The Spaniard's Wedding Revenge

From destitute...

...to wearing the Spaniard’s diamond!

There’s something familiar about the penniless yet fiery woman Cristiano Velazquez saves from the Paris streets. Yes, the redheaded wildcat makes his blood run red-hot. But it’s not until he gives her a job cleaning his mansion that it hits him. She’s his nemesis’s long-lost daughter!

Securing Leonie’s hand in marriage would allow him to take the one thing his enemy cares about—just as he once took everything that mattered from Cristiano. His first step? Convincing his newest—most defiant—employee to meet him at the altar!

JACKIE ASHENDEN writes dark, emotional stories, with alpha heroes who’ve just got the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, the inimitable Dr Jax, two kids and two rats. When she’s not torturing alpha males and their gutsy heroines she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, wasting time on social media or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband. To keep up to date with Jackie’s new releases and other news sign up to her newsletter at jackieashenden.com.

Also by Jackie Ashenden

Crowned at the Desert King’s Command

Shocking Italian Heirs miniseries

Demanding His Hidden Heir

Claiming His One-Night Child

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Spaniard’s Wedding Revenge

Jackie Ashenden

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09817-5

THE SPANIARD’S WEDDING REVENGE

© 2020 Jackie Ashenden

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Justin Alastair, Duke of Avon, and Leonie de Saint-Vire. Thanks for the inspiration!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

THE LAST THING Cristiano Velazquez—current duke of an ancient and largely forgotten dukedom in Spain, not to mention playboy extraordinaire—wanted to see at two in the morning as he rolled out of his favourite Paris club was a gang of youths crouched in front of his limo as it waited by the kerb. He wanted to hear the distinctive rattle and then hiss of a spray can even less.

God only knew where his driver André was, the lazy bastardo, but he certainly wasn’t here, guarding his limo like he should have been.

The two women on Cristiano’s arm made fearful noises, murmuring fretfully about bodyguards, but Cristiano had never been bothered with protection and he couldn’t be bothered now. Quite frankly, some nights he could use the excitement of a mugging, and at least the presence of a gang of Parisian street kids was something out of the ordinary.

Although it would have been better if they hadn’t been spray-painting his limo, of course.

Still, the youths were clearly bothering his lady-friends, and if he wanted to spend the rest of the night with both of them in his bed—which he fully intended to do—then he was going to have to handle the situation.

‘Allow me, ladies,’ he murmured, and strolled unhurriedly towards the assembled youths.

One of them must have seen him, because the kid said something sharp to the rest of his friends and abruptly they all scattered like a pack of wild dogs.

Except for the boy with the spray can, currently graffitiing a rude phrase across the passenger door.

The kid was crouched down, his slight frame swamped by a pair of dirty black jeans and a huge black hoodie with the hood drawn up. He didn’t seem to notice Cristiano’s approach, absorbed as he was in adding a final flourish to his artwork.

Cristiano paused behind him, admiring said ‘artwork’. ‘Very good. But you missed an “e”,’ he pointed out helpfully.

Instantly the kid sprang up from his crouch, throwing the spray can to the right and darting to the left.

But Cristiano was ready for him. He grabbed the back of the boy’s hoodie before the kid could escape and held on.

The boy was pulled up short, the hoodie slipping off his head. He made a grab for it, trying to pull it back up, but it was too late. A strand of bright hair escaped, the same pinky-red as apricots.

Cristiano froze. Unusual colour. Familiar in some way.

An old and forgotten memory stirred, and before he knew what he was doing he’d grabbed the boy’s narrow shoulders and spun him around, jerking his hood down at the same time.

A wealth of apricot-coloured hair tumbled down the boy’s back, framing a pale face with small, finely carved features and big eyes the deep violet-blue of cornflowers.

Not a boy. A girl.

No, a woman.

She said something foul in a voice completely at odds with the air of wide-eyed innocence she projected. A voice made for sex, husky and sweet, that went straight to his groin.

Not a problem. Everything went straight to his groin.

The grip he had on the back of her hoodie tightened.

She spat another curse at him and tried to wriggle out of his hold like a furious kitten.

