The Spaniard's Woman

by Diana Hamilton

  She couldn’t begin to understand him. Last night he’d barely been able to bring himself to speak to her and now he was all smiles, teasing her. It was his volatile Spanish temperament, she guessed. Whatever, she wasn’t going to knock it!

  Her eyes were sparkling at him, come-to-bed eyes. Sebastian’s throat went tight. Her lovely hair was all over the place. His fingers ached to touch it, smooth it away from her face, to peel the duvet away from her slender but perfect body, to lose himself in her again.

  Bunching his treacherous hands in the side pockets of his suit trousers, Sebastian turned abruptly away from a temptation he was having difficulty resisting, and said flatly, ‘Wear something warm; it’s cold out.’ He closed the door with deliberate quietness behind him and strode, tight-lipped, to the kitchen and the pot of hot coffee he’d made before waking her.

  Ten minutes later Rosie tracked him down. Sprawled out at the kitchen table, he was staring moodily into a mug of black coffee. He hadn’t heard her enter and for a few moments she allowed herself the luxury of just looking at him.

  He was so attractive he made her head spin and her heart jump right up into her throat. Wearing a mid-grey suit, immaculately tailored to his lithe body, a paler grey shirt and deep blue silk tie, he literally took her breath away.

  The only thing that marred the effect of suave masculine perfection was the tousled state of his raven hair. Had he been running frantic fingers through it, reducing its normally expensively barbered state to something that resembled a wind tossed haystack? It gave him an endearing look of vulnerability that turned her insides over.

  How could such a gorgeous guy have found her desirable enough to make love to her? If she hadn’t known it had happened she would have said it was impossible. Unless, and the thought drained her, he had simply wanted sex and any available woman would have done.

  She must have made some sound because he turned and looked at her, his wide hard mouth flat and tight. She saw his eyes raking her, taking in her most presentable jeans, the anorak worn over the scarlet woolly jumper Jean had knitted for her last Christmas. Whether it was the contrast between her plain ordinariness and his own Savile Row urbanity, she had no way of knowing. Whatever, she could read his moody, narrowed eyes well enough to know that there was some kind of battle going on inside that handsome head.

  She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath beneath his raking scrutiny until she saw his tense shoulders relax, his mouth soften into a half-smile as he got fluidly to his feet.

  Sebastian covered the distance between them in three smooth strides. Selfishly, he’d been too twisted up in his own convoluted and confused thought processes for the past twenty-four hours to give any thought to what she must be feeling, had spent far too much time trying to sort his head out.

  She was alone in the world, probably scared silly at the prospect of possible pregnancy, out of her depth and nervous about spending the next couple of weeks in a foreign country with people who were strangers to her.

  He had to reassure her, put her at her ease. Make her understand that he would take care of her. A warm glow centred in the region of his heart. Caring for her wouldn’t present a problem—so long as he could handle his libido, he amended wryly.

  Reaching a soft white handkerchief from his pocket, he shook out the folds and gently rubbed her mouth, removing all traces of the bright orange lipstick she had plastered all over it, carefully avoiding the stunned shock in her beautiful eyes.

  At least she wasn’t wearing that awful cheap dress. It had been several sizes too big, badly made, and the purply blue colour hadn’t done a thing for her. When she’d walked in wearing it another of those giant waves of tenderness had swamped him.

  He’d wanted to rip the offensive thing off her back and dress her in the best that money could buy, pay tribute to her loveliness.

  Well, the thought was father to the deed, wasn’t it? Producing a flat tone, he informed her, ‘That’s better.’ He dropped his hands and made a show of consulting his watch again. ‘The limo should be waiting now. Hungry?’ A casual hand on the small of her back urged her to the vestibule and the waiting lift, and Rosie went, feeling all tangled up inside.

  Her soft lips felt swollen, sensitised. As if he had kissed her.

  What he’d done had felt so—so intimate and really erotic she admitted to herself on a quiver of hopelessly futile excitement.

