, his engagement to the Spanish girl was over. He loved her and if she wouldn’t marry him he’d spend the rest of his life alone.

  Overly dramatic, perhaps, Cassandra thought now, but she’d wanted to believe him. He’d even shown her the letter he’d written to Sanchia and she’d eventually given in, and they’d arranged to get married as soon as his final exams were over.

  She knew he’d doubted that any of his family would turn up for the wedding. He’d written to his father, too, telling him that he was in love with an English girl, but Julio de Montoya hadn’t replied. Instead, he’d sent his elder son to accomplish what he’d known his words alone would not achieve, and Cassandra had been thrown into contact with the man who was to have such a fateful influence on her life.

  Yet, to begin with, it hadn’t seemed that way. Although she herself had been a little anxious when Enrique appeared, Antonio had been so delighted to see him she’d soon buried her own doubts and accepted his presence at face value.

  And it hadn’t been difficult. Enrique was sufficiently like Antonio to make their rapport with one another seem not only easy but natural, and when he had started showing his attraction for her she had persuaded herself that he was just being kind.

  Taking her hand when they were crossing a busy road; a light pressure in the small of her back when he was guiding her into a bar or a restaurant; a careless stroke on her neck; his thigh brushing hers when they shared a sofa or a banquette. These were the things he’d used to make her aware of him, and she, idiot that she was, had been completely overwhelmed by it all. Why hadn’t she realised what he was doing? she wondered. Why had she trusted him?

  The truth was that she’d been flattered. Flattered that he was paying her so much attention; flattered that he seemed to enjoy being with her. She’d enjoyed being with him, and if she’d sometimes indulged in daydreams about what it would be like to make love with Enrique, she’d excused herself on the grounds that because she was still a virgin she was naturally curious about sex.

  Curious!

  Cassandra shivered. God, that was such an inadequate word to describe how she’d felt about Enrique. She’d been aware of him with every fibre of her being, and when they were together she’d found it incredibly difficult to think about anyone else. She supposed she’d wanted him—although she hadn’t known then what wanting meant.

  She decided that that must have been when she’d started noticing the differences between the brothers. Both men had been tall and dark, but Enrique was taller, darker, with a sexual magnetism that Cassandra had begun to find increasingly hard to ignore. What she’d found attractive about Antonio had been accentuated in Enrique, like finding the original of a painting after getting used to a copy. A very appealing copy, she acknowledged wryly, but a copy nonetheless.

  A couple of days before the wedding, she and Antonio had arranged to go down to Essex to visit her father. He and her sisters were coming to the ceremony, of course, but Cassandra had wanted to see them, to finalise the details for the following weekend. Perhaps she’d unconsciously been searching for confirmation of her decision, Cassandra reflected now. Her sisters had been so enthusiastic. It had been easier with them to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.

  But, at the last minute, Antonio had asked if she’d mind if he didn’t accompany her. There was to be a reception for graduating foreign students that evening, he’d explained apologetically, but he’d spoken to Enrique and his brother was more than happy to take his place.

  How cruelly right he’d been, thought Cassandra bitterly. And, although she’d insisted she was quite capable of going alone—and had done so—Enrique had been waiting for her when she’d got back to St Pancras Station.

  ‘Railways stations are not the place for single women,’ he’d declared, when she’d questioned his presence, and although she’d argued the point she couldn’t deny she’d been touched that he should have spent the better part of an hour waiting for her.

  They’d taken a taxi to her lodgings and it had seemed only polite to invite him in for a coffee. It was the first time any man but Antonio had entered her bedsit, and almost at once she’d realised her mistake. Enrique’s dark masculinity had dominated the modest contours of her room and although she had never felt intimidated by Antonio’s presence, Enrique was a whole different ball game.

  While she’d added coffee to the filter one of her sisters had bought her as a housewarming present, Enrique had wandered about the room, picking up a picture here, adjusting an ornament there. She’d wished he would sit down, but apart from the two dining chairs that had flanked her folding table there’d been only the divan she’d slept on. And although she’d added a coloured throw for daytime use, it had still been far too personal for her peace of mind.

  Eventually he had subsided onto the divan, sitting on the edge, his legs spread wide, his lean wrists hanging between. He’d looked so attractive sitting there, his head bent to expose the unexpectedly vulnerable curve of his nape. She’d found herself wanting to touch his neck, to slide her hand into the darkness of his hair, to feel the thick lustrous strands curling about her fingers. But, of course, she hadn’t touched him. Not then. She’d realised—or at least she’d believed—that he was as nervous about the situation as she was. And that had made what had happened afterwards so infinitely hard to forgive.

