One Night In Collection

by Various Authors

  Perhaps, after two sleepless nights, her skin was paler than usual. It had been that long since she’d left Marcos in Morocco. Two days since she’d lost her dreams, her hope and her love.

  She wanted to wail whenever she thought of him. A hard lump had lodged itself permanently in her throat.

  Since her return, she’d hidden her pain and anguish from her little sister, who was still staying with Nanny Holland until Tamsin could move out of her old flat in Knightsbridge and find a new one she could actually afford. For the past two days, she’d tried to throw herself into her work, to make sure her presentation today would be flawless. But, as she stared at herself in the mirror, grief still gnawed at her.

  Had Marcos gone through with the revenge?

  Was there still any chance for them?

  She wondered constantly if she’d made a mistake. Should she have taken him up on his offer to stay and talk? Should she have fought for him, instead of taking the easy way out?

  Perhaps it wasn’t too late, she thought suddenly. Bianca, always generous, would certainly loan her the jet. She could go to Marcos and offer to move to Madrid, anything he wanted, if only to be part of his life …

  No. Raising her chin, she gave herself a hard look in the mirror. A life based on revenge was no life at all. She’d made the right choice—the responsible choice.

  So why did she feel so awful?

  Sheldon’s former secretary knocked on the bathroom door. “They’re ready for you, ma’am.”

  Still lost in thoughts of Marcos, Tamsin almost told Phyllis to forget the whole thing and cancel the shareholder meeting. Then she clenched her jaw. She had the company’s employees to think about—people with families. She had to do this for them. For her sister. For herself.

  She could do this.

  Squaring her shoulders, she marched out of the bathroom and down the hall to face the firing squad, with nothing more than a Powerpoint presentation and last season’s Chloé suit to protect her.

  Marcos watched Tamsin as she walked down the steps beneath the tall cantilevered building.

  Wearing a Burberry raincoat, she strode forward in the early October drizzle to hail a black cab. She looked different from when he’d kidnapped her, he thought. She’d become a strong, confident woman, able to stand up for what she wanted.

  Maybe she wouldn’t want him any more, he thought suddenly. Maybe she’d given up on him. God knew there was a city full of men for her to choose from—better men than he was.

  But no one would ever love her like Marcos loved her. He would spend the rest of his life doing whatever it took to make her happy. He would prove it to her. All she needed to do was give him a chance, and he swore she would never regret it.

  “Pull forward,” he ordered Reyes.

  His black limousine pulled smoothly to the curb. Marcos opened his door. She glanced down at the car in annoyance, as it was blocking her view of the street. Then she saw him and her eyes widened.

  He climbed out of the car. “I couldn’t do it,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I was a fool—”

  With a loud cry, she threw her arms around him. He felt her tears against his cheek, mingling with the rain.

  “I was afraid I’d lost you,” she whispered, kissing his face over and over. “I was so afraid.”

  “You? Afraid? Never.” He held her close. “I’m sorry, querida. You were right. I was really trying to punish myself. But I couldn’t go through with it once I realized that I was in love with you—”

  “You what?” she gasped, drawing away.

  He looked into her eyes. Rain was falling more heavily now, plastering her red hair to her head and causing her mascara to trickle beneath her eyes, and to him she’d never looked more like an angel. “I love you, Tamsin.”

  “Marcos—”

  He kissed her in the rain, then pulled her into the car. “Come. You must be wanting dinner. Where can I take you?”

  She looked dazed in the warmth and comfort of the back seat. “What happened? It’s been two days. Two days.”

  Clenching his hands, he shook his head in furious memory at the sandstorm that had made travel impossible. “I am sorry I couldn’t get here faster. I could have called, but—” he took a deep breath, “—I was afraid you might tell me not to come.”

  “Did I hear right?” She drew back, her brow furrowed with amazement. “You really let Aziz go?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. Although even that hadn’t worked out the way he’d expected. He’d barely given up his claims against Aziz before Sheldon had sprung to his feet with his own accusations of the man’s thievery. The Sheikh had disinherited his nephew, sending him into exile, and the last he’d heard, Aziz was working at a petrol station and Camilla was a dog-washer in Cairo.

