And he wasn’t helping because his voice was warm and sunny, his accent riveting, as he came over to the bedside, put a glass of chilled orange juice in her hands and said, ‘This morning we will walk before the sun gets high. We both need the exercise.’ He dipped his head to one side, his eyes wandering over her flushed features. ‘We shall take our breakfast with us—I have already told Rosalia. Hurry now; drink your juice.’
The grin he gave her made her head swim; she clutched the glass tightly with both hands because she felt giddy enough to spill the contents and she watched him, mesmerised, as he strolled over to the wardrobes and riffled through the clothes he had decided his sister wouldn’t miss.
His black mood of the night before had gone as if it had never been. He was impossible, unpredictable, a devil. She never knew how he would be with her from one moment to the next, and her eyes were wary as he selected a hanger and draped something in peacock-blue filmy cotton over the foot of the bed. His sinfully beautiful mouth was curling at the edges as he told her softly, ‘Wear this; it will cover you adequately. You must treasure your beautiful, delicate skin, protect it. You are not like me, a gypsy, to walk uncovered in the sun. So no more anger between us, eh, Salome? Today we will be friends.’
Oh, a devil indeed! After the chilling anger of the night before she felt as if she had walked into brilliant sunshine. And he was getting more Spanish by the second, she thought wildly as she watched him watching her from lazy black eyes, his longfingered hands planted on his sexily lean hips.
She would have given at least two of her teeth for the strength of will to command him to go away, to take himself for a walk and forget to come back. But she doubted there was a woman alive who could resist him and knew he was aware of it, but even that failed to put a stop to her willingness to fall in with any plans he had made. And she hadn’t even inwardly objected to his use of her given name, she thought, more in sorrow than in anger, watching him as he took the empty glass from her limp fingers then walked out into the adjoining sitting-room, the smile curving his lips telling her plainly that he knew he could get his own way, whatever the opposition.
Only she wasn’t opposing him, was she? she thought as she clambered out of bed and into the bathroom, excusing herself on the grounds that there seemed little point in getting stubborn about this because a walk would pass the time, and she could do with the exercise, and, anyway, her father might have turned up by the time they got back.
But she didn’t believe that, did she?
However, she refused to think about that, or anything else, as she slid the soft fine cotton over her head, and didn’t scowl at the ultra-feminine reflection the mirror threw back at her because the simple loose style, the cool V-neckline and floaty sleeves that came down to her wrists felt good. And the colour suited her, dramatically darkening her aquamarine eyes, making her hair even paler, glossier.
She walked back into the bedroom, her breath escaping on a tiny gasp when she met the gleaming approval of his eyes as he wandered back through from the other room.
The things he could do to her with his eyes alone shouldn’t be allowed, not in a civilised society, she thought raggedly, then decided he wasn’t civilised at all, not really, because beneath the handsome, groomed exterior, all the laid-back charm he seemed able to turn on at will, lurked a bundle of primitive passions that could explode without warning, a truly arrogant belief in his own omnipotence, a raw vitality that made every other man she knew seem congenitally anaemic and a ferocious sexuality that had the power to stun.
He was holding a wide-brimmed straw hat and as he advanced she felt her bones turn to water. She said chirpily, trying to rally herself, ‘Is that for me?’ and lost the little ground she’d gained for herself when his slow mocking smile, the unholy gleam in his eyes rendered her incapable of speech or movement.
‘I guess it must be. It’s not quite my style; doesn’t do a thing for me.’
He moved closer and put it on her head, tugging gently on the wide brim to achieve the effect he wanted, smoothing away soft tendrils of hair, and all the time he was much too close and she had to fight a terrible craving to move a little closer still, close enough to feel that magnificent, vital body touching hers, imprinting her flesh with the magnetic potency of his.
She closed her eyes on a wave of despair. The fight was well and truly on—the fight with herself. What she felt was lust, a wild stirring of hormones too long ignored. She would not give in to it. She would not follow in her father’s hedonistic footsteps. She would not lose control. Not even for a moment!
