Seducing the Spaniard: She wanted revenge any way she could get it

by Clare Connelly

  She collapsed onto the rug beside him, her breathing ragged, her mind heavy with the fog of confusion.

  Gael stared down at her. He had an incredibly tense gaze. A way of looking at her as though he could unravel all her secrets if he cared to. “You are so different, Carrie.”

  Her expression shuttered, her blue eyes were closed to him. She was different. She was better. She was sophisticated and beautiful, and people listened when she talked, now. “I know,” her smile was sharp. “It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.”

  “It is not the passing of time that’s changed you,” he denied instantly. “Yes, you were a teenager then, and now you’re a woman. A young woman,” he amended with a frown. The age gap between them was the same. The gulf in their life experience was still great. A yawning expanse of knowledge and understanding. What would she be? Twenty three. And he had just marked his thirty fifth birthday. “It’s more than that.”

  She pushed up on her elbow, meeting his gaze at his level. “What is it?” She pushed, forcing him to say what was on his mind.

  “You’re … just different.” His frown deepened.

  She was. Different in every way. She hadn’t just lost weight and changed her hair. She’d changed her heart and soul. No more stupid Jane Austen. No more roses. No more singing with the birds. She was a successful businesswoman, not a weak-minded desperado waiting to be rescued by Prince Charming. She stood gracefully, and walked naked towards the stairs. At the bottom, she turned towards him, her blue eyes showing her hurt despite the fact she no longer wanted to feel that kind of emotional pain. “And you’re exactly the same.”

  Gael followed. He was off kilter. Something about her threw him way off balance. It was an unfamiliar experience for him. “Am I?” He asked, just behind her. God, she was gorgeous. Walking upstairs behind her would fuel his fantasies for the next decade. She stopped at the top, forcing him to pause two steps lower.

  “Sure. Appearances always mattered most to you, Gael. They obviously still do.”

  His laugh was a sound of rich disbelief. “How dare you? You don’t know anything about me. How can you accuse me of being superficial?”

  “Oh, I’m not just accusing you of being superficial,” she retorted angrily. “I’m accusing you of being a disgusting cheat and a bastard, too.”

  “Woah, hang on a minute.” He held a hand up, and ran the other through his hair. “What exactly did I do to earn this appraisal from you? We hardly know each other.”

  “On the contrary, I know you very well. I’ve had the dubious privilege of knowing lots of men just like you over the last few years.”

  Lots of men like him? How many? And how well? A scowl marred his brow as, out of nowhere, he pictured her as she’d been that night six years ago. Bathed in the silver threads of the moonshine, face sweet, heart bursting.

  “And what am I like? What is it about me that makes your beautiful mouth pucker indignantly?”

  She lifted her fingers to her lips. “I do not pucker.” She ran her hands higher, to her hair. It was a tangled mess. What must she look like? Panic spread through her at the very thought of being seen by Gael Vivas without her mask in place. The mask she wore without fail, even when it was only her own reflection to see her.

  “Excuse me,” she spoke sharply, pulling coldness around her like a shroud of protection. “I have nothing left to say to you.”

  “Carrie,” he took the last two steps and followed behind her. At her bathroom, he paused. She held the door open just an inch.

  “Go, Gael. I’ve had fun, but it’s over now.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I am not wearing yellow,” Carrie said with a flicker heavenward of her eyes. “Tell me you’re trying to give me a heart attack.”

  Juanita giggled, pushing the picture closer to her friend. “I don’t mean the colour. Just the style.”

  Juanita looked at the picture torn from a magazine. The Givenchy gown was beautiful. A fitted bodice, with a feathered skirt that fell to the floor, it was both elegant and timeless. “Yes, the style is lovely.”

  “High praise from you, Miss Picky,” Juanita grinned.

  “I’m not picky. Just … selective.”

  Juanita slipped the picture back into the bright green folder she carried in her handbag at all times. “WEDDING” was emblazoned on the front, just in case she mistook it for any of her other bright green folders, bursting at the seams with ripped magazine pictures and printed Pinterest snaps. “Okay, bride stuff dealt with. Tell me what went down on Friday?”

