The Spaniard's Woman

So, it had

to be said, if he took up her offer to write with any news she had and put her on the first train back to Wolverhampton in the morning, she might not like it, and would probably cry her eyes out for a month; but he would be doing her a kindness.

He just kept looking at her, as if, she thought dejectedly, he was wondering if he could trust her to keep her word. She wriggled in her seat. Her emotions were going all chaotic again, as they normally did around this man, and when he tonelessly remarked, ‘Hauling’ you to Spain, as you so elegantly put it, will be no trouble at all,’ there was nothing else for it but to push back her chair, bid him a stiff goodnight, and head with more speed than dignity to her room. At least his attitude told her he had no intention of making love to her again. He didn’t repeat his mistakes. The knowledge should have made her feel more comfortable about the situation. But it didn’t.

Now it was almost ten in the morning. She wasn’t used to staying in bed late, but the thought of enduring hours and hours of Sebastian’s stone-faced silences kept her where she was.

It was perfectly obvious that he didn’t trust her to keep her word. He didn’t know her so why should he trust her? She didn’t know him, either, so she didn’t know what he’d meant when he’d said he took his responsibilities seriously.

How could two people who didn’t know the first thing about each other fall into bed, just like that?

She squirmed under the duvet, freshly awash with shame, and made the humiliating mental note that he hadn’t contradicted her when she’d said that he must find her a nuisance.

An omission brought home to her when, after what she quiveringly decided was a most perfunctory rap, he strode into the room and drawled, ‘Shake a leg, Nuisance! I’m taking you to breakfast.’

Between the strands of rumpled blonde hair that fell over her forehead and the top of the duvet she had pulled right up to her nose and was hanging on to for grim life, her sapphire eyes widened at him and she felt her whole body relax for the first time since she’d woken hours ago. His devastating smile and the fascinatingly warm glints in his black fringed silvery eyes told her he was teasing about the nuisance bit.

She couldn’t begin to understand him. Last night he’d barely been able to bring himself to speak to her and now he was all smiles, teasing her. It was his volatile Spanish temperament, she guessed. Whatever, she wasn’t going to knock it!

Her eyes were sparkling at him, come-to-bed eyes. Sebastian’s throat went tight. Her lovely hair was all over the place. His fingers ached to touch it, smooth it away from her face, to peel the duvet away from her slender but perfect body, to lose himself in her again.

Bunching his treacherous hands in the side pockets of his suit trousers, Sebastian turned abruptly away from a temptation he was having difficulty resisting, and said flatly, ‘Wear something warm; it’s cold out.’ He closed the door with deliberate quietness behind him and strode, tight-lipped, to the kitchen and the pot of hot coffee he’d made before waking her.

Ten minutes later Rosie tracked him down. Sprawled out at the kitchen table, he was staring moodily into a mug of black coffee. He hadn’t heard her enter and for a few moments she allowed herself the luxury of just looking at him.

He was so attractive he made her head spin and her heart jump right up into her throat. Wearing a mid-grey suit, immaculately tailored to his lithe body, a paler grey shirt and deep blue silk tie, he literally took her breath away.

The only thing that marred the effect of suave masculine perfection was the tousled state of his raven hair. Had he been running frantic fingers through it, reducing its normally expensively barbered state to something that resembled a wind tossed haystack? It gave him an endearing look of vulnerability that turned her insides over.

How could such a gorgeous guy have found her desirable enough to make love to her? If she hadn’t known it had happened she would have said it was impossible. Unless, and the thought drained her, he had simply wanted sex and any available woman would have done.

She must have made some sound because he turned and looked at her, his wide hard mouth flat and tight. She saw his eyes raking her, taking in her most presentable jeans, the anorak worn over the scarlet woolly jumper Jean had knitted for her last Christmas. Whether it was the contrast between her plain ordinariness and his own Savile Row urbanity, she had no way of knowing. Whatever, she could read his moody, narrowed eyes well enough to know that there was some kind of battle going on inside that handsome head.

She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath beneath his raking scrutiny until she saw his tense shoulders relax, his mouth soften into a half-smile as he got fluidly to his feet.

Sebastian covered the distance between them in three smooth strides. Selfishly, he’d been too twisted up in his own convoluted and confused thought processes for the past twenty-four hours to give any thought to what she must be feeling, had spent far too much time trying to sort his head out.

She was alone in the world, probably scared silly at the prospect of possible pregnancy, out of her depth and nervous about spending the next couple of weeks in a foreign country with people who were strangers to her.

He had to reassure her, put her at her ease. Make her understand that he would take care of her. A warm glow centred in the region of his heart. Caring for her wouldn’t present a problem—so long as he could handle his libido, he amended wryly.

Reaching a soft white handkerchief from his pocket, he shook out the folds and gently rubbed her mouth, removing all traces of the bright orange lipstick she had plastered all over it, carefully avoiding the stunned shock in her beautiful eyes.

At least she wasn’t wearing that awful cheap dress. It had been several sizes too big, badly made, and the purply blue colour hadn’t done a thing for her. When she’d walked in wearing it another of those giant waves of tenderness had swamped him.

He’d wanted to rip the offensive thing off her back and dress her in the best that money could buy, pay tribute to her loveliness.

Well, the thought was father to the deed, wasn’t it? Producing a flat tone, he informed her, ‘That’s better.’ He dropped his hands and made a show of consulting his watch again. ‘The limo should be waiting now. Hungry?’ A casual hand on the small of her back urged her to the vestibule and the waiting lift, and Rosie went, feeling all tangled up inside.

Her soft lips felt swollen, sensitised. As if he had kissed her.

What he’d done had felt so—so intimate and really erotic she admitted to herself on a quiver of hopelessly futile excitement.

When all it had really meant was that he didn’t like to see women wearing make-up. She had thought the splash of vivid colour had made her look less as if she was part of the woodwork.

When he ushered her into the rear of the waiting chauffeur-driven limo she gathered up her wandering wits and wanted to know, ‘Why hire this package when you’ve a very nice car of your own?’

Sliding back the glass partition, Sebastian gave the driver a series of instructions, then settled back beside her as the big car purred away to join the traffic. ‘Because I dislike driving in