She’d found her little sister alone last month in their brother’s cold, darkened Yorkshire mansion, left without food or money while Sheldon and Camilla used her money to support their jet-setting lifestyle. Tamsin still felt a chill of horror when she remembered stepping into the dark house, calling her sister’s name; Nicole had run to her crying and flung her thin, shivering body against her. She’d believed that Tamsin had abandoned her.
She would never forgive their half-brother for that. God, she hated Sheldon, she hated Camilla, she despised everyone who hurt innocent, helpless people in pursuit of their own selfish desires.
Like the man in front of her now. She narrowed her eyes. She wouldn’t let him prevent her marriage to Aziz.
“If you’re going to have me, get it over with,” she said flatly. “And take me back to Morocco so I can be married.”
His eyes widened and she saw that she’d surprised him. But, almost as quickly as the expression had appeared, it was gone. He stood up, looking as cold and unreachable as the stars. “I can see why you’re known as a flirt.”
“Forgive me if I don’t know the proper etiquette when I’m kidnapped on my wedding day and wake up naked on a stranger’s yacht.”
“You’re not naked.”
“How do you know? Are you the one who undressed me?”
He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Alas, I haven’t had that pleasure,” he said but, before she could relax and be grateful for that small blessing, he added darkly, “yet.”
The look he gave her could have melted stone. It was full of hatred, yes, but something more. She felt it simmering through her body, a strange electricity humming through her veins. She found herself staring at his lips. Wondering what he looked like beneath the shirt. Wondering how it would feel to have his body pressed against her own.
She shook the thought away. The only thing that mattered now was finding out what he wanted with her so she could get away. She had to protect Nicole.
Especially since what had happened was Tamsin’s fault. It was true they’d never been close—Tamsin had been sent to an American boarding school when her sister was a baby. Their mother had died when they were young, and their father a few years later. But Tamsin never should have trusted Sheldon to be Nicole’s guardian. Never. And while she’d been in London enjoying her first taste of freedom, Sheldon had been ransacking both sisters’ trust funds. He’d fired Nicole’s nanny, leaving her alone.
Tamsin should have known. She should have protected her …
“We’re almost there.” Her handsome, arrogant captor moved across the cabin towards the window.
“Where?”
“Andalusia. My home.”
Spain! A burst of hope went through Tamsin. Spain meant land beneath her feet, civilization—and freedom! She could catch a high-speed ferry from Algeciras and be back in Morocco by nightfall.
The man turned back abruptly to face her and she lowered her eyes, afraid that he would see her plans written across her face. “Tell me, Señorita Winter, do you speak Spanish?”
“No, I don’t,” she lied, trying to keep all emotion from her voice. “Do you?”
“Of course.” He gave her a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “But my mother was American. I lived in Boston for six years after she died. I will speak English for your sake.”
“Then explain to me, in English, why you’ve kidnapped me.”
“Missing your fiancé already?” he asked coldly.
Caught off guard, she stammered, “No … that is to say, yes.” She took a breath. “Whether I miss him is beside the point. I made a promise to marry him, so I must. Some people,” she said succinctly, “have honor.”
His eyes flashed, but were quickly veiled. “So you admit you do not love him.”
“I never said that.”
“No, you did not, but Aziz al-Maghrib has a reputation for cruelty.” His dark gaze skimmed over her, making her wonder if he could somehow see her naked body beneath the sheet. “Are you so shallow that his uncle’s wealth makes you wish to be his bride?”
She had no intention of discussing her reasons for the marriage. “If you know Aziz’s reputation and you still kidnapped me, you’re a fool. He will kill you for this.”
He sat on the bed. Close. Too close. She wanted to move away, but his weight held down most of the sheet and what was left was barely enough for modesty. She’d never let any man see her in knickers and a bra and she wasn’t going to start now. Especially when just having him close was causing such strange reactions in her own body.
