The Spaniard's Pleasure: The Spaniard's Pregnancy Proposal / At the Spaniard's Convenience / Taken: the Spaniard's Virgin
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Huw’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. ‘You’ve got some dirt on him, haven’t you?’ He should have known that Antonio would already have that base covered. The other man did not leave things to chance.
‘Let’s just say that our Mr Finch has sailed a little close to the wind, legally speaking, on several occasions. I have often observed it is often the way with greedy men,’ he remarked contemptuously.
‘And he—Finch—knows you know about these indiscretions?’ Huw suggested.
‘I might have mentioned it,’ he admitted casually.
Huw gave a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s something. Antonio, I hope you’re not taking this guy’s word…just because you knew his wife…?’ Huw touched on the subject cautiously. Antonio was notoriously tightlipped when it came to his personal life.
Sometimes he thought that was why the tabloids’ pursuit of the wealthy Spaniard was so relentless. They simply couldn’t deal with his total and, as far as Huw could tell, genuine indifference to them.
‘It was before she was his wife.’ Antonio, his expression unreadable, dextrously twirled a pen between his long fingers. ‘Apparently she kept a diary for years, a detailed diary, which is how Finch came to discover Tamara wasn’t his.’
‘Being in a diary doesn’t make something the truth. I kept a diary when I was a kid, it was a work of total fiction. And if you were going to invent a fictional father for your kid the rich and powerful Antonio Rochas would be a pretty good choice, don’t you think?’
‘This was nearly fourteen years ago. The rich and powerful Antonio Rochas did not exist. I was a college student pleasing my father by learning the business from the bottom up. I was working as a waiter in one of our hotels.’
‘She didn’t know you were the boss’s son?’
‘Nobody but the manager knew who I was. Besides, I just knew the moment I saw the girl that she was mine.’
Huw was appalled by the harsh admission. ‘God, you can’t rely on gut instincts, Antonio!’
‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a total leap of faith. Finch was considerate enough to supply Tamara’s DNA. I had the required tests done.’
‘So there’s no doubt…?’
Antonio shook his head.
‘Hell I don’t know what I’d do if it happened to me. What are you going to do?’
‘Go back to the Grange.’
‘She’s there?’
Antonio nodded. ‘It seemed less traumatic than dragging her back to Spain with me.’ The home where his English mother had been brought up and where he had spent happy vacations as a child had passed to him on his grandfather’s death. Going there had seemed a good alternative to returning home.
‘Your mother’s there?’
‘My mother is on her world cruise,’ Antonio reminded him. ‘She offered to come home, but I thought it might be better if we had some time alone.’ That had been eight days ago. If asked again today, Antonio was not sure his response to the maternal offer would be the same!
‘Is there anything I can do…?’ Huw tried not to look too obviously relieved when Antonio assured him there wasn’t.
The door slammed. Antonio was beginning to suspect that his immediate future held a lot of door slamming.
There had to be a solution to this problem, he told himself. Experience had taught him there was always a solution.
He just didn’t know what it was yet.
‘You don’t want me any more than I want you,’ his new daughter had yelled before her dramatic exit from the room. ‘You wish I don’t even exist! Do you wish I hadn’t been born? Stupid question—of course you do. You’re not even English. And,’ she added, glaring up into his lean dark face, ‘it’s your fault I’m so horribly tall! I got your genes!’
‘I am your father.’
The gentle reminder precipitated her flight.
Hand on the door handle, she turned back, tears sparkling in her eyes.
‘Biological father!’ she sneered, making it sound like the worst insult in the world. ‘And why are your eyes so blue? They’re spooky…like a wolf or something with those dark rings around the iris. This place isn’t my home and if anyone here calls me Miss Rochas again I’ll scream. My name is Finch. I can’t even pronounce Rochas. I hate it and I hate you! I wish you were dead!’
At intervals he heard the slamming of several more doors.
Well, that went well.
As he looked out through the full-length Georgian windows to the green sweep of manicured lawn beyond, Tamara, her hair flying out behind her, was running as though the devil himself were on her heels.
Antonio knew that this role had been assigned to him in her eyes.
It would be dark in another hour and, though the evening was one of his favourite times to walk the woods, he was pretty sure a town-bred girl would not enjoy the experience.
On his way out, he shrugged on a jacket and shoved a torch in his pocket.
He was in luck—well, it had to happen some time—the gardener had seen her heading in the direction of the west wood. By the time he had vaulted over a stile and entered the wood the shadows were deepening and so was his concern.
Alternately calling her name and pausing to listen, he made his way deeper until finally his efforts were rewarded by suspicious rustling sounds a few hundred yards to his right, where he knew there was a clearing.