  Tears formed in Tamsin’s eyes and Marcos was suddenly afraid that he was doing this all wrong. Why was she crying? It wasn’t at all the reaction he’d hoped for. He’d planned to take her out to dinner, to woo her with gifts and sweet words, and court her as she deserved.

  But what if it was already too late? What if he’d hurt her so badly that she didn’t want him any more? After everything, he couldn’t lose her now. He couldn’t …

  “Where shall we go to dinner tonight?” he asked with false heartiness. “Nobu? The Ivy? I’ve heard they’re both quite good.”

  “I think I’ll take you out for a change,” she replied, wiping her tears with a tremulous smile. “You’re looking at the new CEO of Winter International.”

  His eyes went wide. “Tamsin!”

  “Not a very high-paid CEO, I’m afraid, since the company has a lot of debt and our divisions need to be cut to the bone to become profitable again. But, for you, I’m willing to stretch the budget for a curry.”

  She leaned over and gave him a kiss far hotter than any Vindaloo. The kiss burned through his body and, just like that, he suddenly knew that everything would be all right.

  “I’ve been craving that all day,” she said.

  “The curry or the kiss?” he managed.

  She gave him a saucy smile. “Both.”

  “I live to satisfy your cravings,” he said, reaching for her again. But she pulled back with a frown.

  “But Marcos, what are you doing here?”

  “Kissing you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. “So, if you don’t mind—”

  “You’re in London,” she insisted. “You said you’d never come to London. You made a vow.”

  He shrugged. “That was the past. And, as I’ve learned, some promises were made to be broken.” He stroked her cheek, looking tenderly into her eyes. “And some promises last a lifetime. You are my future, Tamsin. You saved me from a life of darkness. We can live in London, Madrid, Kathmandu—wherever you want. Because you are my home.” Blinking hard, he looked at her. “A day with you is worth twenty years of night.”

  She reached up to touch the single tear that had escaped despite his best efforts.

  “Marcos,” she whispered, looking up at him with eyes full of love.

  This time, when he kissed her, she kissed him back with abandon. Within moments, they were peeling off their clothes.

  And Reyes, as he pulled away from the curb, tactfully raised the privacy screen, leaving them to their sunshine in the storm.

  The Spanish Duke’s Virgin Bride

  CHANTELLE SHAW

  About the Author

  CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast, five minutes from the sea, and does much of her thinking about the characters in her books while walking on the beach. She’s been an avid reader from an early age. Her schoolfriends used to hide their books when she visited—but Chantelle would retreat into her own world and still writes stories in her head all the time. Chantelle has been blissfully married to her own tall, dark and very patient hero for over twenty years and has six children. She began to read Mills & Boon® romances as a teenager and, throughout the years of being a stay-at-home mum to her brood, f
ound romantic fiction helped her to stay sane! She enjoys reading and writing about strong-willed, feisty women and even stronger-willed, sexy heroes. Chantelle is at her happiest when writing. She is particularly inspired while cooking dinner, which unfortunately results in a lot of culinary disasters! She also loves gardening, walking and eating chocolate (followed by more walking!). Catch up with Chantelle’s latest news on her website, www.chantelleshaw.com.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I ASSUME this is some sort of joke?’

  Duque Javier Alejandro Diego Herrera swung away from the castle window that afforded stunning views of the Andalucian countryside and glared at the elderly man in front of him.

  ‘I assure you I would not make a joke of such a serious matter,’ Ramon Aguilar replied stiffly. His silver moustache bristled with indignation, but the nervous shuffling of the documents in his hands betrayed his tension. ‘The terms of your grandfather’s will are most specific. If you do not marry before your thirty-sixth birthday, control of El Banco de Herrera will be awarded to your cousin Lorenzo.’