  When all it had really meant was that he didn’t like to see women wearing make-up. She had thought the splash of vivid colour had made her look less as if she was part of the woodwork.

  When he ushered her into the rear of the waiting chauffeur-driven limo she gathered up her wandering wits and wanted to know, ‘Why hire this package when you’ve a very nice car of your own?’

  Sliding back the glass partition, Sebastian gave the driver a series of instructions, then settled back beside her as the big car purred away to join the traffic. ‘Because I dislike driving in

  London. It takes too much concentration and today I want to concentrate on you.’

  That piece of information flustered her. Almost as much as the close proximity of his lean and powerful frame, the long legs stretched out in front of him, the expensive fabric clinging lovingly to his thighs. Naked, those thighs were hot and hard, roughened with dark body hair. A far too vivid memory of how they had felt entwined with her own made her go hot all over.

  She swallowed convulsively, felt her face flame, and looked quickly away. Almost before she knew it the car was stationary, Sebastian sliding out and opening the door at her side.

  They were in a side street, and even she knew you weren’t allowed to park on double yellow lines. They were standing outside a cafe with steamed up windows and handwritten notices in alarming colours giving the prices of this and that.

  Bemused, Rosie glanced up at him and felt a smile creep over her face. Provided she could stop herself having wicked thoughts about him, the day ahead might not be the ordeal she’d lain in bed dreading.

  He looked really relaxed and much more approachable than he had done yesterday, and as the car eased back into the traffic he smiled down at her. ‘The driver will be back to collect us in three quarters of an hour.’ He draped a companionable arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s eat, shall we? It might look like a dump, but I can assure you the food might be basic but it’s very good.’

  It might look like a dump to Sebastian Garcia, but it suited Rosie just fine: the steamy atmosphere, the smell of bacon and coffee, the plastic chairs set around formica-topped tables, the big jovial man in the crumpled white overall who seemed to be in charge. He greeted Sebastian like a long-lost brother and Rosie, settling herself at a vacant table by the window, her stomach rumbling with sudden hunger, felt swept away by happiness.

  This super wealthy, knock-‘em-dead-handsome Spaniard hadn’t brought her here because he was ashamed to be seen with her anywhere more exclusive. He wasn’t a snob. He was well known by the owner so he must eat here often when he was in London. She felt warm and glowing all over. Nicely relaxed for a change.

  And the full English breakfast when it arrived was perfectly cooked and so lavish that she couldn’t manage the toast and marmalade that came after it, although Sebastian did it justice.

  Comfortably replete, she reached her purse from her handbag.

  ‘We’ll go Dutch, shall we?’ she offered brightly.

  ‘Please don’t insult me, cara.’ The delivery was low voiced but so harsh that not even the endearment could soften it. The happiness of the interlude was wiped away. The way they’d talked of this and that so easily, his descriptions of his home in Cadiz, the ancient fountain in the inner courtyard, the fact that you could actually walk outside any time you liked and pick an orange from your own tree sounded wonderful. He’d promised to take her there. She couldn’t wait.

  Now the easy closeness had been swept away by a few tightly voiced words, making her feel gauche and faintly ridiculous. He screwed up his pa
per napkin and said, ‘The driver will be here in a few moments.’

  Her voice emerged stiffly as she countered, ‘Why? Where are we supposed to be going?’

  ‘Shopping. For clothes. I told you.’ Fishing a twenty-pound note out of an inner pocket, he laid it on the table and anchored it beneath the plastic sauce dispenser that was shaped like a huge tomato.

  Rosie, her small face flaming, muttered crossly, I don’t need any. I can’t afford to buy stuff I don’t need.’

  ‘Probably not,’ he conceded. ‘But I can. Humour me.’

  ‘No.’ Rosie was adamant. She wasn’t going to let him buy clothes for her. It didn’t feel right. Unless—

  Her pulse-rate rocketing, she pushed out, genuinely appalled, ‘What are you trying to do? Pay me off?’ She’d read about men like that. They had affairs which ended with a gift. A big fat jewel or a flash new car. Only she’d been a one-night stand so a new dress should suffice!