Cristiano merely tightened his grip, studying her. She was quite strong for a little thing, not to mention feisty, and he really should let her go. Especially when he had other female company standing around behind him. Female company he actually wanted to spend time with tonight.

Then again, that familiarity was nagging at him, tugging at him as insistently as the girl was doing right now. That hair was familiar, and so were those eyes. And that lush little mouth...

Had he seen her before somewhere?

Had he slept with her, maybe?

But, no, surely not. She was dressed in dirty, baggy streetwear, and there was a feral, hungry look to her. He’d been in many dives around the world, and he recognised the look of a person who lived nowhere but the streets, and this young woman had that look.

She had the foul mouth that went along with it, too.

Not that he minded cursing. What he did mind was people spray-painting his limo and interrupting his evening.

‘Be still, gatita,’ he ordered. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’

At the mention of police she struggled harder, producing a knife from somewhere and waving it threateningly at him.

‘Let me go!’ she said, and added something rude to do with a very masculine part of his anatomy.

Definitely feisty, and probably more trouble than she was worth—especially with that knife waving around. She was pretty, but he wasn’t into expending effort on a woman who was resistant when he had plenty of willing ones who weren’t.

Then again, his tastes were...eclectic, and he liked difference. She was certainly that. A bit on the young side, though.

‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘Your customisation of my car I could have ignored. But you have interrupted my evening and scared my friends, and that I simply won’t stand for.’

She ignored him, spitting another curse and slashing at him with her knife.

‘And now we’re dealing with assault,’ Cristiano pointed out, not at all bothered by the knife, since it managed to miss him by miles.

‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘You assaulting me!’

He sighed. He didn’t have a lot of patience for this kind of nonsense and now, since it was late—or early, depending on your point of reference—he wanted to get to bed, and not alone. He really needed to handle this unfortunate situation.

So let her go.

Well, he should. After he’d figured out why she was so familiar, because it was really starting to annoy him now.

Though that was going to be difficult with her still swinging wildly at him with a knife.

Amongst the many skills he’d become proficient in on his quest to fill the gaping emptiness inside him was a certain expertise in a couple of martial arts, so it wasn’t difficult for him to disarm her of her knife and then bundle her into his limo.

He got in after her and shut the door, locking it for good measure so that she was effectively confined.

Instantly she tried to get out, trying to get the doors to open. It wouldn’t work. Only he could open the doors from the inside when they were locked.

He said nothing, watching her as she tried futilely to escape. When it became clear to her that she couldn’t, she turned to him, a mix of fury and fear in her big cornflower-blue eyes.

‘Let me out,’ she demanded, breathless.

Cristiano leaned back in the seat opposite her and shoved his hands into the pockets of his expertly tailored black dress pants. It might have been a stupid move, since it wasn’t clear whether she had another knife on her somewhere, but he was betting she didn’t.

‘No,’ he said, studying her face.

Her jaw went rigid, her small figure stiff with tension. ‘Are you going to rape me?’

He blinked at the stark question, then had a brief internal debate about whether he should be annoyed she’d even had to ask—especially since the latter part of his life had largely been spent in the pursuit of pleasure, both his own and that of any partners he came into contact with.

But in the end it wasn’t worth getting uptight about. If she was indeed on the streets, then not being assaulted was likely to be one of her first concerns. Particularly when she’d been bundled into a car and locked in by a man much larger and stronger than she was.

‘No,’ he said flatly, so there could be no doubt. ‘That sounds like effort, and I try not to make any effort if I can possibly help it.’

She gazed at him suspiciously. ‘Then why did you shut me in this car?’

‘Because you tried to stab me with your knife.’

‘You could have just let me go.’

‘You were graffitiing my car. And it’s an expensive car. It’s going to cost me a lot of money to get it repainted.’

She gave him a look that was at once disdainful and pitying. ‘You can afford it, rich man.’

Unoffended, Cristiano tilted his head, studying her. ‘It’s true. I am rich. And, yes, I can afford to get it repainted. But it’s inconvenient to have to do so. You have inconvenienced me, gatita, and I do so hate to be inconvenienced. So, tell me, what are you going to do about it?’

‘I’m not going to do anything about it.’ She lifted her chin stubbornly. ‘Let me out, fils de pute.’

