Hot Nights with a Spaniard (Mills & Boon M&B) (Mills & Boon Special Releases)

by Carole Mortimer

  Did he still blame her? He couldn’t be sure. One more thing that was wrong with him.

  He’d had to force himself to come to the office today. He could work at home, but he’d gotten dressed and taken his Aston Martin Vanquish from the garage. Zipping through the streets of Madrid, he’d tried to concentrate on all he needed to accomplish.

  It had worked for a little while, but now that he was at his desk his mind was wandering again. Focus. The hotel in Dubai was finally about to begin construction. Though it had been weeks since he’d uncovered his corporate spy, it had still taken time to disentangle the web and get everything straightened away with the Dubai authorities.

  His reorganization of Layton International was proceeding. He always felt a little pang of guilt when he reviewed the progress. Absorbing the company had been a good move, but the difficulties he was experiencing with management made him long for the days when Rebecca had been in charge. She knew that company like she’d been born to it. He allowed himself a smile. Indeed, she had been born to it. Literally.

  He’d considered more than once asking her to come back, but he couldn’t sort out his feelings about it well enough to do so.

  Was it a sign of defeat? Weakness? Was it tantamount to admitting he’d been wrong?

  And what about the baby? Would work be too stressful on her pregnancy? Could she manage the hotel business and a baby too? A very male part of him wanted to lock her in the house and keep her there, but he knew from personal experience that whether or not a woman worked had nothing to do with her ability as a mother. Caridad had had nothing but time, and she’d failed miserably. His own mother was self-absorbed. Apparently so was Rebecca’s.

  He hadn’t missed the disappointment on her face when her mother had finally called. The conversation had been short, to the point, and over without Rebecca saying more than a dozen words. Valencia had chattered endlessly to him about his marriage—she’d whispered that she liked Rebecca very much—though he could have done without it. He thought women liked to talk about those things. It seemed as if Rebecca and her mother did not.

  Madre de Dios, he was married. If someone had told him two months ago that not only would Rebecca Layton be pregnant with his child she would also be his wife, he would have never have believed it. Life was very strange sometimes.

  His secretary came in with some paperwork, and he turned his attention to accomplishing something today other than thinking about his wife. Several hours later, when he’d spoken with his man in Dubai, negotiated a new contract in Russia and approved an impact study for a proposed site in India, he felt he’d done enough work to justify returning home. Perhaps Rebecca would be wearing that little bikini he’d bought her. She’d protested that she’d soon be too fat for it, but he’d bought it anyway.

  There was nothing sexier than his wife lying beside the pool in her hot-pink bikini. Especially when she then let him take her into the house and peel it from her body as he kissed his way over every centimeter of her satiny skin.

  He phoned down to the valet to have his car brought around. When he stepped outside to climb into the sleek gray car, reporters were waiting for him. He didn’t think too much of it at first. Long after his years in the ring were over, the newspapers still seemed to find his life fascinating. Now that he’d so recently married they tended to shadow his and Rebecca’s public appearances. The attention would die down soon enough.

  “Señor Ramirez, is it true you systematically destroyed Layton International through an untraceable chain of subsidiaries? That you duped Jackson Layton into the acquisitions that led him into debt and contributed to his apparent suicide last year?”

  Alejandro felt as if someone had kicked the ground out from under him. One minute he was standing firmly in place; the next he was searching for a foothold. “I acquired Layton International legally,” he stated evenly, though he was seething inside. “You may check all the filings for your answer.”

  “But you owned the only bank that would lend him money. Was that a sound financial decision? Or calculation on your part? What does Rebecca Layton think about these revelations?”

  “You mean Rebecca Ramirez,” Alejandro said, in a voice very like a growl. Oh, he knew exactly what Rebecca thought. Exactly the lengths she would go to in order to do him harm. How had he ever thought she might be falling in love with him? Everything she did, every caress and kiss and sweet sigh, was nothing more than a lie.