  At the time, however, she’d been perfectly willing to accept his behaviour at face value, and when the coffee was ready, she’d carried both cups to the divan and seated herself beside him. He’d been wearing a leather jerkin, she remembered. Black, like th
e close-fitting jeans he’d worn with it, his dark blue shirt the only trace of colour in his outfit. He’d always worn his clothes well; both men had. But whereas Antonio had merely looked good, Enrique’s outfit had moulded his powerful body with loving elegance.

  ‘This is good,’ he’d said, indicating the coffee, and Cassandra remembered feeling pleased at the compliment. So pleased that she’d offered to get him a second cup. But, when she’d put down her cup and attempted to get to her feet, Enrique had caught her wrist, drawing her back down beside him. ‘Later,’ he’d told her huskily, and when she’d looked into his eyes, she’d known exactly what he meant.

  She should have stopped him. She should have covered her lips with her hand and prevented his from finding their target. But she hadn’t. She’d lifted her hands, yes, but instead of blocking his searching mouth she’d cupped his neck and given herself up to the union they’d both desired.

  Or she’d thought it was what they’d both desired, she amended bitterly. At the time, she’d been too blinded by her own needs to notice his response. It had been enough that he was kissing her at last, that his weight was compelling her back against the cushions behind her. That his hard muscled body was aroused and urgent; that his kiss was full of emotion.

  But what those emotions might have portrayed, she hadn’t questioned. Why should she have? She’d been so sure that Enrique felt the way she did, and although she’d felt guilty for betraying Antonio, she’d assured herself naïvely that he would understand. Once he realised that she and Enrique loved one another—

  How deluded she’d been! How stupid! How pathetic!

  Remembering now, Cassandra was appalled anew at her own gullibility. She’d really believed that Enrique cared about her, that he’d been as helpless in the face of such powerful feelings as she’d been.

  What a fool!

  Nevertheless, however calculated his approach, she was sure he’d been shocked by the passion that had erupted between them. However cynically he’d set out on his plan to discredit her, what had happened had driven all thoughts of revenge out of his head. For a time, anyway. He’d wanted her just as much as she’d wanted him, and perhaps it was that knowledge that had made what had happened so much more significant, so much more devastating.

  To begin with she’d thought he’d only meant to kiss her. She’d been innocent, trusting, so used to Antonio, who had always respected her wish to remain a virgin until they were married, that the idea of Enrique abusing that trust hadn’t occurred to her.

  She should have known better. Now, she realised, she should have known at once that Enrique was nothing like Antonio. The way he’d kissed her, the way he’d crushed her lips, the sensual way he’d pushed his tongue into her mouth; so many things should have warned her that she was playing with fire.

  Perhaps they had. If she was completely honest she would have to admit that she’d never been in any doubt who was making love to her. Enrique had been so much more eager; so much more demanding; so much more experienced. Yes, that was the word to describe Enrique’s lovemaking: experienced. He’d known exactly what he’d wanted, and he’d had no intention of allowing anything to stand in his way.

  Least of all a foolish girl to whom his practised caresses had seemed a natural forerunner to romance. She’d convinced herself that Enrique had fallen in love with her and, although that was no excuse for what had happened, it had been enough to salve her conscience at the time.

  And, with Enrique’s weight imprisoning her beneath him on the divan, she’d been left in little doubt as to his body’s reaction to what they were doing. His breathing had been as ragged as hers, laboured gulps of air snatched between long, soul-drugging kisses, that had stifled any protest and left her weak with longing. The throbbing heat of his arousal had pressed against her stomach, and need, hot and unfamiliar, had poured through her.

  Neither before nor since had she felt such powerful emotions. She’d been lost to all sanity, lost to all shame. It had felt so good, so right, and there’d been no way she could have prevented what had happened, however humiliated it made her feel now.

  She remembered pushing Enrique’s jacket off his shoulders, sliding her hands into the open neck of his shirt, touching the warm flesh at his nape which had inspired such forbidden feelings in her earlier. The moist hair had curled about her fingers and she’d used it to drag his sensual mouth back to hers.

  Enrique’s hands had found the buttons on her shirt, she recalled, her breathing quickening in remembrance. The tiny pearl studs had been no match for his searching fingers, and her breasts had become hot and heavy beneath the lacy confinement of her bra. She’d wanted him to touch them. She’d actually ached with the need for him to do so. So much so that she’d managed to arch her body so that she could release the catch of her bra herself.