  ‘Don’t,’ He ran the tip of his forefinger along her flaming cheekbone. ‘It’s true, I feel guilty as hell about what I did,’ he told her quietly. ‘Nothing can make me feel better about that. But, I promise you, my only motive is to see your beautiful body in clothes that do it justice. So I ask you again, humour me in this?’

  She couldn’t doubt his sincerity. It reverberated in his smoky voice and shone from his eyes. Melting because he thought her beautiful, she drew her lower lip between her teeth and, against all her principles, found herself weakly capitulating as she probably always would do with this man because, loving the wretch, she couldn’t help wanting to please him. Her eyes downcast, shadowed with the knowledge that she was a hopeless case, she nodded mutely.

  ‘Bueno,’ he murmured, then his irresistible grin flashed as he held out a hand to help her to her feet, disarming her utterly. It was a knack he had, she thought defeatedly. ‘Promise me one thing more, Rosie—relax and enjoy the experience?’

  Amazingly, she did. Once she had got over her initial uneasiness at being ushered into a glass and marble salon, with a bunch of superior-looking beings hovering over her, picking up strands of her hair, turning her head this way and that and peering at her skin, she just let go, took an interest and enjoyed the novel experience of being the pampered centre of interest.

  And the girl who had shown her how to use make-up had been really nice and, in between their animated conversation about her pair of Siamese cats and Rosie’s confession that when she had a place of her own she would definitely go for one of that breed, plus a dog, or maybe two, she had explained which colours suited Rosie and which would not. Bright orange or scarlet lipsticks being ruled right out of play.

  Her eyes still sparkling, her pink-glossed lips curved in a smile of pure pleasure, her hair, which had been layered so that it swung smoothly around her face, feeling cleaner and shinier than it had ever felt before, she joined Sebastian in the reception area.

  Laying aside the broadsheet he’d been reading, he rose to his feet, unaware, apparently, of the interest of every female in the area, and gave her a nod of approval.

  Tucking her hand beneath his arm, he escorted her to the door and Rosie felt dizzy with pride. She was the envy of the women who were waiting for their appointments. No one had ever envied her before! She was walking on air.

  And hadn’t managed to float back to earth when she was whisked away to a shop that didn’t look like any shop she’d ever seen before—wall to wall soft dove-grey carpet, tall mirrors in ornate gilt frames, comfy two-seater sofas upholstered in cream-coloured fabric, an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

  At a gesture from him she sank down on one of the sofas while he went to talk to the regal-looking woman dressed in stark black who had glided forward. It appeared to be a serious discussion; Rosie wondered what on earth they were finding to talk about, and came back down to earth with a bang when the regal lady looked in her direction and actually sneered! At least, that was what it looked like from where she was sitting.

  Sneered at her old brown anorak? The poor woman had probably never before seen such a downmarket object in her hallowed space! She swallowed a hysterical giggle and her mouth was still wobbling when Sebastian finally joined her. To stop herself from bursting into a humiliating mixture of wild laughter and fountains of tears that would get them both thrown out on to the street, she watched the regal lady disappear through a gap between the mirrors and grumped at him, I don’t know what you think we’re doing here. Let’s get out. Quick. Before she comes back. I don’t need or want a new dress, or whatever. And I feel such a fool!’

  His long mouth twitching, silver eyes dancing, he captured her chin between his forefinger and thumb. ‘Silencio. And stop putting yourself down. You’re far from being a fool, so how could you look like one? Besides, I don’t want the maybe-mother of my child looking like a tramp.’

  Rosie swallowed. Hard. She struggled to absorb what had sounded like a very backhanded compliment. Difficult when she was totally absorbed in the electrifying sensations engendered by the touch of his lean fingers against her skin.