  She wanted to embarrass him, wanted his reputation to be damaged and his business interests to suffer. Did she think he would be forced to part with Layton International? That she would be waiting to snap it up? Did she think she could possibly win this battle?

  “No more questions,” Alejandro barked, before getting into the open door the valet held. He gunned the powerful engine and raced out onto the paseo. Traffic was heavy, but he barely noticed.

  He was going to enjoy this confrontation. He’d been so close to falling off the precipice, to caring for her once more. Thank God she’d shown her hand. Finally everything made sense to him again. He had a purpose, a driving goal, a reason to lock her up and throw away the key. And when the baby was born he would be cutting his treacherous wife from both their lives.

  “Thank you for the tea, Señora Flores,” Rebecca said. The other woman smiled and dipped her head in a nod before retreating to the kitchen. Rebecca couldn’t help but grin. She had been convinced, when she had first arrived, that Señora Flores hated her. Now the woman took pains to pamper her. She sat at a table on the terrace, beneath the bougainvillea, and studied the fat book that the decorator Alejandro hired had compiled. She’d wanted to paint the baby’s room herself—wanted to order fabrics and toys and pick out her own rocking chair. Alejandro had insisted it would be easier with a professional’s help. But the woman he’d sent understood Rebecca’s urges and had made a book with many samples to choose from. She’d also recommended combinations that went well together.

  It was, Rebecca thought with a sigh, far easier than her plan had been.

  “What would you like, my baby?” she said, flipping pages. “White wicker? Mahogany? Oak? Will we need pink or blue?”

  They would not know the sex for many weeks yet, though she was secretly hoping for a girl. Little girls’ clothes were so cute. And, since Rebecca was new at this mother thing, she figured she would understand a little girl better than a little boy. Perhaps the next one would be a boy.

  A boy with Alejandro’s smile.

  A movement in the doorway caught her eye and she looked up. “Alejandro!” she exclaimed, jumping up just a little too excitedly. Damn, did she have to be so transparent? Surely the man knew she adored him, in spite of her best intentions not to give away the secret?

  He looked stormy. Stony. Furious. Her steps faltered. “What’s wrong, Alejandro? Did something happen at work? Is everything okay?”

  He took two strides toward her, gripped her upper arms and glared down at her. “Is something wrong at work? You know very well something is wrong!” he thundered. “Dios, how did I ever fall for this act of yours again?”

  He thrust her away and she wrapped her arms around herself, stared at him in shock. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers, the pain of his grip. Her stomach lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her toes. Her heart was sinking like a lead weight. Her limbs refused to move. Oh, God.

  Even the birds had stopped singing. Señora Flores appeared in the doorway, disappeared again. Or it might not have been her. Rebecca wasn’t sure because everything was blurry.

  Breathe.

  She had to get a grip on herself, had to control her emotions for the baby. “Tell me,” she said very calmly. “I want to hear it from your lips.”

  He raked a hand through his hair, spun back to her. “As if you don’t know.”

  “Tell me!” she screamed, suddenly angry and—and offended! That was the word she wanted. Offended. How dared he?

  His nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling h
ard. As if he’d run all the way here. As if he’d scaled a mountain to get to her. No doubt he had. An evil, ugly mountain of his own design.

  “Do not get worked up,” he ordered. “Think of the baby.”

  She dashed tears from her cheeks. “Or kittens and puppies. Anything but the nastiness in your mind.”

  “You went to the press,” he said, stalking closer again. Whirling away. “You told them your father committed suicide and that it was my fault! You want to ruin me, Rebecca. You want Layton International back by any means necessary, sí? Well, you will not get it!” he roared. “I will destroy it first.”

  “Suicide?” She could only stare at him as she tried to process it. “What are you talking about? It was a single-engine plane crash. There was a pilot.”

