The Spaniard's Seduction

by Anne Mather

  She’d eventually had to accept that what had happened between them had been a carefully orchestrated seduction. However emotionally involved he’d seemed, for him she had been just another woman, another body in which to slake his lust. He hadn’t loved her. She doubted he could love anyone besides himself. He’d tricked her and he’d used her, and she’d been left to pay the price.

  Even so, she’d known that she couldn’t marry Antonio now. However despicable Enrique’s behaviour had been, it had proved to her that her feelings for her fiancé were not strong enough to stand the test of time. But when she’d tried to convey this to Antonio, he’d refused to listen to her. As far as he’d been concerned, she was only responding to his brother’s censure, and he’d begged her not to shame him now and confirm his family’s judgement about her.

  It seemed that Enrique hadn’t confessed his own betrayal. And how could she have told Antonio what Enrique had done? She’d loved him too much to hurt him so badly. He would have been permanently damaged; totally devastated. Whatever her faults, she hadn’t been that cruel.

  So she had allowed the marriage to go ahead, telling herself that the hatred she had now conceived for Enrique had no part in it. She had loved Antonio, after all. She’d determined to make him a good wife. But she’d been nineteen, and, as Enrique had discovered, totally inexperienced. It was only now she realised that she’d been in a state of shock. She’d been in no way capable of making any rational decisions about her future at that time.

  The wedding had gone ahead as planned, and Antonio had been content. He’d been disappointed by his brother’s absence, of course. But one of Cassandra’s brothers-in-law had stepped in as best man in Enrique’s place. The marriage at the local register office had served its purpose. Cassandra’s father and sisters had been there to support her, and if they’d thought the bride looked to be in something of a daze, they’d said nothing to mar the event.

  It had been raining when they’d left to drive down to Cornwall, she remembered. The roads had been slick and wet and Antonio had been driving an unfamiliar car. It was one he had hired for their honeymoon and he had not been an experienced driver. But, even so, it hadn’t been his fault when the huge articulated vehicle ahead of them jack-knifed on the slippery tarmac.

  The rear end of the wagon had hit the nearside wing of their car, crushing the steering wheel against the window, so that the airbag, which had inflated, had offered Antonio no protection at all. He’d been killed instantly, and Cassandra, who’d suffered only minor injuries, had regained consciousness in the ambulance. And, when she’d asked about her husband, they’d told her regretfully, but unalterably, that she was a widow.

  Expelling an unsteady breath, Cassandra put down the hairbrush now and stared bleakly at her reflection. Antonio’s family had been quick enough to come to his funeral, she recalled painfully, despising the fact that it still hurt her to think of it. His mother hadn’t attended, but Julio de Montoya and his elder son had been there. Not that either of them had spoken to her, she acknowledged bitterly. Even though she’d agreed, via the Spanish lawyer who had contacted her, to allow Antonio’s body to be removed to Spain for burial, she had received no thanks from them. She hadn’t even known where he was buried, until Carlos had shown her. When David was born— Enrique’s son, of course—she’d told him that his father had died in a car crash just after they were married, and thankfully her son had never questioned why they’d never visited his father’s grave.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ENRIQUE raised his wine glass to his lips, watching with dark hooded eyes as Cassandra responded to something Luis Banderas had said. The Spaniard, a distant cousin whom he’d invited to even the numbers at dinner, was evidently fascinated by the fair-skinned Englishwoman. He’d had eyes for no one else since she appeared and Enrique, who had foolishly imagined that Luis would remove the need for him to spend the whole evening entertaining Sanchia, was left in the unenviable position of having to be nice to the woman for whom he had suddenly acquired a distinct aversion.

  Meanwhile, Luis was enjoying himself immensely. The meal was over and for the past fifteen minutes he’d been describing the religious festival that took place on his family’s estate when the grapes were harvested. Although Enrique felt sure Cassandra couldn’t be that interested, she was gazing at Luis as if every word he spoke was of the utmost importance to her, and it infuriated him.

