“But you want to destroy me.”
“Your family, yes.”
“That includes me.”
He clenched his jaw, staring out into the darkness. It was true that he’d planned to take his revenge on Tamsin and her sister as well as Sheldon Winter. Though the sisters hadn’t been directly involved in the ruin of Marcos’s family—and in the younger girl’s case, she hadn’t even been born—he’d still hated them. He’d hated them for having everything that he’d lost. Security. Home. Money. Family.
Family most of all. He tightened his fists, remembering their last vacation. His brother Diego, always so serious and studious, had been running down the beach, trying to fly a kite. He hadn’t been able to get the damn thing to fly, but he’d kept on trying. “Why can’t you be like your little brother?” Mamá had sighed to Marcos, who’d been using his own kite as a target for rocks. Then she’d kissed him on the cheek with a warm glow in her brown eyes, as if to reassure him that she loved him even though he was a reckless scapegrace.
But by the next day her eyes had been red with weeping. And the day after that his whole family had died …
Marcos pushed it from his mind. He’d taken back nearly everything that had been stolen. Thanks to his venture capital firm, he had security and wealth. He had a flat in Madrid, an apartment in New York, an estancia in Argentina. He had a Gulfstream IV jet, an Aston Martin, a Lamborghini, a Ducati. He had mistresses for the asking. He had everything a man could desire.
But, no matter how much money he spent, the emptiness never left him. It filled him like an ache. His only hope was that, by taking his revenge, the ghosts would leave him in peace.
He glanced at the girl sitting next to him. Her beautiful face was pale with misery. He could no longer see the smudge on her cheekbone, but that bruise had ruined everything. He’d set his sights on a proud, spoiled heiress who deserved a comeuppance—not a girl who’d been beaten, hurt, and nearly forced into a marriage against her will.
Unless, of course, this was just the latest in her string of lies. He tightened his jaw.
“I won’t hurt you, Tamsin,” he said coldly.
“How can you say that? You’re hurting me now.”
“If you mean by keeping you from marrying Aziz, then yes. I’m not going to allow that. Ever. So stop trying to convince me to let you go.”
“I can’t.”
He shook his head in frustration. “Why? Because you hate him? Or because you love him? You’ve said both. Which was the lie?”
She looked at the flagstones on the balcony. “The only person I love is my little sister. I’ve never known anyone like her. She takes in stray animals and tries to nurse them back to health. When she has money, she gives it to homeless people on the street.” She looked up at him, blinking hard. “She deserves a better family than us, but I’m all she’s got.”
Diego had loved animals too. Memories of his little brother came flooding back so strongly that Marcos could barely breathe. He remembered how Diego had spent a whole year trying to convince his parents they should get a dog. He’d written up chore charts, read books on canine care and argued so eloquently that his parents had finally caved in. A week before Diego’s tenth birthday, they’d shared a secret with Marcos: Diego would be receiving a dog for his present as soon as they returned to Spain.
But Diego had never lived to get his dog, since he’d died with his parents in that crash on the M25 outside London. Marcos later found out Diego had lived for an hour after the accident. He’d tormented himself ever since, wondering what that hour had been like for his baby brother. Wishing he’d been there to hold his hand. Wishing he’d had the chance to say goodbye.
Wishing he had been the one who’d died instead.
Marcos stood up abruptly.
“There,” Tamsin said quietly. “I’ve told you the truth. Now tell me why you’re so determined to get revenge against Aziz and my brother that you’ve dragged me here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said coldly. “All that matters is that they’re going to pay. Have you never wondered why Winter International is on the brink of bankruptcy? Your brother is the worst businessman I’ve ever seen but, for the last five years, I’ve helped. I’ve bought out his loans, subsidized his competitors, whispered criticisms of his leadership into the ears of his shareholders. And I made sure that all of Aziz’s investments turned to dust and every gambling tip made him lose.”
“You’re the one who’s caused Sheldon to go broke?” Tamsin suddenly looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Tell me, do you have any idea how he’s managed to maintain his luxurious lifestyle for the last few months?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Loans, I suppose. He’s like Aziz—he only cares about status and money. Killing them would have been easier, but I wanted them to understand how it feels to lose the thing you love the most. I will take their fortunes and leave them broken. And for the rest of their lives they’ll remember what they did to deserve it.”
He stood on the edge of the balcony, his hands gripping the stone balustrade as he looked out blindly into the night. He nearly jumped when he heard her cold voice beside him.
“You’re no better than they are.”
Enraged, he whirled to face her. “What?”
“You’re selfish and heartless. You hurt innocent people, crushing them down in your path.”
“Like who?” he sneered. “Like you?”
“No.” She said softly. Her beautiful eyes were wistful and sad. “But at least I’m old enough to take care of myself.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Suddenly, Marcos had had enough of her mind games, enough of being caught off guard. Being in a prison cell sounded preferable to spending more time with this beautiful, infuriating, disturbing woman. “So you’re still planning to escape?”
“Yes.” Her eyes met his steadily. “You can’t keep me here.”
“Then let me help,” he said brusquely. “I’ll send Nelida to give you a tour. You can plan out your route.”