  “Do not pretend you don’t know! You are the one who told them this! You tried to make it look like I did something illegal—like I am a criminal. Just a lowly bullfighter who dared to aim too high, right?” He stopped his pacing and glared at her. “This, combined with the Dubai accusations, will make my shareholders think twice, yes? Ramirez Enterprises is in for a rocky quarter, thanks to you. But it will not work! You will not win!”

  Rebecca sucked in a breath, surprised it wasn’t shaky or short. Strong emotion buffeted her, threatened her, but she held steady. She would not panic over this. Over him. Not ever again.

  “So this is what you think of me.” It was a statement, not a question. “You’re more worried about a dip in stock prices than you are about me or our baby.”

  “No, you are more concerned with getting your precious company back. You are selfish, Rebecca. Selfish and manipulative. You planned this all along. You didn’t take your pills, you got pregnant on purpose, and you faked a panic attack to get me to marry you!”

  Icy calm wafted over her, chilled her down to the bone. Inside, her heart bled. Outside, she was detached. So cold it frightened her. She could see with such clarity now. She’d been right about him. The man she loved was controlled by the angry, grief-stricken, suspicious man before her now. She loved him too, but she could not live with him.

  “Then why did you marry me if you didn’t want to?” she demanded. “No one held a gun to your head. We could have worked out visitation, if you wanted it.”

  “Visitation? This is my child.”

  “Are you sure?” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. The raw pain on his face told her she’d stabbed deep. But she was furious, hurt, and she wanted to hurt back.

  His face was dark. “If not for the timing, I might doubt it.”

  She swallowed a bubble of hysteria. “Because I am a slut, of course. I’ll sleep with anyone for advantage, right? My God, you make me sick.” After everything she’d told him, everything she’d felt and believed. It was too much to process. She didn’t even bother gathering up the sample book. She just headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you.”

  “You cannot hide from the truth, mi esposa,” he said nastily.

  She turned back to him. He was a big blur in her field of vision. She swiped her tears away, shook her head. “But you can, can’t you? You do it quite well.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ALEJANDRO did not feel any better. In fact he felt worse. After his confrontation with Rebecca he’d thought he would feel exhilaration, triumph, all the things he usually felt when he’d won a fight. Like he could conquer anything.

  He always felt like he was bursting with life and energy when he won.

  But not this time.

  He sat in his study and blinked at the computer screen. Señora Flores brought him the drink he’d requested, dropping it on the desk with a thud and marching away without bothering to wipe up the splashes that had landed on the mahogany. She was angry with him for yelling at Rebecca.

  He focused on the news headlines he’d been reading. It was there—the sensational story about Jackson Layton’s suicide and Alejandro’s part in pushing the man over the brink. He’d had all his phones diverted to an answering service hours ago. Reporters would be calling nonstop. Hell, there were probably a few camped outside his gates.

  Rebecca had accused him of hiding from the truth. The charge stung, though he knew she was wrong. Why did her barbs prick at him when she was the one who had lied and cheated?

  He put his head in his hands, stared at the wood grain, the way a drop of moisture was beginning to stain the surface. Odd how just that little drop could change the wood—the color bleaching out, the grain showing clearer, the visible blotch on what had once been a perfect surface.

  What if he was wrong? What if the perfect surface of what he’d thought was true had a blemish? Why would she wait weeks to feed this story to the press?

  He thought back over the last few weeks—thought of everything he knew about her. Nothing she had done, if he truly examined it from all angles, showed calculation. Someone with an agenda would have had a better plan. Did it make sense to get pregnant on purpose, but then leave the instant she learned he’d owned the bank and resorts? Wouldn’t a woman with a plan to get her company back pretend not to know what he’d done? And wouldn’t she plant misleading stories to the press far earlier?

  Anyone could have brought this story out now to try and discredit him. Someone with a grudge over the Dubai contracts, in fact. Cahill? He’d been the one to send Rebecca documents, and he’d be just crafty enough to hold a story until it would do him the most good.