  Enrique’s jaw compressed. He knew what she was doing, he thought. As far as she was concerned, Luis was the first person she’d met since she came here who had treated her with any kind of respect. His mother had insulted her, and Sanchia, although she’d been polite, had made no attempt to hide the contempt in her eyes.

  But what had he expected? Enrique asked himself impatiently. In Sanchia’s eyes, Cassandra was an intruder; an interloper. The woman who had stolen her fiancé and who now had the audacity to come here, bringing an heir to the de Montoya estate with her.

  He dragged his eyes away from Cassandra’s expressive features and stared down, grim-faced, into the wine in his glass. Thinking about David wasn’t conducive to his mood either. In recent days, as he’d recovered from the shock of learning he had a nephew, he’d discovered that his feelings towards the boy were no less ambivalent. As his unwilling awareness of Cassandra had deepened, he’d found himself disliking the fact that David was Antonio’s son and not his. He should have been his son, he brooded, and then was ashamed of the thought. But he had to concede that he resented the idea that Cassandra had turned instantly to Antonio for comfort as soon as he’d deserted her.

  Or had she?

  His head jerked up and he stared intently at her lightly flushed profile. The sun had already laid its fingers on her and the touch of colour suited her, but Enrique noticed these things without really being conscious of them. His mind was full of the question he had just posed himself, and, while it might sound very intriguing to probe the hypothesis, did he really want to know?

  ‘What are you thinking about, querido?’ Sanchia spoke softly in Spanish, stretching out her hand to cover his where it lay beside his glass. ‘I cannot believe you are enjoying this—this evening any more than I am.’

  ‘You are wrong.’ Enrique spoke in English, aware that his words must have been clearly audible to the other couple at the table. His eyes challenged the Spanish woman’s. ‘But if you are bored…’

  Sanchia’s lips tightened and for a moment he thought she had taken umbrage at his insensitivity. He half hoped she had. But, with an obvious effort, she gathered herself and regarded him with seductive eyes. ‘How could I be bored when I am with you, querido?’ she asked, using English as he had done, but, judging by the way she included Cassandra in her sweeping gaze, for different reasons. She squeezed his hand. ‘Is there any chance of us spending the rest of the evening alone?’

  Enrique withdrew his hand with careful deliberation. ‘Would you have me neglect my other guests?’ he asked smoothly, picking up the wine bottle and offering to refill her glass. ‘Shall we have another bottle of this? It is rather good.’

  Sanchia covered her glass with her hand, and almost instinctually Enrique was aware that Cassandra’s head had turned in their direction. What had she thought Sanchia had been saying when she’d spoken in their own language? he wondered irritably. Certainly not what had been said, judging by what had come after. Did she think he and Sanchia were conducting a flirtation at the table? The idea was distasteful to him.

  ‘Wine?’ he asked, his eyes holding Cassandra’s even when he knew she wanted to look away, but she shook her head.

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ she said, the two long strands of silky-soft hair that she’d left to curl in front of her ears shining red-gold in the candlelight. She’d wound the rest of her hair into a precariously secured knot on the top of her head this evening and Enrique had to stifle an almost uncontrollable impulse to tear out the pins and bury his face in its vivid beauty.

  Whether Cassandra had
sensed what he was thinking, he didn’t know, but something gave her the will to break that revealing eye contact. And Luis’s cheerful intervention at that moment was clearly a relief to her.

  ‘Por favor, Enrique,’ he said, pushing his glass towards the other man. Then, to his companion, ‘My cousin keeps an excellent cellar, do you not think so?’

  ‘I don’t know very much about wine,’ answered Cassandra honestly. ‘I didn’t even know that Rioja could be white as well as red until I came here.’

  ‘Miss Scott is not used to drinking wine with every meal, Luis,’ said Sanchia, regarding the other woman slightingly. ‘The English drink tea, do they not? In great quantities, I believe.’

  ‘Then you must allow me to take you on a tour of my family’s vineyard,’ said Luis at once, watching Enrique refill his glass. ‘I can teach you all there is to know about wine, Cassandra.’