He took several steps, then turned back with a brief humorless smile. “But fair warning, Tamsin. Don’t ever kiss me like that again. If you do, I won’t hold back. I won’t be a gentleman. Offer me your sweet body one more time, and you’re mine for the taking.”
Tamsin paced alone on the balcony, fuming. She looked down from the edge of the balustrade. In the darkness, she couldn’t even see the ground. She wondered whether there was any chance she could climb down the sheer drop of stucco and rock.
But at least Marcos had finally made his first mistake—having the housekeeper show her around the castle. Knowing the layout would help. With a little luck, she could still escape tonight.
The housekeeper gave her the tour. Tamsin had briefly studied medieval architecture at Smith, so she recognized the ancient Moorish floor plan, expanded and rebuilt repeatedly in the following centuries with modern amenities. And, in Marcos’s case, his requirements apparently included guards, guards, and more guards, winding hallways that doubled back and a floor plan like a maze. Even the telephones required an access code to dial out of the castle.
He hadn’t made a mistake asking Nelida to give her a tour, she realized. It was his way of showing her that she needn’t bother trying to escape.
It only made her more determined to do so. When they were walking through the old portrait hall, Tamsin took her chance. “This seems like a very old place.”
“It is,” Nelida Gomez replied shortly.
“A place this old must have history,” Tamsin said. “Ghosts. Kidnappings.” She added hopefully, “Old tunnels.”
“There is one, but I’m not going to show it to you.”
“Oh? Why not? I would love to …”
The housekeeper gave her a knowing look. “Because it begins in Señor Ramirez’s room down the hall. And that’s one place I have no intention of showing you. I suspect you’ll find it all by yourself.” Her accented English dripped with derision. “Here
is your room.” She opened the double doors and departed before Tamsin could make an indignant reply. “Ring for me if you need anything. I bid you goodnight.”
Her bedroom was more like a five-star hotel than the dungeon cell she’d feared. An antique four-poster bed, decked in a luxurious blue canopy, faced a flat-screen television above the fireplace. Shelves of leather-bound books in different languages lined the wall.
Tamsin turned on a lamp and peeked in the closet. Hanging inside were new clothes her size in the exact same glamorous styles that she’d been photographed in by paparazzi. It was like looking into her own wardrobe back at her Knightsbridge flat. It was eerie.
How long had Marcos been spying on her?
Raindrops rattled against the windowpane, echoing across the room. She opened the window to breathe in fresh rain-scented air. In the distance, she thought she could hear the roar of the sea. She was also eye-level with the palm trees. A pity the trees were at least five stories high and positioned above rocks.
She closed her eyes. Marcos Ramirez seemed to have thought of everything. Even if she could get out of the castle, how would she contact Aziz? She didn’t have a mobile phone, a passport, money.
She wondered what Nicole was doing right now. Were Sheldon and Camilla still in Tarfaya? Had they gone to the Sheikh’s kasbah in the mountains? Or returned to England?
Did Nicole know that Tamsin had been kidnapped? Was she scared?
Tamsin still remembered how frightened she’d been when she’d held Nicole in the dark, cold mansion while her sister sobbed and clung to her. Knowing her sister had suffered alone had been like losing their mother all over again. But this time it hadn’t been a terminal disease—or their cold, vindictive father—that caused that pain. Sheldon and Camilla had done it. Thoughtlessly. Cruelly. And all Tamsin had been able to think was: what if she hadn’t gone to Yorkshire looking for her sister? What would have happened to her?
Her hands tightened. Sheldon, Camilla, Aziz, Marcos—she hated them all for their selfish arrogance, for putting her and Nicole in the middle of their war. She slowly opened her fists. Her palms were still covered with henna in the intricate design of a bride.
Angrily, she stuck her hands out in the rain and wiped them hard on her Gucci dress. The henna had been on her skin too long to smear, but the color faded slightly. She put her hands out again, leaning her head against the trim as she stared blindly through the open window. The water felt cold and fresh against her skin after a long day of dust and sea salt.
Then her eyes focused on something silver and shiny in the darkness, hanging on the edge of the sharply sloping roof.
A second later, she kicked off her shoes and pushed the window as wide as it would go. As she climbed out on the slick tiles, rain pummeled her body, sticking her hair and dress to her skin. Somehow, she managed not to slide off the roof and fall to her death on the rocks below. Panting, she climbed back into her room.
For a moment, she cradled the prize in her hands, looking down at it with wonder, as if it were a lamp she could rub to make a genie appear and give her three wishes.
But she didn’t need three wishes. She only needed one. Water dripped from her body on to the plush white rug beneath her bare feet as she used Marcos’s mobile phone to dial a number in Morocco.
Marcos brushed dirt and wood chips from his hands. A fire crackled in the ancient stone fireplace of his bedroom, burning off the smell of rain. The temperature had dropped in the last hour. He glanced at the clock.
Nearly an hour had passed since he’d left her. Had she seen the castle? Was she already asleep?
An image of Tamsin in bed went through him with the force of a hurricane—her red-gold hair spread across the pillow, her pale, curvaceous body tangled in the soft white sheets. And she was just down the hall. Ripe for the taking. Hell, she’d thrown herself at him already.