‘Such language,’ Cristiano reproved, entertained despite himself. ‘Where did you learn your manners?’

‘I’ll call the police myself. Tell them you’re holding me against my will.’

She dug into the voluminous pockets of her hoodie, brought out a battered-looking cellphone and held it up triumphantly. ‘Ten seconds to let me out and then I’m calling the emergency services.’

Cristiano was unmoved. ‘Go ahead. I know the police quite well. I’m sure you’ll be able to explain why you were crouching in front of my car, spray-painting foul language all over it, and then pulling a knife on me when I tried to stop you.’

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

‘What’s your name?’ he went on. That nagging familiarity was still tugging at him. He’d seen her before—he was sure of it.

‘None of your business.’

Clearly she’d thought better of calling the police, because she lowered her hand disappearing her phone back into her hoodie.

‘Give me back my knife.’

Cristiano was amused. She was a brave little gatita, asking for the knife he’d only just disarmed her of after she’d tried to stab him with it. Brave to stand up to him, too—especially considering she was at a severe disadvantage. Not only physically but, given her dirty clothes and feral air, socially, too.

Then again, when you lived at the bottom of life’s barrel you had nothing to left to lose. He knew. He’d been there himself—if not physically then certainly in spirit.

‘Sadly, that’s not going to happen.’ He shifted, taking his hands out of his pockets and very slowly leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, his fingers linked loosely between his knees.

A wary look crossed her face.

And that was good. She was right to be wary. Because he was losing his patience, and when he lost patience he was dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.

‘I’ll ask one more time,’ he said, letting a warning edge his voice. ‘What’s your name, gatita?’

The man sitting opposite Leonie—the rich bastard who’d scooped her up and put her in his limo—was scaring the living daylights out of her, and she wasn’t sure why.

He wasn’t being threatening. He was simply sitting there with his hands between his knees, eyes the same kind of green as deep, dense jungles staring unblinkingly at her.

He was dressed all in black, and she didn’t need to be rich to know that his clothes—black trousers and a plain black cotton shirt—had been made for him. Nothing else explained the way they fitted him so perfectly, framing wide shoulders and a broad chest, a lean waist and powerful thighs.

He reeked of money, this man. She could virtually smell it.

And not just money. He reeked of power, too. It was an almost physical force, pushing at her, crowding out all the air in the car and winding long fingers around her throat and squeezing.

There was another element to that power, though. An element she couldn’t identify.

It had something to do with his face, which was as beautiful as some of the carved angels on the tombs in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed warmer than an angel, so maybe more like a fallen one. Maybe a beautiful devil instead.

Night-black hair, straight brows and those intense green eyes...

No, he wasn’t an angel, and he wasn’t a devil, either. He seemed more vital than a mythical being. More...elemental, somehow.

He was a black panther in the jungle, watching her from the branch of a tree. All sleepy and lazy... Until he was ready to pounce.

That frightened her—but it didn’t feel like a threat she was familiar with. Sleeping on the streets of Paris had given her a very acute sense of threat, especially the threat of physical violence, and she wasn’t getting that from him.

No, it was something else.

‘Why do you want to know my name?’

She wasn’t going to just give it to him. She never gave her name to anyone unless she knew them. Over the past few years she’d developed a hearty distrust of most people and it had saved her on more than one occasion.

‘So you can call your friends in the police and get them to throw me in jail?’

She shouldn’t have vandalised the car, since as a rule she liked to keep a low profile—less chance of coming to anyone’s notice that way. But she’d been followed on her way to the little alley where she’d been hoping to bed down and, since being a woman on her own at night could be a problem, she’d attached herself to the crowd of homeless teenagers she’d been with earlier. They’d been out vandalising stuff and she’d had to prove herself willing to do the same in order to stay in their company. So she hadn’t hesitated to pick up the spray can.

To be fair, she hadn’t minded targeting this man’s limo. The rich never saw the people on the streets, and she rather liked the idea of forcing her existence to at least be acknowledged in some way. Even if it did involve the police.

‘No.’

His voice was very deep, with a warmth curling through it that made a part of her shiver right down low inside. There was a lilt to it, too...a faint, musical accent.

