The Spaniard's Woman

London. It takes too much concentration and today I want to concentrate on you.’

That piece of information flustered her. Almost as much as the close proximity of his lean and powerful frame, the long legs stretched out in front of him, the expensive fabric clinging lovingly to his thighs. Naked, those thighs were hot and hard, roughened with dark body hair. A far too vivid memory of how they had felt entwined with her own made her go hot all over.

She swallowed convulsively, felt her face flame, and looked quickly away. Almost before she knew it the car was stationary, Sebastian sliding out and opening the door at her side.

They were in a side street, and even she knew you weren’t allowed to park on double yellow lines. They were standing outside a cafe with steamed up windows and handwritten notices in alarming colours giving the prices of this and that.

Bemused, Rosie glanced up at him and felt a smile creep over her face. Provided she could stop herself having wicked thoughts about him, the day ahead might not be the ordeal she’d lain in bed dreading.

He looked really relaxed and much more approachable than he had done yesterday, and as the car eased back into the traffic he smiled down at her. ‘The driver will be back to collect us in three quarters of an hour.’ He draped a companionable arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s eat, shall we? It might look like a dump, but I can assure you the food might be basic but it’s very good.’

It might look like a dump to Sebastian Garcia, but it suited Rosie just fine: the steamy atmosphere, the smell of bacon and coffee, the plastic chairs set around formica-topped tables, the big jovial man in the crumpled white overall who seemed to be in charge. He greeted Sebastian like a long-lost brother and Rosie, settling herself at a vacant table by the window, her stomach rumbling with sudden hunger, felt swept away by happiness.

This super wealthy, knock-‘em-dead-handsome Spaniard hadn’t brought her here because he was ashamed to be seen with her anywhere more exclusive. He wasn’t a snob. He was well known by the owner so he must eat here often when he was in London. She felt warm and glowing all over. Nicely relaxed for a change.

And the full English breakfast when it arrived was perfectly cooked and so lavish that she couldn’t manage the toast and marmalade that came after it, although Sebastian did it justice.

Comfortably replete, she reached her purse from her handbag.

‘We’ll go Dutch, shall we?’ she offered brightly.

‘Please don’t insult me, cara.’ The delivery was low voiced but so harsh that not even the endearment could soften it. The happiness of the interlude was wiped away. The way they’d talked of this and that so easily, his descriptions of his home in Cadiz, the ancient fountain in the inner courtyard, the fact that you could actually walk outside any time you liked and pick an orange from your own tree sounded wonderful. He’d promised to take her there. She couldn’t wait.

Now the easy closeness had been swept away by a few tightly voiced words, making her feel gauche and faintly ridiculous. He screwed up his pa

per napkin and said, ‘The driver will be here in a few moments.’

Her voice emerged stiffly as she countered, ‘Why? Where are we supposed to be going?’

‘Shopping. For clothes. I told you.’ Fishing a twenty-pound note out of an inner pocket, he laid it on the table and anchored it beneath the plastic sauce dispenser that was shaped like a huge tomato.

Rosie, her small face flaming, muttered crossly, I don’t need any. I can’t afford to buy stuff I don’t need.’

‘Probably not,’ he conceded. ‘But I can. Humour me.’

‘No.’ Rosie was adamant. She wasn’t going to let him buy clothes for her. It didn’t feel right. Unless—

Her pulse-rate rocketing, she pushed out, genuinely appalled, ‘What are you trying to do? Pay me off?’ She’d read about men like that. They had affairs which ended with a gift. A big fat jewel or a flash new car. Only she’d been a one-night stand so a new dress should suffice!

‘Don’t,’ He ran the tip of his forefinger along her flaming cheekbone. ‘It’s true, I feel guilty as hell about what I did,’ he told her quietly. ‘Nothing can make me feel better about that. But, I promise you, my only motive is to see your beautiful body in clothes that do it justice. So I ask you again, humour me in this?’

She couldn’t doubt his sincerity. It reverberated in his smoky voice and shone from his eyes. Melting because he thought her beautiful, she drew her lower lip between her teeth and, against all her principles, found herself weakly capitulating as she probably always would do with this man because, loving the wretch, she couldn’t help wanting to please him. Her eyes downcast, shadowed with the knowledge that she was a hopeless case, she nodded mutely.

‘Bueno,’ he murmured, then his irresistible grin flashed as he held out a hand to help her to her feet, disarming her utterly. It was a knack he had, she thought defeatedly. ‘Promise me one thing more, Rosie—relax and enjoy the experience?’

Amazingly, she did. Once she had got over her initial uneasiness at being ushered into a glass and marble salon, with a bunch of superior-looking beings hovering over her, picking up strands of her hair, turning her head this way and that and peering at her skin, she just let go, took an interest and enjoyed the novel experience of being the pampered centre of interest.

And the girl who had shown her how to use make-up had been really nice and, in between their animated conversation about her pair of Siamese cats and Rosie’s confession that when she had a place of her own she would definitely go for one of that breed, plus a dog, or maybe two, she had explained which colours suited Rosie and which would not. Bright orange or scarlet lipsticks being ruled right out of play.

Her eyes still sparkling, her pink-glossed lips curved in a smile of pure pleasure, her hair, which had been layered so that it swung smoothly around her face, feeling cleaner and shinier than it had ever felt before, she joined Sebastian in the reception area.

Laying aside the broadsheet he’d been reading, he rose to his feet, unaware, apparently, of the interest of every female in the area, and gave her a nod of approval.

Tucking her hand beneath his arm, he escorted her to the door and Rosie felt dizzy with pride. She was the envy of the women who were waiting for their appointments. No one had ever envied her before! She was walking on air.

And hadn’t managed to float back to earth when she was whisked away to a shop that didn’t look like any shop she’d ever seen before—wall to wall soft dove-grey carpet, tall mirrors in ornate gilt frames, comfy two-seater sofas upholstered in cream-coloured fabric, an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

At a gesture from him she sank down on one of the sofas while he went to talk to the regal-looking woman dressed in stark black who had glided forward. It appeared to be a serious discussion; Rosie wondered what on earth they were finding to talk about, and came back down to earth with a bang when the regal lady looked in her direction and actually sneered! At least, that was what it looked like from where she was sitting.