A Mistress, a Scandal, a Ring

by Angela Bissell

  And it was savage. Like no other kiss she’d ever experienced before. A kiss of anger and dominance and control. It should have horrified her, incensed her, but there was something sinfully sensual, darkly exhilarating, about the way his firm lips moved with such brutal purpose over hers.

  She made a sound she told herself was protest but feared was actually acquiescence. Heat stung her body in places he wasn’t even touching. And where he did touch... She felt branded. Claimed. By his hands. His mouth. Even the scrape of his thick stubble on her skin seemed like a deliberate attempt to mark and punish.

  Never in her life had she been kissed with such utter, breathtaking mastery.

  Her mouth yielded under the relentless pressure of his and he went deeper, angling his head and prising her lips apart, stroking his tongue boldly against hers so the combined tastes of coffee and almonds and virile male burst in her mouth like an intoxicant, dangerous and shocking and yet oh-so-delicious.

  A deep, responsive shiver rippled through her muscles, and she thought she felt a similar shudder go through him. But then, abruptly, he tore his mouth off hers, throwing her into a state of dazed confusion.

  ‘I am not your brother.’

  It took a moment for her shellshocked brain to comprehend what he’d said. Still holding her trapped between the car and his body, he shifted his weight until suddenly the hard, unmistakable ridge of his full male arousal pressed against her belly.

  ‘Do not test me,’ he said, his voice a low rumble of warning, ‘and expect me to behave as if I am.’

  Clamping her upper arms, he moved her sideways, then released her to open her door.

  Heart pounding, hands trembling, she retrieved her sunglasses from the roof and pushed them onto her face. She should say something, she thought weakly, balling her hands at her sides. Something assertive, something to express the anger and indignation she should be feeling—was feeling, she corrected herself. But in that moment, with her mind still reeling and her body feeling strangely deprived now that he’d moved away, all she could focus on was getting herself into the car before her knees gave out.

  The drive back to the villa took an age. A wall of silence had descended, thick and unscaleable, and Jordan could think of nothing to say to breach it.

  Nothing that wouldn’t betray how deeply shaken she felt.

  Xavier had kissed her.

  More, he’d revealed his arousal in a manner so blunt and brazen she should have been scandalised. But instead she’d been turned on. And she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop remembering how his mouth had felt on hers. Couldn’t forget his taste. Couldn’t stop replaying that kiss, in all its brutal, breath-stealing glory, over and over in her head.

  But the most disturbing thing of all was the hot blaze of yearning in her belly.

  Xavier had kissed her.

  And she wanted him to do it again.

  * * *

  He shouldn’t have done it.

  Xav pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed himself for the hundredth time since they’d got back to the villa. He shouldn’t have kissed Jordan the way he had, with anger and arrogance and a dark compulsion to punish.

  And yet he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed every damned second of plundering those soft, honeyed lips.

  She’d enjoyed it, too. He was sure of it. She’d made a sexy little moaning sound in her throat and softened her mouth under his, granting him access to go deep, to stroke his tongue in and taste her...which had been his undoing.

  Because now that he knew how sweet she was, his tastebuds cried out for more.

  And his body ached. Wanted. Wanted what he shouldn’t have.

  Biting back another curse, he shut his laptop and stood up from his desk. He’d stared at the same columns and rows of figures for over an hour. Clearly work wasn’t going to provide the distraction he’d hoped for.

  He moved through the open French doors of his study and stood on the terrace, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, his gaze drifting out across the ocean to where the sun’s glow was no more than a dying ember on the horizon.

  It wasn’t only the kiss that had played endlessly on his mind these last few hours. It was everything that had happened today. The village. The Gonzalezes. The stories about Camila Sanchez that he’d listened to over lunch...

  The harsh things he’d said to Jordan in the car afterwards, which he now regretted.

  Returning here, to the unapologetically plush surroundings of his home, had evoked in him a raft of strange emotions. He wasn’t an idle man—he worked hard and always would—but there was no disputing the fact that his life had been one of privilege and opportunity. A life he’d have been denied had his birth mother chosen to keep him.

  He lived the life of an aristocrat. He bore the de la Vega name. He sat on the Vega Corporation’s board, owned a slice of the empire and held the position of Chief Executive—a role coveted by certain members of the extended de la Vega clan who believed it wasn’t his birthright.

  And they weren’t wrong.

  Dios. Wouldn’t his father’s cousin Hector and his son Diego just love to know that Xav had been born the illegitimate son of a farmer’s daughter?

  The sound of splashing water filtered into his thoughts and he found himself sauntering along the stone terrace and around the corner of the villa to where the swimming pool was located. He neared the water, saw a flash of long, pale limbs and froze, realising too late his mistake.

  There was only one person—one woman—who’d be swimming in his pool.

  He turned to leave.

  ‘Xavier!’

  Her soft voice curled through his insides like the silky song of a siren, sweet and seductive and impossible to resist.

  ‘Would you hand me my towel, please?’

  Damn it.

