The Spaniard's Woman

Stinging under his rebuke, Rosie felt her soft mouth wobble.

Backbone, what backbone? Her spine had disintegrated and she felt all weak and floppy, as if her legs would give way under her at any moment.

‘Come,’ Sebastian commanded, unpicking her fingers from his arm and placing his hand in the small of her back, propelling her towards the waiting car where the driver was loading their luggage into the boot. ‘It is not far to the quinta. You’ll feel better when you’ve changed into something cooler and had a chance to relax. My mother will help put you at your ease.’

He had the rear door open, his hand still burning against her back. Instinctively, Rosie resisted. Committing herself into this car would mean committing herself to heaven only knew what kind of mayhem.

She wanted to fling herself on to Sebastian’s mercy and weakly beg him to save her! Oh, how she wished she’d kept her mouth shut this morning!

Being open and honest obviously didn’t always pay. They could have been here together, still in her fantasy, with him liking her and looking at her as if he found her the most desirable woman on the planet. And she could have taken her time, got to know her father before she decided whether to toss him her bombshell. Now that decision was out of her hands.

‘Get in.’ The grit in his voice told her he thought she was enough to try the patience of a really saintly saint, and it was still there as he added, inclining his savagely displeased and far too handsome face towards the driver, who was settling himself into his seat, ‘If it helps, Tomas tells me he drove Marcus to the Cadiz office this morning. He won’t be picking him up until later. You’ll have time to calm down and start behaving sensibly before you get to meet him.’

An extra firmness of that inescapable hand and all the fight drained out of her. Victimised by her own big mouth, she fumbled her way into the car and sat like a sack while he walked round to the other side, opened the door and joined her.

As the big car pulled away Rosie’s heart rattled against her breastbone. Now there really was no way out. And the speed with which they eventually zoomed round the outskirts of Jerez made her stomach twist itself into tight knots.

And then they were in open countryside, arid-looking plains punctuated by fertile valleys, squat white-painted farmhouses among groves of trees. Never far from the sea. Rosie tried to concentrate on the Andalucian scenery but she couldn’t get past the nerve-shredding prospect of coming face to face with her father. And even worse than that was the way the man who had made such unforgettable love to her, making her feel so desired, so special, was now treating her like a pariah.

When the car swept down a narrowing road into one of the valleys where a village clustered and swept halfway up the far hillside Sebastian leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

‘You look very pale,’ he explained as the car slowed to a stop outside a small white house which boasted an awning, an orange tree, a chicken scratching in the dust and a few metal tables and chairs. ‘Maybe a long cold drink will help.’

Rosie doubted it. Nothing but a magic wand could help her now. But she’d gratefully fall in with anything that could delay their arrival, she thought wretchedly, pushing a hank of hair away from her sweaty forehead with the back of a shaky hand.

‘You could take your jacket off,’ he remarked with hateful masculine superiority when he’d given his order to a short fat lady clad all in black who had pounced on their arrival as rapidly as if they were the only people to patronise her establishment in a hundred years. ‘That suit’s far too warm for this climate. The jacket’s not welded on to your back.’

He spoke as if she were a sandwich short of a picnic! A sharp spike of resentment gave her the energy to snap back at him, ‘I can’t, can I? I’m not wearing anything underneath!’

Not strictly true. She was wearing one of the delicate lacy bras he’d had delivered to his apartment with all the other stuff. But mentioning underwear in this present hateful situation seemed far too intimate.

But intimacy invaded his eyes and honeyed his tongue as he drawled, his slightly accented velvety voice sending shivers down her spine, ‘That prospect has much appeal. But you are right. I would not want any other eyes but mine feasting on your loveliness.’

Rosie’s mind was in a dizzying whirl as the fat lady approached with two tall glasses of orange juice. What was going on here?

What was he doing? Why had he brought the sex thing up again when she was trying her hardest to cope with the undisputed fact that, ever since she’d opened her mouth about her relationship with his so-honourable godfather, he’d been angry with her and disgusted by her?

When they were alone again at the small metal table she was still feeling horribly confused. If what they’d had was over—as his whole attitude had clearly shown it was as far as he was concerned—then why say things calculated to make her go weak at the knees? Did he really want to torment her? Was he that cruel?

‘Drink your juice; it will help to cool you.’

The stab of impatience in his voice startled her back into the reality of why he’d broken their journey.

Rosie sat up very straight and picked up her glass.

Condensation was forming on the outside and the freshly squeezed juice slid like icy cold nectar down her throat, and when he drawled, ‘I take it you answered the advertisement for the temporary cleaning post because you thought you would get to meet Marcus,’ she choked.

When her spluttering fit was over. Sebastian took a fresh white handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

‘Well? That was your only reason for being there, wasn’t it?’

He wasn’t going to let up on the pressure, she thought resignedly as she mopped her face, and it got worse, really humiliating, when he added, ‘And you weren’t looking for something to read on the night of your birthday. You were snooping.’

Rosie tugged in a stricken breath. He was spot-on and he made her feel low-down and sneaky. Uncomfortably aware that some response was required, she nodded her bright head and started tying the handkerchief he had loaned her into knots.

Risking a rapid glance to see how he had received her affirmation, she noted that the eyes that were brittly trained on her were like shards of ice, and she knew an almost uncontrollable need to crawl under the shelter of the table and hide.

‘I can understand why you didn’t take me into your confidence at that time. You scarcely knew me. But after—’ he allowed a pause, to punch home the shaming fact that, scarcel