She opened her mouth to demand that he move away. But their eyes met and his gaze was dark, so dark. And full of such emotion that it was an ocean to drown in.
To call him handsome wasn’t nearly enough, she thought. His face was breathtaking in its sinister beauty, with his Roman nose, high cheekbones and sharp jaw line. His dark gray eyes contrasted with olive skin and black wavy hair that was just long enough for her to run her hands through, if she’d dared. He was so tall that, even sitting next to her on the bed, she had to look up; he was so broad-shouldered and muscular that she knew he could easily overpower her. He could do anything he wished with her. The thought frightened her.
He reached his hand towards her. She braced for a hit but, to her surprise, he just stroked her cheek.
“I’ve waited a long time for this.” His touch was possessive, gentle, as if she were a wild horse to be tamed to his command. “A lifetime.”
“For what?” she managed.
“For you.”
“For me?” She almost wished that he would hit her. She would have known how to deal with that. Instead, she was trembling beneath his touch. He didn’t even need brute force. Just the brush of his fingers was enough to make her agree to anything he asked, and he was only touching her cheek. What would happen if he stroked her breast, kissed her mouth, pulled her down beneath him on the bed…?
She wrenched her face away. “Why did you kidnap me? What are you going to do to me?”
“You’re the spoils of war, Tamsin.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “And I want to find out if revenge tastes sweet …”
As he spoke, his lips brushed against the sensitive flesh of her ear. His breath was hot against her neck, causing prickles to run the length of her body.
“Please,” she whispered, hardly knowing what she was asking for. Her body felt so strange. Tense and tingly, cold and hot.
He ran his hand down her cheek, past the sensitive flesh of her ear, down her neck. He stroked her hair as he gently pulled back her head, exposing her vulnerable throat, her aching mouth. Involuntarily, she licked her lips. For a suspended instant, his eyes followed the movement of her tongue.
Then his mouth was on hers.
His kiss was hungry, demanding. His tongue stroked inside her mouth, intertwining with hers, teasing her. Longing set her whole body aflame and she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She ran her hands through his dark hair as he deepened the kiss.
“The pictures didn’t do you justice,” he whispered against her cheek when he drew away. “Men start wars over women like you …”
The hair of his arms brushed against the bare skin of her torso and she looked down with a gasp. The sheet had fallen from her hands and was now crumpled around her waist. His eyes roved over her breasts, her belly, the aroused nipples pushing through the translucent white lace of her bra.
Before she could pull up the sheet, his hands were on her naked skin, grasping her waist as he pulled her roughly against his body.
She didn’t fight him. She couldn’t. He kissed her, his large hands massaging the bare warmth of her back, and all she could think was that she’d never been kissed like this before. She was lost—lost in him—and the whole world seemed to spin around her as if they were at the center of a whirlwind.
Without thinking, she reached beneath his shirt to imitate the way he touched her, caressing his flat belly, moving her fingertips up his muscular ch
est. A groan escaped him as he touched her bra clasp.
A hard knock sounded at the door.
He wrenched away. Breathing hard, the two of them stared at each other. He looked dazed, she thought, but not nearly so dazed as she felt.
His expression suddenly changed.
“You’re good,” he said, and his voice was an accusation.
She was good? As if she were the one who’d been seducing him?
He crossed to the door. A young woman waited outside with her arms full. “The clothes for the señorita, Patrón,” she said in Spanish, and left.
Turning back to Tamsin, he tossed a black dress and high-heeled shoes on the bed. “Here. Maria took off your kaftan so you’d be comfortable in bed.” His voice was almost a sneer. “These clothes should suit you.”
“Y-you’re leaving?” she stammered. Her defiance had been burned away in his searing kiss. She could hardly imagine standing, let alone walking, with her knees so weak.
He stared at her for a moment, his face angry and brooding. Then, without answer, he turned back towards the door.