‘Shall we go?’ She twisted her head away and tried to look frosty but her efforts only served to amuse him. She saw the half-hidden smile as he picked up a canvas bag she hadn’t noticed before and hoisted the strap over his shoulder.
‘Breakfast.’ He patted the bag lightly. ‘As I told you, I asked Rosalia to pack a picnic.’
He looked impossibly smug and quite extravagantly gorgeous and she wanted to kick him for the way he made her feel. But she had decided not to dwell on that, hadn’t she? So she told him tartly, ‘How thoughtful. But then I suppose thoughtfulness comes easily when you can pay somebody else to do the donkey work.’
‘Friends—remember?’ His voice was a throaty, velvet purr and his hand was on her waist as he led her out of the suite. Her brows peaked, expressing a vague anxiety that came out of nowhere, as they made their way down through the sturdy stone building, ending up on the wisteria-clad terraces where he’d left her the day before.
Friends. She would like to think he was her friend, she thought wistfully as he ran lithely down a flight of stone steps at the far end of the terraces and pushed open a narrow door in the curtain wall. In fact, she craved his friendship quite desperately, she acknowledged, his smile hitting her like a blow to her chest as he held open the door that led on to the mountainside.
But it wasn’t possible. How could they be friends after what he’d done? He had tricked her into coming here and would hold her here, depriving her of her freedom, until he got what he wanted— Piers’ neck beneath those strong tanned hands, she reminded herself. And as if that weren’t enough he had humiliated, insulted and embarrassed her. So no, they couldn’t be friends, and she couldn’t understand why she should want it otherwise.
She deplored the way her throat suddenly tightened, tears stinging the back of her eyes. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, and gave up trying to fathom it out when he held out a hand to help her over the stony path.
Just for today she would pretend, she capitulated as she felt those lean fingers curl around hers, give way to the unexpected side of her nature that seemed intent on fighting the calm control that had been the cornerstone of her existence. She didn’t want a battle, not today, not when the warm Andalusian wind was moulding the fine cotton to her strangely sensitised flesh, the scent of wild herbs and flowers a heady narcotic, drugging her senses, the view of the dry rocky mountains almost as magnificent and soul-stirring as the unpredictable Spaniard who gripped her hand so tightly, fierce pride in his black eyes as he pointed out the extent of his lands.
‘Has all this been in your family forever?’ she asked, flustered, as he sank to the sparse dry grass at the foot of a rocky outcrop, pulling her with him. Today she was allowing the fantasy of friendship and that probably explained the burning need to know all about him. Friends needed to know what made each other tick, didn’t they?
‘Practically,’ he answered with a tiny shrug. ‘At least, to an offshoot of my mother’s branch of the family. My mother had blotted her copybook as far as her family were concerned. I inherited a place that was rapidly falling into ruin, estates that were run-down and under-utilised, simply because there was no one else.’ Again the tiny shrug and all the time he’d been talking he’d been rummaging in the capacious haversack, producing a simple meal of bread and ham and olives, a flask of hot coffee.
‘Nothing’s ruined now,’ she probed, accepting the slice of ham
he offered on the tip of a wickedlooking knife, folding it in her fingers, watching him as he cut a slice for himself.
His thick black lashes lowered, hiding his expressive eyes, he answered levelly, ‘I made sure it is not. I look after what is mine to the full extent of my talents and energy.’
As he had looked after his sister? she wondered. Jealously, smotheringly, eventually driving her away with someone as unsuitable as Piers?
But he cut off the direction of her thoughts, telling her, ‘I gave up dealing on the international money market and gave everything I am to the task of putting everything here back together again. Making it pay. And that’s the name of the game, isn’t it, Salome?’