  Javier swore succinctly, his dark brows drawn together and his olive skin stretched taut over his sharp cheekbones. ‘Dios!’ he spat. ‘As my grandfather so often commented, Lorenzo is as feeble as a small child. He has no drive, no ambition. Tell me, what does he have that led Carlos to believe he would make a more credible successor as president of the bank than me?’ Incredulity and disbelief were giving way to a level fury that emanated in waves from his lean, whipcord body. In his anger the new Duque was a truly awesome sight and Señor Aguilar cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘He has a wife,’ he murmured.

  The quiet, almost apologetic comment dropped into the silent room like a pebble thrown into still waters. Javier had been prowling the room like a caged tiger but now he stopped abruptly, every fibre of his concentration directed at the hapless lawyer who had been Carlos Herrera’s oldest and most trusted confidant.

  ‘Since I was ten years old my grandfather groomed me to take his place as head of the Herrera family, and more importantly as president of El Banco de Herrera,’ Javier hissed, his jaw rigid with the effort of containing his temper. ‘Why would he suddenly change his mind?’

  The Duque is dead; long live the Duque, he thought cynically. His aristocratic title was of little importance to him; his overriding interest was in taking control of the Herrera family’s banking business. Carlos’s son—Javier’s father—was also dead, although Fernando had been cast out of the family long before a drug overdose had ended his life. As the next male heir, Javier had taken his rightful place as the new Duque de Herrera when Carlos died, but it seemed that control of the bank—the golden grail—was still beyond his grasp.

  ‘Are you saying that I have been denied what should be mine because my cousin is married and I am not? That’s the only reason?’ he demanded grimly, his amber eyes flashing fire for a second before he imposed iron self-control over his emotions and his face resumed its mask of haughty arrogance.

  ‘Your grandfather’s dying wish was to leave the bank in the hands of a man who he felt confident would ensure its continued success.’

  ‘And I am that man,’ Javier growled impatiently.

  Ramon Aguilar continued as if Javier had not spoken. ‘There have been concerns among the board in recent months. Carlos was aware of, and even shared, many of those concerns,’ he added. As he spoke he scattered a number of photographs onto the desk—all featured Javier in the company of a different woman, although it was notable that each of his companions shared similar attributes of blonde hair and an eye-catching cleavage.

  Javier glanced briefly at the photos and shrugged his shoulders to indicate his supreme indifference. The women were no more than arm candy—he couldn’t even remember most of their names although undoubtedly they had all shared his appetite for mutually enjoyable sex, free from the complication of messy emotions. ‘I did not realise that my grandfather expected me to take a vow of celibacy,’ he snapped, drawing himself up to his full six-feet-four to pierce Carlos’s legal advisor with a disdainful stare.

  ‘He does not. Under the terms of his will he expects you to find a wife.’ Ramon Aguilar’s nerve held, just, and he returned Javier’s gaze steadily. ‘And by my estimation you have two months in which to do so—or lose control of the bank to Lorenzo. El Banco de Herrera is an old-fashioned, traditional bank …’

  ‘Which I intend to drag kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century,’ Javier finished darkly.

  ‘Carlos approved of your innovation, and it is true the bank is in need of modernisation and fresh ideas, but you will not push those ideas through without the support of your board,’ Ramon advised. ‘The directors are cautious and wary of change. They want a president who shares their values of decency and morality and who embraces family life—they do not enjoy seeing pictures of you and your latest mistress spread across the pages of the gutter press.’

  Ramon paused and then continued, ‘Carlos was worried that your … energetic social life was having a detrimental effect on your judgement. I understand there have been problems with the British subsidiary of the bank. The manager you appointed, Angus Beresford, has proved to be a poor choice.’

  One mistake. The knowledge that he had, for the first time in his life, been a poor judge of character had been a festering poison in Javier’s head for the past months—ever since he had discovered the extent of Angus Beresford’s betrayal. He did not need Ramon to remind him of it. ‘I am in control of the situation. The matter is being dealt with, and you can rest assured I will deal with Beresford,’ he growled furiously.