He unbuttoned his shirt, yanking savagely on the buttons. He’d spent twenty years planning this revenge. It would be stark lunacy to change everything now and sleep with Tamsin Winter. The girl was too smart and talented for her own good.
Bien, so she intrigued him. And he was attracted to her—hell, yes. He wanted her in his bed. Tonight. This minute.
Kissing her on the balcony, he’d felt the fire in her, barely contained. Her spirit was as bold and vivid as her hair. He wanted more of that. More of her.
And he wanted to be honest with her. She apparently had her own reasons to hate her brother. Why not make her his ally, when they shared the same enemy? As the saying went, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
But that was the lust talking again, trying to give him an excuse to sleep with her. He wouldn’t do it. He had to stay as far away from her as he could.
She’d told him too many lies already, and she was still holding back a secret.
He tossed his shirt in a crumpled heap on the floor. Sitting on his bed, he watched the heavy rain pound the windows. He pulled off his shoes and threw them across the floor. Getting closer to her would only cause complications, he told himself. He had to focus. Letting her call Aziz would create unnecessary risk.
Marcos would call both men himself, and inform them who’d kidnapped Tamsin and why. He’d dreamed of this moment for years. He’d waited long enough.
He reached for his telephone on his nightstand, then paused as he recalled Tamsin’s tortured expression as she’d pleaded with him on the balcony. He hesitated. Furious at his own indecision, he rose from the bed and paced the room. The hardwood floor felt cool against his bare feet, the firelight warm against his chest.
He stopped two steps away from the phone, scowling down at it. Raking his hand through his hair in frustration, he abruptly turned on his heel and left his room. Without letting himself think, he went down the hall to Tamsin’s room. With a single cursory knock, he pushed open her door.
His eyes went wide.
She was standing near the open window, soaking wet. Her dress and hair were plastered to her skin. She stared up at him in surprise. Dark kohl had dripped beneath her lashes, giving her the look of a bedraggled waif.
He crossed the room in four strides. She was shivering as he took her in his arms, and her skin was bone-cold.
He cursed under his breath. “What happened?”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then her teeth chattered as she said, “I … I tried to escape. I thought I could climb out of my window and jump into the palm trees.”
Something in her face didn’t look right. She was lying, he thought. He knew full well that palm fronds were too flimsy for the weight of a cat. They were also at least ten feet from the roof, too far for anything but a suicide attempt.
But why would she lie about it? What could she possibly wish to conceal more than a failed escape attempt?
“Come with me,” he ordered.
“No, I’m all right,” she protested. “Really—”
Without a word, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to his room down the hall.
Placing her directly in front of his fireplace, he tried to warm her with his body, pressing his bare chest against the naked skin of her upper back. She felt cold, so cold. He set her down in the chair near the fire, wrapping her in a nearby blanket.
“I’m fine,” she said, her teeth still chattering.
He pushed her into the soft cushions. Leaving her in the chair, he hit the intercom button.
“Patrón?” Nelida’s voice replied immediately over the intercom.
“I need you to bring additional towels for my guest,” he told her in Spanish. “As soon as possible.”
“In her room?”
“No, mine.”
Pause.
“Nelida?”
“Sí.”
He saw a new wariness in Tamsin’s face as he turned back to face her. He waited for her to challenge his order. “Is there a problem?”
“Um … no. I’m just wondering what you were talking about.”
He was momentarily surpr
ised until he remembered that she was still pretending not to speak Spanish. Probably because she knew it would help her escape if others spoke carelessly in her presence. A good strategy, he thought, but he was suddenly fed up with all the lies between them.
Standing in front of her chair so their knees nearly touched, he looked down at her grimly. “Tamsin, I know you speak Spanish,” he said in that language.
“I don’t,” she protested in English.
He hid a smile.
“I saw your transcripts from Miss Porter’s and Smith. You made excellent marks in Spanish. You studied it for eight years. So do me a favor, por favor, and drop the pretense.”
Her face darkened. “How did you get my transcripts?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s bad enough that you’ve been spying on me, but stealing my transcripts? Don’t you have the slightest sense of decency?”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve spent twenty years planning this. Do you think I care that you failed chemistry? I know everything about you. The clothes you prefer. The route your limo would take to your wedding. How vital your marriage was to the survival of your brother’s company.”
“Yes, well, you don’t know everything,” she muttered.
He instantly went on the alert. “What don’t I know?”
She looked into the crackling fire.
He grabbed her shoulders. “What don’t I know?”
“You’re the one with all the answers,” she retorted, yanking away from him. “You figure it out!”
He leaned forward. “Tell me,” he demanded, his face inches from hers.
Even with her hair and make-up a mess, she looked beautiful, he thought. Like a princess from a story. Hair like fire, skin white as snow in the Pyrenees, eyes blue as the hot Andaluz sky. She was the kind of woman who could make a man lose all sense of reality. She could make a man lose a hundred years in a blink of an eye.
He’d had women in his life, but had never met one who so perfectly blended innocence and seduction. She made him soft and hard at once. It made him furious and lustful and full of yearning for something that he didn’t understand. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
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