“Wait,” she said in a low voice. The day had been a roller coaster of emotion and exhaustion. Tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill over her lashes. “Is that all you have to say to me? You’ve dragged me from my wedding, kidnapped me across the Mediterranean, kissed me, and now you’re going to leave without a single word of explanation?”
His dark eyes narrowed. Dislike emanated from his body like waves of heat in the desert.
“Very well. I will give you that much,” he said. “What did you ask? My name? Marcos Ramirez. What do I want with you? It’s simple, Miss Winter. I intend to destroy your fiancé and your family, and you’re going to help me do it.”
CHAPTER TWO
MAYBE he should have let Reyes kidnap the girl after all.
Marcos glanced at the girl sitting next to him in the Rolls-Royce as the chauffeur drove them three miles inland from the coast.
Silent at last. It was an improvement from the previous few hours, when she’d demanded for him to let her go so she could rush back and marry Aziz al-Maghrib. When her demands hadn’t worked, she’d tried insults and threats. Thinking about it now almost made him laugh. He was not one of her suitors. Her moods held no sway over him.
Or did they? An image of their kiss flooded his mind. He hadn’t meant to kiss her in the cabin of his yacht, but she’d just looked so damned desirable. And the kiss itself …
He pushed the disturbing memory from his mind. The woman was an experienced coquette. According to the tabloids, she’d slept with every male celebrity who set foot in the London boroughs; of course she knew how to kiss. It changed nothing. If anything, it only lowered his opinion of her. Her pretense of bewildered innocence, the way she’d blushed after pretending to drop the sheet—was there anything the woman wouldn’t do in order to return to Morocco and get her claws into the al-Maghrib fortune?
He’d actually told her the truth about his plan to destroy her family, but she hadn’t asked a word about it. Apparently, her whole family could starve, so long as she herself was slathered with diamonds and rubies as the honored wife of the Sheikh’s nephew.
Shallow-hearted and greedy, he thought contemptuously. As venal as her bridegroom, and probably as brainless as her half-brother into the bargain.
A pity she was also the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Her beauty wasn’t just in her porcelain skin, her pink lips or her wide blue eyes. It was more than that. Her charm was in the way she moved, like a flamenco dancer. It was in the way her long red hair swayed gracefully against her pale shoulders. It was in the sound of her voice, deep and melodic. It was in her slender, reed-like waist, long legs and full, high breasts. Put all of that together, and he could see why she’d been called the most desirable woman in Britain. A lesser man would instantly be a slave to her charm.
It would serve her right to seduce her, he thought suddenly, glancing at her. She was pressed against the opposite side of his car, glaring at the passing Spanish countryside. How he would love to break her will. To make her sigh and scream with pleasure. To overwhelm her rudeness and insults with an onslaught of desire. His whole body tightened as he thought of it. It would serve the spoiled girl right …
Damn it to hell. He clenched his jaw, realizing that his attraction to her was in danger of overriding his reason. Obviously he was just as susceptible to her charm as any other man. It infuriated him. He had no doubt that he could resist her, but that he’d even thought of taking her to bed proved how dangerous she was.
As the car pulled to the castle’s front steps, his gaze unwillingly followed the curves of her body in the low-cut black dress. The Andalusian summer night was sultry and fragrant with jasmine as, with a dismissive motion to the chauffeur, Marcos walked around to her door.
She continued to ignore him. Without a word, he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the car. He dragged her up the wide steps, followed by Reyes, Maria and the others from the van.
She stumbled on the top step, looking up at the crenellated battlements of the fourteenth-century castle. “This is your home?”
“Yes,” he said shortly. “And your home for the next few weeks.”
Her face shut down in that rebellious expression he knew so well. “I won’t stay here. You can’t make me.”
In spite of everything, he could feel himself starting to lose his patience. Between her beauty and her insolence, she seemed to know just how to get under his skin. “You’re here as long as I want you.”