  Javier’s jaw tightened ominously and he crossed the room once more to stare out over the vast Herrera estate. He was master of all he surveyed, but he felt like a king who had been denied his crown. El Banco de Herrera was his. He had spent the last twenty-five years waiting for this moment, and the realisation that his grandfather had not only doubted his abilities but had also expressed those doubts to others was a bitter pill to swallow.

  ‘I am the best man for the job,’ he stated tautly. ‘How could Carlos doubt it because of a few photos taken by the damn paparazzi? And marriage! Madre de Dios, what good did marriage ever do for my father? My mother was a flamenco dancer with a touring circus and a part-time whore who destroyed Fernando with her affairs. Trust me, I will never award any woman that level of power over me.

  ‘My parents’ wretched union was hardly a good advertisement for the holy state of matrimony,’ he drawled sardonically. ‘What the hell made Carlos believe I would wish to try it?’

  ‘Naturally, your grandfather hoped you would select a bride who shares a similar background to your own, a woman who understands the responsibilities associated with the role of wife to a duque,’ Ramon murmured. ‘Indeed, Carlos confided in me shortly before his death that he was confident you would marry Lucita Vasquez.’

  ‘And I made it clear to him that I have no intention of marrying a seventeen-year-old child. Dios, Lucita’s still at school,’ Javier exploded.

  ‘She is young, it’s true, but she would make an excellent duquesa. And of course the marriage would have the added benefit of merging two great banking families. Just think,’ Ramon said in his softly persuasive voice. ‘The houses of Herrera and Vasquez brought together, with you at the helm.’

  Javier’s last conversation with his grandfather had followed similar lines and now, as then, he recognised the appeal of merging two of Spain’s most powerful banks. Carlos had dangled the tempting carrot, but Javier wasn’t stupid. He had recognised that it was his grandfather’s way of trying to control him, even from beyond the grave. Miguel Vasquez, Carlos’s oldest friend, would be breathing down his neck and he would be tied to a spoilt child who had made no secret of her irritating schoolgirl crush on him.

  Of course, Carlos had been less than impressed with Javier’s outright refusal to marry Lucita. It must have been after that last, bitter exchange that the old man had ins
tructed Ramon to amend his will, Javier thought grimly. Carlos had believed that the pressure of needing to find a wife in such a short time would force Javier to marry Lucita—but the old man had forgotten that his grandson had inherited his stubborn determination. If he had to marry, then marry he would, but it would be to a woman of his own choosing.

  His legal team would scrutinise the wording of the will, but he already knew it would be watertight. All his life Carlos had been as wily as a fox, and it seemed that death had not diminished his power. Round one to the old man, Javier acknowledged with a hard smile. But he was utterly determined to win and nothing, not even the inconvenience of having to find a wife, would stop him.

  ‘So, I have two months in which to choose a duquesa,’ he murmured coolly. He slid into the leather chair behind his desk and surveyed the grey-haired lawyer seated opposite him. Ramon Aguilar looked tired and drawn. He had been Carlos’s legal advisor for forty years, and doubtless the old man’s death had hit him hard. None of this was Ramon’s fault, Javier conceded, feeling the faintest tug of compassion. There was no point in shooting the messenger. ‘Do you think I can do it, Ramon?’ His mouth stretched into a slashing grin that spoke volumes of his confidence at his ability to produce a wife before his next birthday.

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ Ramon replied. ‘If you’re serious about wanting to become the next president of the bank.’

  ‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted and, make no mistake, there’s nothing I won’t do to realise my goal.’ Javier’s smile faded so that his face once more appeared to have been sculpted from marble. Hard, implacable and utterly ruthless. Ramon recognised the indomitable will the younger man had inherited from his grandfather, and felt a surge of sympathy for the unknown woman who would soon become the Duquesa de Herrera. Faced with Javier’s mesmeric charm, she wouldn’t be able to resist him, but it was not for him to warn that Herrera marriages had, throughout history, been made in hell rather than heaven.