  ‘And about other things, too, no doubt,’ put in Sanchia insidiously. ‘But I hardly think Miss Scott will be here long enough to have time to visit La Calida, Luis. Is that not so, Miss Scott?’

  ‘Her name is de Montoya,’ declared Enrique harshly, before Luis could answer her, unable to deny the automatic reproof. ‘Cassandra de Montoya. Or Señora de Montoya, if you will. But not Miss Scott. I realise this is not easy for you, Sanchia, but she is Antonio’s widow. Entiendes? Do you understand?’

  Sanchia sucked in her breath, but it was Cassandra who saved her from taking offence at his words. ‘I’m sure Señora de Romero understands that very well,’ she said firmly, although she still avoided looking at him. ‘And she’s right. I’m sorry, Luis, but I don’t think I will be able to accept your invitation.’

  ‘There, you see.’ Now, Sanchia arched narrow eyebrows at Enrique. ‘Even your guest understands that she and her son will be leaving soon.’

  ‘That depends,’ said Enrique, refilling his own glass, aware that Cassandra had reacted to the challenge. He was drinking too much, he thought, and the wine was loosening his tongue.

  ‘That depends?’ echoed Sanchia, determined to have her way. ‘When your father returns from the hospital, Enrique, he will not want his home to be full of strangers, no?’

  ‘Hardly strangers, Sanchia.’ Enrique didn’t know why he was pursuing this. It wasn’t as if he cared what she thought. ‘Cassandra is my father’s daughter-in-law; his nuera. And David is his grandson. They are family.’

  ‘But strangers, nonetheless,’ insisted Sanchia, albeit a little stiffly now. She paused. ‘I did not realise you had told your father that—that they are here. When I spoke with your mother, she said that your father was unaware of David’s existence.’

  ‘But she is not,’ said Enrique grimly, wondering when Sanchia had spoken to his mother. What had Elena de Montoya told her about their unexpected visitors? It infuriated him that his mother might confide her feelings to Sanchia when she’d scarcely spoken a word to Cassandra.

  ‘In any case,’ Sanchia continued quickly, as if she’d suddenly realised that allying herself with his mother might not have been the wisest choice, ‘I am sure discovering he has a grandson may be exactly what your father needs to implement his recovery.’

  Are you? thought Enrique dourly, sure she didn’t think any such thing. He scowled. Why was this evening going so badly wrong? Why, when his original intention in inviting Sanchia here had been to prove to himself that he and Cassandra had nothing in common, did he find her so much more appealing than the woman he’d known for half his life? And why was he spending his time defending her when it was towards Sanchia he should feel some remorse?

  ‘I am sure when Julio meets Cassandra, he will be as enchanted with her as I am,’ Luis inserted gallantly, evidently deciding the conversation was getting too heavy, and, setting down his glass, Enrique pushed back his chair.

  ‘I think we should all adjourn to the salón for coffee,’ he said non-committally, and then felt another twinge of irritation at Sanchia’s smug expression. He crossed to the sideboard where a bell-cord summoned a waiting manservant. ‘Is that agreeable to everyone?’

  Cassandra folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. But it was Luis who answered him. ‘It is okay with me, amigo,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘It will give me time to persuade Cassandra that La Calida is only an hour’s drive from here.’ He smiled down at her. ‘What do you say, cara?’

  ‘I think I should go and check on David,’ she responded, lifting her head, looking at him, not at Enrique. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘Pero—’

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Enrique, pre-empting any offer Luis might have made to accompany her, earning an annoyed look from both his other guests. The arrival of a dark-coated retainer prevented any argument, however, and he ordered coffee to be served in the Salón de Alcazar. Then, before Cassandra could think of any objection, ‘Make yourselves comfortable. We will not be long.’

  ‘There’s no need for anyone to come with me,’ declared Cassandra shortly, as he followed her towards the door, and he heard the tremor in her voice she was trying hard to disguise. She looked up at him now and there were tears of outrage as well as anger in her eyes. ‘Really, I would prefer to go alone.’

  ‘And lose your way back?’ he suggested in a low voice that only she could hear, and she pressed her hands together as if to the quell the urge to scratch his eyes out.