  Alejandro sat there for a long time, not touching the drink, not moving. Just thinking.

  Finally, he lifted his head. “Maldito sea.”

  He shoved himself to his feet, sought her out. But every room he went into was empty. His heart began to pound a drumbeat in his chest, growing faster with each successive room.

  Señora Flores met him in the foyer when he came full circle. She did not look happy to see him. “Señora Ramirez, she has gone.”

  The best thing about being Señora Ramirez was that she could walk into the Villa de Musica, demand a room for the night, and no one would blink. She knew Alejandro would track her down eventually, but at least she’d have a few hours’ peace.

  Not surprisingly, the room the staff put her in was the suite, with all its memories. Just her luck.

  She’d cried a bucketload earlier, but she was startlingly out of tears now. She couldn’t even muster a whimper. She went into the bedroom they’d once shared and sank into a chair by the window. Below, traffic was moving steadily. Across the street, a man and woman argued. She could tell because she could see their arms waving back and forth. And then they were kissing.

  If only her problems were solved so easily.

  She would ask for a divorce. There was no other way. She would not live with him—not as cold and unforgiving and suspicious as he was. If he wouldn’t divorce her, she’d insist on her own place. A house nearby, or an apartment. They would live separately, but they would parent their child together.

  And how is that going to work, Rebecca?

  She pushed a hand through her hair. She didn’t know, and she didn’t have the energy to think about it right now. She just sat and stared and planned random scenarios, none of them truly viable.

  Her respite didn’t last long. An hour, maybe two, and then she heard the chime announcing someone had entered the room.

  “Rebecca.”

  She didn’t even glance at the entry. She’d felt his presence before he’d spoken. The soft, sexy timbre of his voice stroked her abused senses. She was far too weak with this man.

  “I want a divorce, Alejandro.”

  “No.”

  She bolted up from the chair, faced him across the room, her arms rigid at her sides. She’d never felt more like doing battle in her life. “I will not stay married to you, living in that house, putting up with your abuse. You wouldn’t know the truth if it fell on top of you, so don’t you dare come in here with the idea you’re going to force me to go back with you. Not to
night, Alejandro. Maybe not ever.”

  “Sí, I agree.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. He looked a little haggard, as if he’d been working hard and hadn’t had enough rest. He wore khakis and a dark button-down shirt, and he looked so delicious she wanted to press her mouth to the hollow of his throat and taste the saltiness of his skin.

  Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she turned her head away. “You agree to a divorce? So quickly?”

  “That is not what I said.” He came into the room, shoved his hands in his pockets and went to the window. Close to her, but not too close. She would have to take at least three steps to be beside him.

  “Then what are you saying? Because I’m too drained to figure it out.”

  “The truth, Rebecca. It has been staring me in the face.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. He wasn’t making any sense.

  “Will you sit?” he asked. “I want to say things.”

  “Fine.” She went over and sat on the edge of the bed—away from him. He leaned against the windowsill, as if he realized she would not welcome him moving close again.

  “I found Parker Gaines,” he said softly. “I did it the night after you told me about him.”

  Her heart suddenly felt like it was beating in a sea of molasses. “Okay,” she said, stupidly.

  “He is in a California prison for embezzlement.”

  Was it wrong to feel satisfaction at the knowledge? “Good.”

  “Yes, I thought so as well. It saved me the trouble of killing him for you.”

  “Alejandro—”

  “No,” he said, holding up a hand to silence her. “I would do this gladly. You need only ask. When he gets out in twenty years I will challenge him to a duel.”

  In spite of herself, she grinned. Not much, but still a grin. She tilted her head down to hide it.

  “Are you laughing at me, Rebecca?”

  She wanted to, but she shook her head.

  He sighed. “Ah, well, I am not so amusing.”

  He didn’t say anything for so long she looked up to see what he was doing. He was staring back at her.