  ‘Don’t!’ she muttered, twisting her head away from that totally enervating touch, knotting her fingers in her lap. ‘Don’t talk like that! There probably won’t be a baby. And what happened was as much my fault as yours. You didn’t force yourself on me, remember? Anyway, how would you like it if I took you some place and made you sit like a lemon while I bought you some new trousers, or vests, or something?’

  Right on cue the regal lady returned, just as Sebastian flung back his dark head and roared with laughter. And it was just as well, otherwise she would most definitely have slapped his handsome face!

  As it was, she had to contain herself. She couldn’t slap him in front of an audience. And there were two of them now, a perfectly manicured thirty-something in a very elegant black suit pulling a fancy-looking dress rail behind her, crammed with garments on padded hangers.

  One by one the hangers were removed, the garments reverently held out for Sebastian’s inspection by the older woman. Those he nodded at were put back on the rail. A shake of the head had the thirty-something stepping forward to receive the unapproved whatever and drape it over her arm.

  Not that there were too many of those, Rosie decided, wondering what he was playing at. Everything she had seen was mouthwatering, but useless. When would she ever get to wear something that reeked of good taste and a bottomless pocket?

  When she found herself in a fitting room as large as a normal person’s sitting room, surrounded by mirrors, accompanied by the fancy dress rail, she gritted her teeth and got on with it.

  She was supposed to try everything on and parade in front of him—presumably so he could make his choice—she, obviously, had no say in the matter, she thought mutinously, determined to be as quick as she could about it. Humouring Sebastian Garcia certainly had a big downside.

  Telling the surprised thirty-something that she didn’t need any help, but it was nice of her to offer, Rosie stripped down to her serviceable white cotton bra and briefs and pulled on the first thing that came to hand, carefully not looking at herself in the mirrors.

  She didn’t want to see herself wearing fabulous clothes. She might get to covet them. She was happy with her lifestyle as it was. She didn’t want to want things she could never have.

  Like Sebastian. The thought made her feel ill. She pushed it firmly out of her head and went on with the silly charade of parading the whole selection in front of him.

  No comment. Just the slow drift of his eyes over whatever she happened to be wearing at the time. Someone had given him a flute of champagne. All right for some! He was having a nice relaxing cold drink while she was going demented!

  Stripping, she dived into the last thing on the rail. A beautiful suit in soft cream cashmere. She buttoned the jacket, trying hard not to love the way it felt as if it had been made just for her. There was a selection of shoes in all styles and colours, presumably to go with all the differen
t outfits. She hadn’t worn any of them. She wasn’t wearing stockings, so she couldn’t, so she’d padded out in her navy blue socks, not looking at the regal lady, because she just knew she’d be sneering.

  ‘Keep that on.’ It was the first remark he’d made.

  Rosie nearly fainted with relief. While she hadn’t wanted him to buy a single thing for her, she’d been feeling more and more agitated at his seeming total lack of enthusiasm for any of the things she’d modelled. The queenly owner of the establishment would have been seriously miffed if she’d gone to all this trouble and Sebastian had turned down everything she’d had to offer.

  Back in the changing room she looked at her reflection and was definitely shocked. The suit was really gorgeous. It made her look classy. She could scarcely believe she was seeing herself.

  A pair of taupe leather classic courts with two-inch heels was produced, together with a pair of sheer tights, and Rosie accepted them from the now smiling regal lady with relief. She hoped Sebastian wouldn’t grumble at the extra expense but it would have been sacrilege to wear her clumpy brown lace-ups and navy socks with such a beautiful work of art.

  A grin split Sebastian’s face as Rosie rejoined him. He’d been spot-on. Wearing the right clothes and make-up, she looked absolutely stunning. A truly classy beauty with a sparkle, an inner warmth that other perfectly packaged and groomed females of his acquaintance signally lacked.

  He narrowed his eyes and ate her up. The soft colour on her delicate cheekbones owed nothing to artificial blusher and her glossy, full lips were slightly parted, hovering on a smile. He could see the intriguing pulse-beat at the base of her elegant throat where the suit jacket parted in a discreet V, just hinting at the naked delights beneath the soft fabric.