  He turned back, saw the fluffy white towel on the lounger next to him and grabbed it just as she hoisted herself out of the water. Extending his arm so he didn’t have to get too close, he held the towel out. But she didn’t take it straight away, instead lifting her arms to wring out her hair.

  Jaw clenched, he tried looking anywhere but at her. Impossible. Especially once he’d caught an eyeful of pert breasts and budded nipples under the wet, clingy Lycra of her crimson bikini top.

  ‘For God’s sake, Jordan,’ he gritted out, before his self-control caved in and he let his gaze sweep the rest of her. ‘Take the damn towel.’

  Her eyes widened, and then her mouth pursed and she snatched the towel from him, wrapping it sarong-style around herself.

  ‘You’ve had four hours to cool off,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still angry.’

  Angry? He almost laughed. Try deeply sexually frustrated. Or how about conflicted?

  Because it was an unfamiliar kind of hell he found himself in—desiring a woman he shouldn’t have. A woman who wasn’t remotely suitable for him.

  Over the past decade he’d been judicious in his choice of lovers. Not only because he’d felt the need to counterbalance his brother’s playboy antics but because as Chief Executive he held himself to a higher standard. To command respect his behaviour had to be beyond reproach—not only in his professional life but his personal life as well.

  Always there’d be those like Hector and Diego, hovering in the wings, watching and waiting for him to screw up, to prove himself unfit for the role.

  As a rule he kept his relationships low-key and avoided one-night stands. He chose lovers who were emotionally mature and discreet about their personal lives, and he demanded exclusivity for the duration of their relationship, whether that be for two months or two years.

  And he never, never, made himself vulnerable the way he had with Natasha.

  When he’d hit thirty and succeeded his father as CEO he’d felt more keenly than ever the external pressure to ‘settle d
own’. Many of his peers had taken wives, started producing the requisite heirs to their personal fortunes and empires. Conservative board members and shareholders preferred a leader who represented stability and family values. Hell, even his own brother had traded in his hedonistic lifestyle for the domestic idyll of marriage and fatherhood, giving their delighted parents their first grandchild—a baby girl—a few months ago.

  Consequently Xav had become even more circumspect in his choice of lovers, narrowing his criteria to exclude women who didn’t have the qualities of a desirable marriage partner.

  The problem was that most women clung to the flawed romantic ideal of marrying for love, and he was too brutally honest to let a woman believe he would ever love her.

  Respect, physical gratification, even affection...he could do all of these things. But love? With all its pressure and expectation and potential for pain? No.

  Unfortunately that made finding the perfect woman damn near impossible. Which was why he had recently engaged the services of an exclusive high-end matchmaker—the very idea of which had drawn the patent disapproval of the woman standing before him now. A woman who’d also appeared scandalised at the idea of marrying for compatibility and not love.

  And right there was all the deterrent he should need—without even going near the mind-bending fact that she was his birth mother’s stepdaughter—and yet here he stood, mesmerised by a pair of golden-green eyes, a supple body and a lush mouth that made his own water hungrily at the recollection of driving her soft lips apart and delving into the honeyed depths—

  ‘Xavier?’

  His name was no more than a husky whisper across those beautiful lips, but it snapped him back to full consciousness. His palms felt cool and damp, and he saw with a jolt that his hands were curled over Jordan’s wet shoulders. And he was close. So close their thighs and torsos almost touched. Her head tipped back on her slender neck to look up at him. Her eyes were big and round, lips parted.

  Dios.

  He didn’t even remember moving. He jerked his hands off her body, stepped back, but she came with him and he realised one of her slim hands gripped the front of his polo shirt.

  ‘Xavier, please... You’ve barely said a word to me since...’

  She trailed off and he read frustration and confusion in her flushed face, but also desire. It was there in her widened pupils and her softly parted lips. In the way the hectic colour spilled down her throat and décolletage and stained the pale upper slopes of her breasts.

  If he chose to do so right now he could carry her up to his room, peel away the wet bikini and satisfy his desire to taste her until she came against his tongue, and she wouldn’t stop him.

  The deeply erotic thought had him hardening and lengthening in his jeans until the tight fit of the denim was almost unbearable.

  Never before had his self-control been so sorely tested...

  ‘Jordan—’

  ‘Don’t.’ A fierce look crossed her face. ‘Don’t say sorry. Or tell me you regret it. Because I don’t.’

  He heard the pride and defiance in her voice, and if he’d had any capacity whatsoever for gentleness just then he would have tried to spare her feelings. But the only way to keep a tight rein on his lust and prevent himself weakening was to be hard. Adamant.

  ‘I do regret it,’ he said, grasping her wrist and disentangling her fingers from his shirt. ‘The kiss was a mistake.’

  Hurt flashed in those big hazel eyes but her chin stayed boldly elevated. ‘It didn’t feel like a mistake to me. It felt pretty...amazing.’

  He didn’t like the way his pulse kicked then, as if his body agreed with her assessment.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ he repeated. ‘And it won’t happen again.’ He released her wrist and stepped back. ‘Goodnight, Jordan.’ And he stalked back to his study.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JORDAN WOKE IN the morning feeling as mortified as she had when she’d crawled into bed last night.