  ‘I’m not completely stupid,’ she said, her lips tight. She looked at the other woman, who was watching them with hard resentful eyes. ‘If I don’t see you again, Señora de Romero, it’s been a—singular pleasure.’

  Sanchia was taken aback. Enrique guessed she’d thought Cassandra was too intimidated by her surroundings to notice her veiled hostility, but she’d been wrong. They’d all been wrong about Cassandra, he admitted wryly. Including himself.

  But he had the advantage in that this was his father’s house and as his guest Cassandra could hardly order him not to go with her. Nevertheless, she set a brisk pace along the corridor that linked the family apartments with the other areas of the house and he was forced to quicken his step to keep up with her.

  He didn’t know how she walked as fast as she did in the high-heeled sandals she was wearing this evening; high heeled sandals that drew his attention to the slim ankles appearing below the hem of her long skirt. Her stride gave tantalising glimpses of the pale thighs exposed as her long steps parted the wrap-around folds.

  He’d wished earlier that she’d worn a shorter skirt until he’d seen the way Luis was looking at her. Sanchia was wearing a short chiffon gown that displayed her silk-covered thighs to advantage, but the sequinned vest Cassandra had teamed with the ankle-length skirt was revealing enough. He’d found he objected to the other man ogling her narrow shoulders and slim arms, and he’d known a quite uncharacteristic desire to behave as his ancestors might have done and shut her away from any male eyes but his own.

  Which was not something he wanted to think about at this moment. He tried to convince himself that his only motive in offering to accompany her was, as he’d said, to ensure that she found her way back. But now that they were alone together all he could think about was his own intense attraction to her. His hand went out almost involuntarily to fasten around her upper arm.

  ‘Slow down!’

  ‘I don’t want to slow down.’ Cassandra glanced scornfully at him. ‘If you don’t like the way I’m walking, why don’t you do us both a favour and stop embarrassing me?’

  ‘Embarrassing you?’ Enrique exerted himself and brought her to a halt. ‘How am I embarrassing you?’

  ‘By behaving as if I’m not capable of finding my own way about the palacio.’ Cassandra looked pointedly at his hand gripping her arm. ‘I found my way here, didn’t I? You have no right to do this.’

  ‘In my culture, escorting a guest to her room is not considered to be embarrassing her,’ retorted Enrique stiffly.

  ‘Well, in mine, forcing your company on someone else is considered harassment,
’ replied Cassandra tersely. ‘I wish you would leave me alone.’

  Enrique didn’t know how to answer that. She had every right to resent his actions and he would find it very hard to explain to himself why he was persisting with this. Far better to let her go and return to the others, to Sanchia, who would welcome him back with open arms. Why was he pursuing Cassandra when he’d already stirred up a storm by kissing her in the courtyard the morning his mother had arrived at the palacio? What did he want from her, for God’s sake? Why didn’t he just put the past behind him and let her go?

  The truth was, he didn’t want to let her go. And he was finding it far too easy to delude himself that she felt the same. If David was his son…But that way lay madness. David was Antonio’s child. She’d told him so herself.

  Or had she?

  He looked down at her flesh beneath his hand and knew a surge of emotion. He liked holding her; he liked the warmth the connection was generating throughout the rest of his body. He liked the sense that she was his prisoner, though that was not a thought he wanted to pursue. But he liked the contrast between his dark tan and her much paler skin, the notion that, like the warp and weft of the tapestries behind him, they belonged together.

  Trying not to look at the too-tempting beauty of her mouth, he said, ‘I thought you might be glad of my company.’ He spread a hand to encompass the long corridor with its high vaulted ceiling and sombre portraits of his ancestors. ‘The Galería de los Inocentes can feel intimidating at night. I used to feel ghostly eyes watching me when I was a child.’

  ‘But I’m not a child.’ Cassandra glanced indifferently about her and he realised she had been too incensed by his behaviour to notice her surroundings. Now she acknowledged his words with a careless shrug of her shoulders. ‘I’d say these paintings are more likely to haunt you than me. I’ve done nothing to arouse their—disapproval.’