His smile was sweet and slow, drawing her closer into the web of his attraction, and she dipped her head, hiding behind the wide brim of her sun hat, overcome with a completely novel sense of shyness. And she felt her insides quiver as he said softly, ‘We’ve been too busy scoring points off each other to share confidences. Understandable, perhaps, in the circumstances, but I want it to stop. I want us to get to know each other. I hope you want it too. So tell me something about yourself, and take your time. We have all day.’
He wanted to get to know her, and they had all day! So this wasn’t to be a short break, breakfast sandwiched between a little essential exercise, then a return to the castle where he would leave her to kick her heels all day under the watchful eye of Rosalia. She went weak inside, almost melting with excitement at the thought of it, and said huskily, ‘What’s to tell? I’m a very ordinary person.’ She popped the last morsel of food in her mouth, hardly able to swallow it because of the tightening of her throat muscles.
‘Not so ordinary.’ He stretched full-length in the shade, his arms crossed behind his head, closing his eyes. ‘You’re the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. Layer upon layer. Stubborn as they come. Were you a difficult child?’
She smiled and shook her head. Then, realising he had his eyes closed, she said, ‘I was very biddable. I had to be. The only one in our family allowed to be difficult was Piers. Patience—my mother—and I used to run around after him doing our best to bring some order into his life, making sure he ate and slept fairly regularly and sometimes changed his clothes.’
He was easy to talk to. Perhaps because he wasn’t looking at her, maybe drifting off to sleep. She tucked her legs beneath her, her skirts pooling around her, turning her head to watch an eagle soaring high above the picturesque village in the valley so far below, not looking at Francisco because now it hurt too much, an unbearable pain clutching at her heart.
She flinched at the sudden harshness in his tone as he demanded, ‘Was he unfaithful to your mother? Was that why you tried to become cold?’
Cold? Was that what he thought of her?
‘I’ve never consciously tried to be anything except sensible,’ she replied, stung. ‘Somebody has to be when you’re living around my father. He earned himself a reputation by his painting, and an even bigger one by horsing around. I watched Patience run herself ragged and after she died I tried to carry on the good work. But I was only a kid. There was no way I could succeed where she had failed.
‘And I don’t know whether he was unfaithful.’ Her fingers were busily pleating the fabric of her skirt, her voice going tighter. ‘If he was, Patience hid it. He used to take himself off, usually when he’d been working non-stop on a painting, and, as Patience put it, let off steam. It was only after her death that his flings with other women became public knowledge.
‘Perhaps,’ she added slowly, with a shaft of insight, ‘perhaps he missed her. Found substitutes for a short time, but wouldn’t put any one of them permanently in Patience’s place because none of them could live up to his memory of her.’
She chewed uncertainly on the corner of her lip. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think Dad and I have ever really talked about anything important. But I do know that his women were all round about his own age. Maybe mothering—which was what Patience had been doing all their married lives—was what he was looking for. As well as passion.’
Which was why, at the very beginning, she’d been unable to believe that he’d taken up with a girl younger than his own daughter.
‘So you decided to make your life tidy and ordered, in direct contrast to the chaos you probably believed was responsible for your mother’s untimely death. A natural reaction from a sensitive child in her teens.’ Suddenly his arm snaked up and fastened around her neck, drawing her down beside him on the herb-scented grass, his voice a wicked whisper as he said, ‘The repression didn’t go too deep to do permanent damage, did it, Salome?’
Somehow one of his hands was resting lightly on her breast, his fingers softly curling, and her body took heat from the closeness of his, the wild race of hot blood through her veins making her insane with need for him as, his lips moving slowly, erotically against hers, he murmured, ‘Let me repair the tiny damage. Let me show you what passion means.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘IDON’T think—’
Sarah tried desperately hard not to melt right into him; her faltering words of attempted protest felt clumsy, thick in her throat, and he silenced her, his lips covering hers, murmuring, ‘Bueno. I don’t want you to think. Simply to feel. Give yourself up to sensation.’ His mouth moved over hers like hot velvet and her lips quivered helplessly for one fraught, indecisive moment before her long lashes drifted down as she closed her eyes, accepting the sweet release of inevitability.
