The Spaniard's Woman

As Sebastian’s body leapt with a charge of forceful passion he felt an answering deep shudder of pleasure pulse through her slight frame and he placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her, or himself—he wasn’t sure which—as a wave of atavistic male lust gripped and tightened every muscle in his own body.

As her lips parted, welcoming his entry, his kiss deepened and his mindless hands slid down to find her breasts. And Dio mio! they were so very beautiful. Small, pertly rounded, peaking nipples, blatantly aroused—perfect—

Her husky mew of drowning pleasure finally penetrated the red mist of lust that had fogged his brain. He went still, turned to stone as her sweet mouth clung, her small hands rising, fingers tangling in his hair, inviting, tormenting.

He dragged in a harsh breath. What in the name of all that was sacred did he think he was doing?

With a ragged inner groan for his own crass stupidity, he jerked upright, away from her, away from a deeper temptation than he had ever known, struggling to regain some semblance of his shattered self-control.

His heart crashing around against his ribs, he staunchly ignored the sudden, bewildered, lost look in her wide eyes, and turned away to hide the evidence of his aching sex.

‘Wine,’ he said, his voice roughened and raw. Dio! It had been a near disaster. A few more seconds and he’d have been making wild love to her right there on the sofa, and she would have been a pushover. Little Rosie Lambert deserved better than that!

His hand shook as he poured wine into two glasses. For the first time in his life he despised himself. It was a vile sensation! He’d been without a woman for so long he was turning into an animal!

Alcohol wasn’t the best idea in the world, not in his inflamed state. But if he removed himself from her presence, as common sense dictated he should, she would know that what had happened back there had affected him catastrophically.

He had to act as though that kiss hadn’t meant a thing to either of them. He wouldn’t even apologise and suggest it was best forgotten. Just act as though it had been neither here nor there.

Transmit the message that it had been just one of those things, not worth a mention.

Rosie was in shock. Her body was threatening to go up in flames. Sensations she hadn’t known existed were bombarding her so that she didn’t know whether she was on her head or her heels.

Why had he kissed her?

Why had he stopped?

Didn’t he know that she hadn’t wanted him to stop?

That kiss had been magic, heaven and excitingly scary all rolled into one and she’d wanted it to happen ever since she’d first clapped eyes on him! Didn’t he know that?

Of course he did, the cool voice of rapidly returning sanity tartly informed her. He’d only meant to give her a brotherly birthday peck.

Because he’d been sorry for her?

And what had she done? Practically eaten him alive, begging for something he would never want to give! Then, to make matters even worse, his hands had sort of slipped down off her shoulders and come into contact with breasts that were still straining avidly against her top.

And while she’d gone all delirious, and so much out of her head she would have done anything he wanted her to do, he had jumped away just as if he’d had a very nasty shock and she’d never felt so humiliated and ridiculous in the whole of her life!

A solitary tear slipped down the side of her face and dripped on to the mangled petals of the camellia she’d scrunched up in an excess of sexual excitement. She scrubbed her damp cheek with the back of her hand and tried to smooth out the tattered blossom. She would probably press it and keep it for ever; she was daft enough, she thought despairingly.

Sebastian had turned. He held two glasses of wine. He looked as cool as a cucumber, she noted numbly. She couldn’t bear it if he joked about her shameless behaviour or looked wary, as if he thought she was slightly insane and might jump on him and start tearing his clothes off!

But his gorgeous features were bland—just a small polite smile playing around the sexy mouth that had so recently played havoc with every last one of her senses. He handed her a glass and took his own to the other end of the sofa and angled

himself into the corner, his endless legs outstretched, casually crossed at the ankles, as far away from her as he could get without looking as if he were trying to avoid contact.

‘You could have invited family or friends over this evening to help you celebrate your birthday, Rosie,’ he remarked carefully, hoping his voice didn’t give his dark thoughts away, give her the least intimation that he burned to kiss her again, run his hands through that tangled silky hair, explore every delicious inch of her lovely body, possess her.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to blank the ache of sex from his mind and body, and said as levelly as he could manage, ‘You’re entitled to have visitors at any time when you’re not working; I hope you know that. Neither Madge nor I would want you to feel imprisoned while you’re working here.’

Relief shuddered through Rosie. Thank heavens he wasn’t going to mention her awful behaviour. He was back in kind-employer mode and she couldn’t regret that, not if she wanted to have some pride left.

So she cleared her throat and floundered for the cool part she knew she was expected to play. ‘Thank you. But I don’t have anyone to invite.’ And could have bitten her tongue out when she saw his dark brows peak in what looked embarrassingly like sympathy. She had only been telling the truth, but how humiliating if he thought she was angling for his pity!

For something to do—something that didn’t involve scurrying up to her room to hide her head under the pillow—she took a healthy gulp of the wine in her glass. It wasn’t the cheap stuff, like the bottles she and Mum had shared on their birthdays because they couldn’t afford anything halfway decent. It slipped down her throat like the softest of dark velvet.

Sebastian expelled his breath slowly. ‘No one? Forgive me—Madge mentioned that you’d recently lost your mother—but what about your father, brothers, sisters?’