Kat And The Dare-Devil Spaniard

Kat looked at him in alarm. ‘But you can’t keep me here against my will!’

‘Can’t I?’ A slow and mocking smile curved the edges of his lips. ‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious about why you’re here—or did you think I was just longing for a little of your exclusive company?’

‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘Any more than I’m longing for yours!’

‘Good. Because, believe me—you were never going to be my number-one choice of sailing companion.’

Eyes narrowing, Carlos began to study her. She was beautiful, he conceded reluctantly. Even more beautiful than he remembered. Black hair tumbled like wild, dark silk over her shoulders, and her eyes were the most astonishing shade of blue he’d ever seen, framed by outrageously long, curling black lashes. Her lips were as pink as crushed rose petals—and her body was positively sinful.

Unfashionably curvy, she had the kind of legs which seemed to go on for ever—a fact emphasised by the tiny pair of denim shorts she wore, along with a pair of high-heeled espadrilles which showcased her painted toenails. Luscious-looking breasts were thrusting towards him as if crying out for him to cup them in the palms of his hands—their fullness set off perfectly by the simple white T-shirt which stretched tightly over them. So that they looked like two ripe peaches which had been smothered in cream…

But she left him cold. Completely cold. Her type always did. She was a predatory type of modern woman who flagrantly used her sexuality like a bitch in heat. Who saw what she wanted and then just went right out and took it. His mind took him back to the extravagant ball her family had thrown last year—when she had approached him with all the subtlety of a cheap prostituta, and his mouth hardened with remembered contempt.

¡Maldición! It was a pity he was forced to accommodate such a woman as this on the sanctuary of his beloved yacht—but he owed her father. Owed him more than he could ever say. And perhaps it would be amusing to snap this spoiled little madam from out of the privileged bubble in which she seemed to exist.

‘Have you qu-quite finished?’ questioned Kat in a voice which was shaking with rage and humiliation—for she had never been stared at like that before. She attracted attention, yes—but no man had ever had the temerity to study her as if she was being slowly stripped naked by a pair of contemptuous eyes. And aren’t you shaking for another reason? questioned a taunting voice in her head. Aren’t you shaking because you actually like him looking at you like that? Aren’t your breasts tingling after his insolent scrutiny—and isn’t there a kind of soft, aching pool where the denim is rubbing against the fork of your thighs?

‘Finished?’ echoed Carlos. ‘Why, querida—I haven’t even started.’

Kat’s heart thumped, but she was damned if she would show even a trace of nerves. This man was nothing to her. Nothing. Fearlessly, she lifted her chin and iced him a look. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

Black eyes regarded her. ‘You don’t know anything?’

‘Would I be asking if I did?’ But then Kat remembered her father’s strange reticence to disclose any details about her proposed boat trip, and now as she stared into the hard, cold face of the Spaniard her misgivings began to grow. ‘This is something…something which has been cooked up between you and my father, isn’t it?’

‘Bravo,’ he mocked softly, curious to see how she would react.

Kat’s hands curled into two fists by the sides of her bare thighs. ‘Well, I want to speak to him. Now!’

‘Didn’t anyone ever teach you to say please?’

‘I don’t really think that you’re in a position to give me a lesson in manners when you’re the one keeping me prisoner! I want some sort of explanation about why I’ve been…kidnapped by some wretched brute of a man like you!’

Carlos saw the icy blue fire of defiance spitting from her eyes and he felt a sudden rush of blood heating his veins. Oh, but he was going to enjoy taming her. To teach her that she could not just waltz through life, relying on her blindingly beautiful looks and her limitless bank account, taking exactly what she wanted, without a thought as to what the consequences might be.

‘Just lose the hysteria—’

‘But I—’

‘I said lose it,’ he snapped. ‘And come with me.’ He walked straight past her into the still-untidy cabin, his eyes narrowing with anger as he registered that she hadn’t lifted a finger to clear anything away as he had expressly instructed she do. But he would deal with that. Later. Turning to face her, he pulled a cream envelope from the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. ‘From your father,’ he said.

Snatching the envelope from hi

m, Kat was trembling as she ripped it open and withdrew a large sheet of paper, her eyes scanning over it quickly as she recognised her father’s handwriting. My dearest Kat, it began.

It was the most bizarre document she had ever seen. Words flew off the page as if determined to grab her attention and she read them in rapidly mounting disbelief.

Words such as powerful, proud and loyal—and they were written in Latin too. Validus, Superbus quod Fidelis.

Kat’s head was spinning as she read on.

These are the words of our family motto, which for many years used to guide the Balfours. But something else used to guide us too—a set of principles which were known in the family as the rules.

Kat’s frown deepened. What on earth was her father going on about? The letter continued.

Of late, these principles have become wilfully neglected and our name has become a laughing stock—both at home and abroad. In many ways, I blame myself. The example I have set to my children over the years has been a poor one, but I am determined that my daughters will not replicate my chequered lifestyle.

Then came the paragraph which made Kat’s blood run cold.