  She stared at the canopy above her head and pressed her palms to her cheeks. Just thinking about what had happened by the pool—or rather what hadn’t happened—made her face burn and her stomach shrink all over again.

  After hours of feeling as if her body was in the grip of a prolonged flush, she’d put her bikini on and slipped quietly out onto the terrace for an evening dip. She hadn’t seen Xavier in hours. He had distanced himself as soon as they’d arrived at the villa, stalking off to his study and then letting her know via Rosa that he was working and wouldn’t be joining her for a meal.

  Jordan had filled the intervening hours with a bout of determined activity, taking a long walk down the tiered terraces to the private beach at the bottom of the property, then back up through the citrus orchards on the gentle slopes behind the villa.

  On her return she’d followed her nose to the enormous kitchen, where the divine smells of fresh baking had wafted in the air. Rosa had fixed her a snack and then sat down and shared a pot of tea with her.

  But nothing had distracted her completely from thoughts of that kiss.

  Or, more disturbingly, from thoughts of what that kiss might have led to had they not been standing on a public street but somewhere more private.

  As for what had possessed her to ask him to hand her the towel when she’d been perfectly able to fetch it herself... She only knew that her heart had leapt into her throat when she’d surfaced from under the water and spied him walking away. She’d called out his name on impulse, then quickly had to think of something to say.

  He’d looked so attractive. Still in jeans, but with the white button-down shirt replaced by a black polo shirt that showed off his tanned, muscular arms and fitted snugly across his powerful shoulders and chest. His physique looked more like that of a professional athlete than a desk-bound executive. She’d wondered how a man who spent so much time in boardrooms and offices kept himself so lean and fit.

  And then her ability to think anything at all had fled. His hands had come down on her shoulders and his expression had changed from annoyed to something much more intense.

  He’d been going to kiss her again—she was sure of it—and her heart had raced, pumping a dizzying mix of desire and adrenaline into her bloodstream.

  Without realising it she’d gripped the front of his shirt and tipped her face up. Wanting to be kissed. Wanting to experience the same heady rush of excitement and endorphins as when he had trapped her against the car with his hard body and claimed her mouth with deliciously brutal force.

  But then he’d abruptly backed off and she’d made an utter fool of herself, clinging to his shirt. Telling him she thought their kiss had been amazing.

  Oh, God. Had she really said that?

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Why, oh, why had she set herself up for such a humiliating rejection?

  And yet... He hadn’t been unaffected by their kiss, had he? As evidenced by his erection!

  An erection he had shamelessly and shockingly made her aware of.

  She groaned. She was mortified and confused.

  She got up and opened the blinds and the French doors, breathing deeply as fresh air and bright sunlight flooded the room. The exquisite view from the balcony never failed to amaze her. For a moment she stood and drank in the vista, imprinting the vivid colours of the landscape and the bright blue sea into her memory.

  She couldn’t stay. Xavier’s withdrawal had sent a clear message. If she remained she’d outstay her welcome, and she couldn’t bear the thought of lingering where she wasn’t wanted. Besides, she had planned to spend only six days tops in Barcelona. Time enough to sightsee, do the day trip to Camila’s village and give the letter to Xavier.

  Check, check and check.

  She headed for the shower. It was almost nine o’clock. A very late time to get up for her, but she supposed that was what happened when you lay awake half the night with an e
rotic slideshow of illicit imaginings running through your head.

  On the upside, Xavier had most probably left for work by now, and the idea of not having to face him brought a surge of cowardly relief. This way was best. She’d spare him the inevitable awkwardness and herself any further embarrassment. She’d leave him a nice thank-you note, plus the money he hadn’t taken the other night for the hostel bill, and go on her way with a clear conscience.

  When she went downstairs with her backpack Rosa looked startled, and then dismayed when she explained she was leaving. The housekeeper insisted she at least stay for a cooked breakfast and she gratefully accepted.

  Sitting on a stool at the enormous granite-topped island while Rosa bustled around the kitchen, she took out her palm tablet and booked a ticket for the next sailing to Mallorca.

  Rosa slid a fluffy, delicious-looking omelette in front of her, disappeared for a few minutes while she ate, and returned with the envelope she’d asked for earlier.

  When her taxi arrived she pressed the envelope with her note and the money inside it into Rosa’s hand. ‘Please give this to Xavier.’ She leaned in and hugged the older woman. ‘Thank you so much for your hospitality, Rosa. I’m sorry I’ve missed Delmar and Alfonso. Please say goodbye to them for me.’

  Only when she was in the taxi and nearing Barcelona’s busy port did she acknowledge the hollow feeling in her chest. It was so similar to the feeling she’d had in the days after her dad died, and again after Camila passed, that she couldn’t understand why it should accost her now—and so intensely.

  On impulse she opened her tote bag and found the photo Maria had given her. Xavier and his biological father were so alike, with those lean, dark good looks, it made her heart clutch to see it.

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine how a young Camila might have fallen head over heels.

  An ache pressed against her breastbone. She felt as if she was stealing something precious from Xavier by not showing him the photo. Not sharing what she knew of his birth father.