  Carrie shook her head. “Ancient history reared its head for a moment. But I’ve popped it back in the past, where it belongs.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Come on, Carrie. Give me the details!” Juanita leaned forward, her dark hair plaited to one side, her lips parted in excited expectation of the salacious gossip. “You know Tom and I are like an old married couple. I live vicariously through your sexploits.”

  “Sexploits?” Carrie arched a perfectly shaped brow, and turned her face to her MacBook. Only a slight flush betrayed the hint of self-consciousness that was ripping through her.

  “Uh uh, no way,” Juanita reached over and pushed the screen down. “You told me that if I dragged myself to your office, I’d get at least an hour of your time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carrie smiled in true apology. “We’re in the middle of looking around for some capital, and I have a meeting this afternoon with a possible investor.”

  “Then tell me what happened with Gael Vivas and I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Carrie shook her head; the smile on her face now felt sticky and fake. “Nothing happened.” Everything had happened. A night of impossible passion followed by a weekend of tortured memories and confusing doubts. Doubts about who she’d become and what she wanted in life had left Carrie with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Gael Vivas,” even saying his name made Carrie’s heart lurch painfully, “showed me that I was right all along about the kind of man he is.”

  “And what kind of man is that?” Juanita leaned forward, her expression captivated.

  “He’s…” She bit down on her lower lip, and then expelled an exasperated sigh. “He’s … ugh. He’s a superficial, sexy, shallow jerk.”

  “Oh.” Juanita’s face fell. “What a shame. I was holding out hope it might have been love at second sight.”

  Carrie pulled a face. “As if. He’s a pig, good for one thing, and one thing only.”

  “I see.” Juanita leaned back in her chair, wondering if there was more to the story than her best friend was letting on. After all, Carrie didn’t blush. She didn’t evade questions. And she didn’t vent plasma type rages about men she’d slept with. Carrie was known for being cool as a cucumber. Juanita was one of the few people who knew there was more beneath the cold exterior Carrie had perfected. And apparently Gael Vivas had an idea, too.

  “Stop looking at me like that, Bridey. Just because you’re loved up to the extreme, doesn’t mean I’m keen to jump on your ship.”

  “But it’s awfully fun,” Juanita said with a wink. “You want to know what Tom and I did Friday night, after we left the ball?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?” Carrie prompted, her tone droll.

  Juanita leaned forward and lowered her voice, as though she was on the brink of revealing something incredibly personal. “We went home and,” she looked conspiratorially towards the closed office door, “put face masks on while we watched old episodes of Mr. Bean.”

  Carrie burst out laughing, and shook her head, sending her short blonde hair flying like two pale wings around her face. “That’s tragic. You used to be the doyenne of the party scene. What happened to you?”

  Juanita grinned. “I grew up.”

  “God, we’re twenty three. Don’t we have a million years or so before we have to do that?”

  “What can I say? I guess I had a head start on partying. You were a late bloomer.”


  “So you think I’m making up for lost time?”

  “It would explain your steadfast commitment to sensual hedonism,” Juanita observed, her manner suddenly serious. “You are happy, aren’t you, Carrie?”

  Carrie responded in the way she had for years. “Of course I am.” It was automatic. A response that the question asker seemed to want, that was therefore easy to supply. “Never been better.”

  “Good. Then we can stop talking about you and start thinking about exactly which shade of white I’d like for my dress.”

  Carrie laughed. “Shade of white?”

  “Yes. You know, it’s really rather deceptive. People hear ‘white’ and see paper. But there are so many different versions. Ecrue, egg shell, cream, off-white, beige white. Look.” She pulled, as if a rabbit from a magician’s hat, a whole swatch of creams from her Balenciaga bag.

  “What else have you got in there?”

  “Just the bridal essentials,” Juanita promised seriously. “Now listen, we have to focus; I have a manicure to get to after this.”