  God, she’d been so easy, she fretted unsteadily. So desperate for him not to stop what he was doing that she’d have stripped herself naked if he’d asked her to. But he hadn’t. He’d been quite content to attend to that detail himself. Nevertheless, he must have thought she knew what she was doing, she conceded unwillingly. She hadn’t behaved as if it had been her first time, that was a fact.

  He’d shed his own shirt a few moments later, letting her help him peel the fine fabric from his bronzed skin. His chest had been lightly spread with dark hair, she recollected with a shiver. A sensual covering that had arrowed down into the waistband of his trousers.

  Her own skirt had been discarded next, and she remembered the disturbing brush of his chest hair against her bare stomach when he lowered himself to take her breast into his mouth. The sensation of his tongue circling her nipple, sucking on the tender tip, had left her breathless, and her breasts tingled now in protest at the direction of her thoughts.

  She remembered unbuckling his belt, drawing down his zip, touching him between his legs with tentative fingers. He’d shuddered at her timid caress, but he hadn’t objected, rolling to one side to divest himself of both his trousers and his shorts.

  It wasn’t until his hands had slid beneath her bottom, drawing her up against him, that she’d experienced any trepidation about what they were doing. When the pulsating heat of his maleness had probed the moist triangle of curls at the apex of her legs, she’d known an instant’s sheer panic. She ought to tell him, she’d thought anxiously. She ought to warn him that she was a virgin. But she’d been afraid that if he’d known the truth he might have drawn away.

  In any case, that was the last coherent thought she’d had. Enrique’s fingers had found the sensitive cleft of her bottom, sliding between to explore the pulsing entrance to her womanhood. She’d been wet. She’d felt it on his hands, she recalled tensely. Her untried senses had swum with her first taste of her own sexuality.

  She’d been aroused and eager, she remembered now, so that Enrique had never suspected he’d have any problem achieving his own ends. As it happened, he hadn’t become aware of her innocence until he’d thrust into her, and by then it had been much too late. He was inside her, filling her, expanding her tight muscles with his powerful shaft. Cursing her perhaps, she thought now, but needing her, creating a mindless excitement that only complete surrender on both their parts could have assuaged.

  And had, she recalled, but without bitterness for once. She supposed she ought to be grateful. Many a woman’s first experience of sex was with a vastly inferior partner, whereas Enrique, whatever his private agenda, had made sure she’d stayed with him all the way. She’d spun out into infinite space only seconds before he’d achieved his own climax, when the flooding heat of him spilling into her had reminded her that she hadn’t thought of the consequences that might ensue…

  * * *

  Shaking her head now, Cassandra reached for her hairbrush, using it on her newly washed hair with unwarranted violence. But remembering what had happened did that to her. It left her feeling weak and vulnerable even after all this time.

  The idea that she might be pregnant hadn’
t become a reality until much later. At that time, she’d still believed that she and Enrique had a future together. She’d believed they were a couple; that they would tell Antonio the following day that they loved one another. Then, whatever happened, Enrique would stand by her.

  Another big mistake.

  Despite having taken her innocence, despite the fact that he must have known when he’d left that she’d expected to see him the next morning, he’d told her nothing of his plans. When he’d departed in the early hours, going silently down the stairs so as not to alert Cassandra’s landlady, he’d kissed her goodbye with a lingering passion that she’d been convinced was genuine. She’d gone back to bed and spent the rest of the night dreaming about him, never imagining that, as far as Enrique was concerned, he’d achieved his objective. He’d had no intention of ever seeing her again.

  Of course, when she’d awakened the next day, she’d faced the prospect of telling Antonio what had happened with some trepidation. And regret. She had loved Antonio. She had cared about him. But compared to the way she’d felt about Enrique, the feelings she’d had for her fiancé just didn’t compete.

  Learning from Antonio later that morning that Enrique had left to return to Spain had been a shock, but her fiancé had had even worse news to relate. Although Enrique had obviously not told his brother that he’d seduced his fiancée, he had admitted that he’d had reservations about Cassandra’s suitability all along. He’d maintained that he couldn’t, in all conscience, attend a wedding that he and his father opposed, and his advice had been that Antonio should think again before incurring their father’s wrath over a woman who wasn’t worthy to bear the de Montoya name.

  Cassandra had been stunned. There had been no way she could convince herself that this was Enrique’s way of preventing the wedding. Whatever he was—and she’d eventually come to regard him as a monster—she hadn’t believed he was a coward. If he’d cared anything for her, he’d have stayed and faced his brother like a man.