The Spaniard's Woman

He smiled into her anxious eyes, hiding a stab of annoyance.

‘Surely you’re not still working?’

What was Madge thinking of? Granted, there was a lot of hard physical graft to get through here, bit making this delicate little creature work overtime was way out of order and he’d make damn sure it didn’t happen again!

Butterflies were rampaging around, in Rosie’s stomach and she couldn’t get her lungs to work properly. She’d tried to stop gawping at him but how could she when he was so gorgeous?

The sharp grey business suit he was wearing did nothing to disguise the raw power of his magnificent physique and, try as she might, she couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he kissed her.

She’d probably go into a terminal swoon, she thought in dire agitation and managed, finally, to give him the answer he was waiting for. ‘No. I knocked off ages ago. I was looking for something to read,’ she mumbled, uncomfortably aware that her face was bright scarlet. Lying to him made her feel horrible, but what choice did she have? She could hardly tell him the truth.

And she’d have to explain away the photograph she was holding. Bend the truth again. And the way those sultry, smoky eyes were pinned on her wasn’t helping any. She felt as if she were drowning in wicked sensation. Her throat strangely tight, she croaked out, I was clumsy, I knocked that off the shelf—’ she gestured jerkily to the album on the floor ‘—and photographs fell out.’

‘No damage done.’

Sebastian’s dark brows met. Dio mio—why was she so nervous?

She looked like a puppy waiting to be beaten for some minor misdemeanour! Was she accustomed to being chastised for the slightest accident? A powerful surge of anger tightened the muscles of his shoulders. He’d like to meet the brute who had done that to her!

Madre di Dio! —her soft, full mouth was trembling now! He made a conscious effort to stop frowning—it was obviously giving her the jitters—relax his shoulders and approach her slowly.

‘May I?’

Sebastian plucked the photograph from Rosie’s suddenly nerveless fingers and his gentle, velvety tone made a wave of startling heat wash right through her. Her breath coming in short stabs, she tried to come to terms with the weird effect he had on her. It was a new phenomenon as far as she was concerned and one she could well do without, she decided grittily, as she felt her breasts lift beneath their thin cotton covering and crossed her arms over them to hide the embarrassing evidence.

His lips curved as he glanced at the image he held in his long fingers. ‘This brings back memories—my aunt Lucia giving me my first riding lesson.’

Silvery eyes met hers, inviting her to share, and, desperately afraid that he would guess that she was helplessly attracted to him and laugh his socks off, she obliged and stared at the picture of the lovely young woman, the fat pony and the grinning little boy.

He would have been about six or seven, she thought moonily, then made herself snap out of it and tried to sound borderline intelligent as she hazarded, ‘Your aunt was Sir Marcus’s wife?’

‘She was.’ A flicker of sadness darkened those sultry eyes as he bent and slotted the loose photographs back in the album.

‘Lucia was a truly beautiful person, both inside and out. But unlucky. Shortly after that snapshot was taken she was diagnosed with MS. It progressed rapidly. The unfairness of it used to make me angry. Still does, whenever I think about what her life became.’

Watching him replace the album in its original position, Rosie felt decidedly queasy. He would be absolutely furious if he ever discovered that his godfather and present business partner had betrayed the aunt he had so clearly idolised and that she, the humble cleaning lady, was the unfortunate by-product of that long ago affair!

She lowered her eyes in humiliation. She knew she ought to scrub her plans for making herself known to her father before any real damage was done, and yet part of her stubbornly yearned to find out if Sir Marcus really had loved her mother, to discover whether she could trust him or if she should despise him. She couldn’t help wanting to be accepted, to have someone she could call family.

‘You OK?’ Sebastian swept her drooping figure with narrowing eyes. He held out the book she had obviously selected, leaving it leaning against the lower shelf when she’d dislodged the album. British Military Swords seemed a strange choice for such a scrap of a kid. ‘You’re very pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled, mortified, clutching the book to her heaving breasts, hoping against hope that he hadn’t noted the title and marvelled at her supposed choice of reading matter and wouldn’t start to ask awkward questions, like how long had she been interested in the subject.

She looked far from ‘fine’, Sebastian decided. And she wasn’t a scrap of a kid, either. She was twenty years old today, he remembered, and said warmly, ‘Happy birthday, Rosie.’

The commonplace salutation evoked a response way out of proportion to its significance. But it had been worth it to see those drowning sapphire eyes dance as they met his, and her sudden radiant smile was so lovely it took his breath away.

‘How did you know? No one else does.’ It was the first birthday greeting she’d had all day, and coming from him it was very special, making up for the fact that she’d not had a card from Jean, who had never—ever since she’d been little and shopping at the mini-market with her mother and Jean had told her to choose from the exciting selection of sweets on offer—forgotten to mark the day.

‘Madge happened to mention it,’ Sebastian offered gruffly, his veiled eyes lingering on the flush of wild rose colour that deepened the clear deep blue of her fantastic eyes. In his experience, such genuine pleasure was a rarity in the female of the species. It would take more than a birthday greeting to get a reaction like that from the female sophisticates who moved in his circle—would take something in the order of a suite of diamond jewellery or a new car!

He felt strangely humble and not a little proprietorial as he commanded a touch thickly, ‘Share a bottle of wine with me to mark the occasion.’

Now where had that come from? He was as surprised as Rosie looked. After the twenty-four hours of aggravation and frustration he’d just had, he’d wanted nothing more than a simple meal and the chance to relax.

Her soft mouth had dropped open. She had to clamp it shut and clear her throat before she could say a single thing. She stared at his knock-‘em-dead features, the taut bones beneath the smooth bronzed skin and gulped shakily, ‘No, thanks. There’s no need, honestly.’

The invitation had been the very last thing she’d expected and she knew he’d only asked because he felt sorry for her, the birthday girl with no party to go to.