  Carrie resisted the urge to point out that her meeting was, probably, marginally more important, given that it would have a huge impact on the future of her business. Like all self-respecting Bridezillas before her, Juanita saw nothing as mattering more than her upcoming wedding. Nothing. Not world politics, not global warming, nothing. In fact, it was remarkable that Carrie’s time with Gael had even got a look in.

  She pushed thoughts of Gael from her mind. Or rather, she tried to. But like the proverbial water seeping through fine cracks in a vase, flashes of memories punctuated their conversation. His hands, dark and strong, moving over her body. His eyes, sharp and probing, staring into her soul. His mouth, insistently tasting and teasing hers. She was relieved when Juanita looked at her slim gold wrist watch and squawked.

  “I’m so freaking late, my manicurist is going to fire me.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Carrie consoled, watching as her best friend packed everything back into her Mary Poppins Bag.

  “I’ll call you,” Juanita promised, blowing a kiss from the door.

  Carrie shook her head slowly from side to side. As long as she’d known Juanita, she’d been just the same. Scatty and brilliant at the same time.

  Carrie opened her MacBook back up and clicked into her projected profit spread sheet. It was good. With a healthy looking financial position to interest the serious investor, Carrie had no doubts she could swing the ancient Terence Newman into splashing his cash.

  Nothing a cranky old man liked better than a technology start up. In Carrie’s experience, it made them feel young and relevant, even though they had no real clue what the product involved.

  And NewNetwork wasn’t any ordinary app.

  It was a money making machine.

  Unfortunately, it needed money first. More than she had. And Terence Newman, with his oil billions and desire for immortality, would hopefully prove to be the cash cow she sought.

  Carrie pressed print and moved across her office, to collect the seven pages of figures. She slipped them into one of her folders, emblazoned with the CB logo, and then checked the office. Carrie hadn’t wanted her business to feel like a business. She’d kept the stuffy boardroom furniture at bay, and opted instead for plush cream carpet, white sofas, impressive and intimidating, beautiful and elegant: furniture that screamed success.

  She topped up two crystal glasses with sparkling water, and then ran her hands down her silk shirt. It was tucked in tight to a black pencil skirt that fell straight to her knees, and on her feet, she wore a pair of bright red heels. Her favourites. They said ‘confidence’ with each step she took.

  The scene was set; all she needed was for the old man to arrive.

  She looked across at the wall clock, and a frown briefly marred her beautiful face. Finally, twenty minutes after their scheduled meeting, Carrie’s phone rang. She snatched it off her desk and swiped it to answer. “Carrie speaking,”

  “Miss Beauchamp? It’s Noris Newman here. My father Terence was supposed to meet with you today?” His accent was thick American. Carrie knew they hailed from Texas, but even without that knowledge, she would have picked it in a second.

  “Yes,” she responded, her tone clipped. She mentally braced herself for the bad news that was imminent.

  “He’s not well, I’m afraid. Just a stomach flu, but he’s asked me to handle matters in his stead. I’m tied up today. Can you catch up tonight?”

  “That’s no good,” she remarked, hoping her voice had the right amount of sympathy in it. “But I’m absolutely fine to reschedule. You tell me when and where.”

  “Do you know the bar at the bottom of the Pyrmont?”

  She closed her eyes, as butterflies assailed her stomach. Know it? Of course she knew it. It was where Gael was staying. Where they’d made love on Friday night. Her heart squeezed.

  “I do. But I’m happy to meet you in my office, if that’s better?” Her heart was pounding, and a fine bead of perspiration had broken out on her forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Beauchamp.” Like most people, he pronounced her surname incorrectly, ‘bow-chomp’. It always made her lips tingle with a smile. “I’ve got a dinner at nine in the hotel restaurant, and a conference call in my room scheduled for seven. I can only squeeze you in at eight tonight.”

  “Of course. That’s fine. I’ll see you then. And please tell your father I wish him a speedy recovery,” she added, remembering her manners before ringing off.