She yanked away from him, folding her arms over her deliciously full breasts as she entered the castle. He let her go, confident that she could not escape with the tall, heavy doors closed behind them. The reluctant clack-clack-clack of her high heels echoed against the walls as she followed him, staring upward in amazement.
Long ago, the magnificent foyer had been built to impress, with high ceilings carved in intricate designs of flowers, Arabic letters and geometric patterns.
He remembered she’d briefly majored in medieval studies before switching to economics. Hopefully the foyer was impressing her, he thought grimly. She wasn’t in London any more. It was time she realized who was in power here.
Holding her prisoner here would financially decimate both of his enemies. Without the wedding between the two families, Sheikh Mohamed ibn Battuta al-Maghrib would not sell the argan oil harvest on credit to Sheldon Winter, which he needed for the relaunch of his only profitable product. The board members of Winter International would sell the company off for parts, and Sheldon would be swamped beneath the weight of his personal debts.
Aziz would be hurt even worse. Without his uncle’s promised wedding gift, he would no longer be able to hide his gambling addiction. The Sheikh, an honorable but strict man, would likely disinherit him, and his creditors would break both his legs. A perfect end, in Marcos’s opinion.
The only thing that might be even more satisfying would be if Aziz came to Spain to start a war over Tamsin. After what the man had done to his father, nothing would give Marcos more pleasure than to rip him apart with his bare hands. He was sick of secrets. Sick of lies. And, most of all, sick of waiting. He wanted the men who’d destroyed his family punished.
In the meantime, he was stuck with Tamsin Winter as his prisoner.
His eyes traced the outline of her gorgeous figure and the red hair tumbling down her bare back. Her skin was as creamy-pale as winter and looked as soft as a summer breeze. His hands longed to stroke her back, to see if she was as soft as she looked, to see if the fire of her hair was reflected in the tumultuous passion of her embrace.
He shook himself in annoyance. She was his prisoner, he told himself, nothing more. Setting his jaw, he looked at her coldly. “You will join me for dinner tonight.”
Her full pink lip curled. “I’d rather starve.”
“As you wish.” With a flare of his nostril, he turned to his head of security standing discree
tly behind them. “Reyes, lock Miss Winter in the tower.”
“No!” Her eyes went wide and she took a step towards him. “You can’t lock me up!”
“I can and I will.” The room he’d prepared for her was luxurious and comfortable, and far from the tower, but he had no intention of sharing that with her. Not after all she’d put him through today. “You’ve given me no reason to seek your company.”
Her hands clenched as she visibly struggled to contain her anger. Her cheeks were red with the effort.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said through gritted teeth. “I would love to have dinner with you.”
About time, he thought. Her constant insults were growing thin. He turned to his housekeeper, who’d just entered the foyer.
“We will take our supper in the sala, Nelida. It is late. Bring the whole meal at once.”
“Sí, Patrón,” she replied.
“I will keep you apprised,” he told Reyes. The man left with a nod, followed by the rest of the security team.
Marcos held out his arm. “This way.”
Tamsin stared at his arm distrustfully. Her blue eyes, emphasized by the dark fringe of kohl and thick lashes, seemed as wide and deep as the sea. Taking his arm was obviously the last thing she wanted to do.
But, to his surprise, she gave him a smile before tucking her small hand in the crook of his arm. The glow in her expression was so unexpected it nearly took his breath away.
“Thank you.” Her voice was a sultry purr, her eyes half-veiled by sweeping dark lashes, luring him on with the promise of some feminine mystery. Intrigued, he drew closer.
“Follow me, Miss Winter,” he said, feeling off-kilter again.
She laughed, and it was as crystalline and pure as a melody. She touched him softly on the shoulder. “If I’m really going to be here for weeks, I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? Call me Tamsin. Marcos.”
Watching her lush, full lips speak his name, he suddenly was hungry for more than dinner. In the space of a moment, the ice princess had become a fiery temptress and, in spite of his better judgment all he could think was that he wanted to throw himself into her flames.
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