A deep hunger grew and raged within her, an aching unquestionable need to belong to this man, body, soul and heart, an instinctive, primeval knowledge that this was right, that nothing beyond this unbearably sweet moment mattered. And the way he was touching her breasts, stroking them through the thin fabric of her borrowed dress, went beyond torment; she arched her body in frantic need and heard him whisper thickly in his own language, his body hardening as his kiss changed from sweet seduction to dark, driven passion.
He was utterly dominant, his lips, his tongue, his hard male body demanding submission now and she gave it willingly, lost to rational thought, winding her arms around his neck, instinctively inviting, lost in a welter of savage emotions as she wrapped her long legs around his, binding him closer. His hands shaped her body with a burning urgency that electrified her senses and made her cry out his name on a sigh of aching need.
And when his hand slipped beneath the ruckedup hem of her dress and touched her, slid lingeringly over the soft, satiny skin of her thigh, she gave a tiny gasp, moving her hips against his, shocked by the undreamt-of world of pleasure that was opening up for her.
‘Dios!’ For a moment his body went rigidly still and she could hear the heavy pumping of his heartbeats, and then he released her, twisting away, his slashing cheekbones stained with the hot flames of desire, as intense as the blistering Spanish sun as it rode the raw blue sky.
Sarah blinked bewildered eyes, crossing her arms over her tummy where an aching emptiness was rapidly taking the place of that melting loveliness, and her tiny mew of distress was instinctive, the sound torn from the depths of her being.
He gave her a quick, searching frown then took one of her hands in his, raising it to his lips, murmuring thickly, ‘No, no, querida. This is not rejection. Never think that. I burn for you; my whole body is on fire for you.’ He pressed slow kisses on the backs of her fingers, holding her captive with his hot black eyes. ‘If you only knew how hard I had to fight not to take what I want so desperately. You are beautiful, passionately generous, adorable, and I want you more than I can remember ever wanting any woman. But now is not right.’ He turned her hand, his lips moving lingeringly on her palm. ‘Though the time will come, and it will be perfect for us, this I promise you.’
She dragged in a breath as the madness receded, leaving her feeling almost stunned, then scrambled unsteadily to her feet. She didn’t doubt him. It would be perfect between them, shatteringly so.
But the chill wind of reason was coolin
g her blood, clearing her mind. She craved him, all of him, with everything in her. Quite suddenly, he was the centre of her existence. And if this was what love was, then it terrified her. It took away her sense of self, her identity, and wrapped it up with him so that there seemed no place to go, not without him, nowhere to be but by his side.
He had kissed her and she had been swept away in a whirlwind of insanity, the madness of falling in love, the crazy desire to cleave to him through the rest of her life. It was only his control that had enabled her to rescue hers. She saw it all with a clarity that hurt.
He would make love to her when the time was right. Reason and logic made that promise feel like a threat. And how would it be? When would the time, the place be right? Chilled champagne, the big soft bed, the dark velvet, exotically scented Spanish night? And then what? Boot her out again when he got bored, or when her father showed up, whichever came the sooner?
She wasn’t going to let herself compound the hurt that was already squeezing her heart until it bled. She had more sense than that.
‘I’ll make my own way back,’ she said coolly, not looking at him. ‘Carry on walking, if that’s what you want. I won’t get lost. We haven’t come far.’ Not come far! she thought on an aching shudder. She was a million miles away from the unawakened woman who had so blithely set out this morning, pretending to herself that she wanted this devil to be her friend.
But Francisco merely laughed, low and soft in his throat. ‘I have you with me now. I don’t let go. Will you remember that?’
He traced the outline of her full lips with a trailing finger and she closed her eyes, shuddering with sensation. Oh, God, she didn’t think she could bear it—loving him, wanting him, all so desperately! And his feathery touch was dark magic, a prelude to the mystery of human desire; her lips quivered helplessly, her bones shaking inside her. She didn’t know how she could fight it.
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