  * * *

  He was pleasingly kind looking, with sandy coloured hair, blue eyes, and a dimple in either cheek. Carrie smiled, fully aware of the effect she was having on him, as she leaned closer, to present the figures.

  “Thank you so much for meeting me, Mr Newman.”

  “Please, call me Noris.”

  “Noris,” she nodded. “I understand your time is limited.”

  “Regrettably, yes,” he grinned, his eyes dropping to her bright red lips. Carrie Beauchamp was not at all what he’d expected. Her stuffy English accent and formality over the phone had definitely not prepared him for the veritable bombshell he discovered in the hotel bar. Her hair was short and sexily dishevelled, her eyes framed by thick black lashes. He drew his attention to the folder, already pretty sure he wanted to sign onto whatever she was hawking.

  “Let me give you the Cliff’s Notes presentation, then.” She launched into her rehearsed spiel, absolutely certain she had him eating out of the palm of her hands. Only a few minutes into the well-practiced speech, she felt his attention drift to a point above her shoulder.

  “Noris?” She asked, leaning forward, so that her shirt dipped to reveal a hint of cleavage.

  “Gael,” Noris stood, extending a hand confidently.

  Carrie cursed inwardly and looked over her shoulder. Gael’s eyes were loaded with dark emotion as he glared down at her.

  “I thought our meeting was in the restaurant at nine,” The American queried.

  “Indeed.”

  Noris looked from Carrie to Gael. Only an idiot would miss the spark of angry heat that was travelling from one to the other.

  Noris needed Gael Vivas’s business. There was no way he was going to get in the middle of whatever was going on between the Spanish tycoon and the sex-kitten Carrie Beauchamp. His father would absolutely murder him if they lost Gael Vivas on Noris’s watch. The thought made his skin pale.

  “And how do you two know each other?” Gael asked, his eyes drifting insolently to Carrie’s lace bra, the details of which were visible beneath the fine silk of her shirt. Was she on a date with the American man? Possessive heat, white hot and furious, tore through Gael. Another completely unfamiliar emotion.

  Noris was desperate to avoid the Spaniard’s temper. “We just met,” he promised quickly.

  “I see.” He didn’t. Noris’s panic inched higher and higher. “Shall I see you in the restaurant at nine?”

  “No,” Gael’s eyes didn’t leave Car
rie’s face. “I’m prepared to finalise the details over email. Let’s cancel.”

  “Cancel?” It was the main reason Noris had come to London. “Oh. Are you sure?”

  Carrie’s expression was one of extreme frustration. She had a top degree in economics and had gained an excellent reputation in only two years. The Times had run a piece on her only three months earlier, calling her a young Richard Branson, with better hair. And yet this uniquely male pissing contest was the kind of thing that made her want to scream. “Gael, Noris and I are in the middle of something. Would you excuse us please?”

  Gael’s look of amusement angered her even further. But one glance at the American and Carrie understood what was funny. Noris was all but backing away from the table. He could not have made it any plainer that he wished to be elsewhere.

  “I’m sorry, Carrie,” Noris shook his head. “I’ll have my father be in touch once he’s recovered. He’s done the research on your offering; he’ll be better placed to make a decision.”

  She watched him disappear, and sighed fatalistically. “Someone who needs your business more than mine, I guess?” She asked, without meeting Gael’s eyes.

  He sat his broad frame into the seat opposite her, and scanned her appearance thoughtfully. “Talk to me instead.”

  “No, thank you very much.” She reached over to take the paperwork back, but Gael put his hands on it, holding it firm on his side of the table.

  “Tell me about your offering.”

  “No. I’m in no mood to waste time, Gael. That meeting took me months to set up. And it was going brilliantly until you came along.”

  “I have no doubt,” he muttered, lowering his gaze pointedly to her bright red lips, then back to her brilliant blue eyes. “Have dinner with me.”

  “No,” she retorted.

  To her chagrin, he lifted the pages, and began to flick through them, indolently reading the press release and detailed financials that had been intended for Mr Newman.