‘But you were vandalising my car. Your name is the least you can give me in recompense.’

Leonie frowned. What had he done with her knife? She wanted it back. She didn’t feel safe without it. ‘Why? Don’t you want money?’

He raised one perfect black brow. ‘Do you have any?’

‘No.’

The man shrugged one powerful shoulder in an elegant motion and she found her gaze drawn by the movement. To the way his shirt pulled tight across that shoulder, displaying the power of the muscles underneath.

How odd. She’d never looked at a man that way before, so why was she doing so now? Men were awful—especially rich men like this one. She knew all about them; her father was one of them and he’d thrown her and her mother out on the streets. So no wonder she’d taken an instant dislike to this guy—though maybe it was more hate than dislike.

Hate was the only word strong enough to describe the disturbingly intense feeling gathering inside her now.

‘Then, gatita,’ he said, in his dark, deep voice, ‘your name it will have to be.’

‘But I don’t want to give you that.’

Her jaw tightened. Resistance was the only thing she had on the streets and she clung to it stubbornly. Resistance to anything and everything that tried to push her down or squash her, grind her into the dirt of Paris’s ancient cobbles. Because if she didn’t resist then what else did she have? How would she even know she existed?

By spraying rude words on a limo?

Yes, if need be. It was all about the fight. That was all life was.

He gave another elegant shrug, as if it was all out of his hands. ‘Then sadly I must be recompensed for my inconvenience in other ways.’

Ah, of course. She understood this, at least. ‘I’m not paying you in sex. I’d rather die.’

His mouth twitched, which she found disconcerting. Normally men got angry when she refused them, but he didn’t seem angry at all. Only...amused.

For some reason she didn’t like it that he found her amusing.

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ he said lazily. ‘I happen to be very good at it. No one has died having sex with me yet, for example.’

Leonie ignored the way her stomach fluttered. Perhaps that was hunger. She hadn’t eaten today, and although a day without food was fairly normal for her, she didn’t usually find herself chucked into a limo and kept prisoner by...whoever this man was.

‘But,’ he went on before she could argue, ‘I know what you’re talking about, and rest assured my recompense won’t be in the form of sex. Though I’m sure you are, in fact, very desirable.’

She gave him a dark look. ‘I am, actually. Why do you think I carry a knife?’

‘Of course. What man wouldn’t want a feral kitten?’

His mouth curved and she found herself staring at it. It had a nice shape, firm and beautifully carved.

She shook herself. Why was she staring at his mouth?

‘You’d be surprised what men want,’ she said, dragging her gaze to meet his, though quite frankly that wasn’t any better.

His amusement abruptly drained away, the lines of his perfect face hardening. He shifted, sitting back against the seat. ‘No. I would not.’

Leonie shivered, the interior of the car feeling suddenly cold. ‘What do you want, then? I can’t pay you, and I’m not telling you my name, so all you can do is call the police and have me prosecuted. And if you’re not going to do that, then isn’t it easier to let me go?’

‘But then how would I be recompensed for my inconvenience?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No, I’m afraid, gatita, I can’t let you go.’ He paused, his green eyes considering. ‘I think I’m going to have to put you to work instead.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE LITTLE REDHEAD treated this suggestion without obvious enthusiasm—which Cristiano had expected.

He still didn’t know why exactly he’d said it. Because she was right. He could afford the paltry amount it would take to get his limo repainted. And as for his supposed inconvenience...

He glanced out through the window to the two lovely women he’d wanted to join him for the night. They were still out there, waiting for him to give them the word, though for once he felt a lessening of his own enthusiasm for their company.

It was a bit mystifying, since he never said no to anything or anyone—still less two beautiful women. Nevertheless, he found himself more interested in the little gatita sitting opposite him. She was a puzzle, and it had been too long since he’d had a puzzle.

He wanted her name. And the fact that she wouldn’t just give it to him was irritating. Especially when that familiarity kept tugging on him, rubbing against his consciousness like a burr in a blanket.

Women never denied him, and the fact that she had was annoying.

And then she’d muttered that thing about men, and he’d realised that letting her go meant letting her go back on the streets at two in the morning. Admittedly she’d been with a crowd earlier, but they’d all vanished, so she’d be on her own.