‘Tamara! This is pointless. It is—’ Before he had time to complete his appeal a dog, possibly the most unattractive animal he had ever seen in his life, shot out of the undergrowth blocking his path. It bared its teeth and emitted a ferocious growl.
Antonio regarded the animal with irritation rather than fear. It was small, and animals liked him—they always had.
‘Clear off!’ he said, using a firm, calm tone.
Animals responded well to a firm, calm tone.
Nobody had told this dog about the firm, calm tone. It carried on growling, if anything more ferociously. Ignoring the warning signs, Antonio went to move past him, at which point the animal went for his ankle. He looked down in total astonishment at it, then rolled his eyes and cursed.
Could this day get any worse?
He soon discovered that it could.
Chapter Three
‘HERE boy…Sandy…?’ Fleur rattled the lead in her hand hopefully. Actually she didn’t feel very hopeful—the light was fading fast and her hopes of finding the dog any time soon along with it.
She muttered, ‘Damn,’ under her breath as her jeans snagged on a bramble. A worried frown creasing the smoothness of her brow, she carefully detached her arm from the barbs of yet another aggressive bramble and rubbed the blood welling from the long scratches on her forearm. Finally abandoning her cajoling tone, she yelled.
‘You stupid animal, where are you?’ She had definitely had better birthdays.
One last yell and she was going home…she really was. Fleur didn’t even convince herself.
Her shoulders sagged in relief when her exasperated screech was rewarded with the sound of an indistinct but definite bark. The excited canine cry seemed to come from the wooded area on a rise to her left. Stumbling a little on the uneven ground, she set off in its direction hoping that Sandy stayed put.
She turned a blind eye to another Keep Out Private Property sign—she had passed several—and entered the wooded area. Once inside she realised it was a lot denser than it had looked. Very little light managed to pierce the leafy canopy overhead and there was a lot of leafy rustling Fleur didn’t like going on.
She hesitated for a moment, suddenly wondering whether if left to himself Sandy might not find his own way home, when an outbreak of agitated barking made her mutter, ‘Wimp,’ under her breath and, with her firmly rounded chin set, plunged into the woods proper.
About fifty yards inside the dense growth began to thin. At the same time she became aware of the human voice the dog’s barking had until now masked. A male human voice. A loud, angry male voice.
Oh, my God, that’s all I need.
Breathless, she burst noisily into the clearing. The figure with his back to her was dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. He was very tall, broad of shoulder and long of leg with a lean, athletic build. On his feet he wore mud-splashed leather boots; the toe of one was very close to poor Sandy.
Fleur, her protective instincts on full alert, planted her hands on her hips and said in a loud, clear voice, ‘Get away from that dog this instant!’
‘Me get away from him?’ Despite the irritation he was feeling, Antonio’s lips spasmed into an ironic grin as his gaze slewed from the snarling dog to the young woman who had flung the stern command.
As he turned his head towards her the breath caught sharply in Fleur’s throat.
Oh, my good gosh! Generic his clothing might be, but there was nothing standard about that face. No wonder the paparazzi loved it. Her first thought when the shock of recognition wore off was—Jane will be pleased I found a man.
The corners of her mouth twitched into a rueful half smile. This wasn’t the sort of man Jane had had in mind, because, above all things, her best friend was a realist with an understandable—given her history—prejudice against Mediterranean males.
And men like this were extremely thin on the ground, even if you went looking for them.
Not that Fleur was looking. She didn’t want a man. She blinked, felt the heat bloom in her face as his piercing, astonishingly blue gaze zeroed in on her face and thought, Especially not this man!
Not that she was going to find herself in the position of breaking the news to him that he didn’t meet her requirements. Men like this were only ever seen with perfectly groomed trophy girlfriends. And she was no trophy! No trophy for a shallow, superficial billionaire playboy perhaps, but Fleur did like to think that she was the epitome of an in-control sort of person these days.
So what were the sweaty palms and pounding pulse about? As if you don’t know, said the scornful voice in her head. She was mortified to feel desire clutch low in her belly as, staying a stumble away from rising panic, she forced herself to exhale the breath trapped in her throat.
If she’d known when she had woken that morning that she would meet someone who would reduce her to a mass of raging hormones she’d have stayed in bed!
I am such a coward, she decided in disgust.
In her own defence, Fleur had to admit she wasn’t dealing with anything as simple as a pretty face here. She was dealing with a bucketful of raw sex appeal, and that sex appeal happened to belong to six feet five inches of lean male radiating undiluted testosterone from every gorgeous pore.
My God, he really was spectacular: golden skin, electric-blue deep set eyes, magnificent cheekbones you could cut yourself on and a mouth that was…Fleur licked her lips nervously as her reluctant but fascinated stare lingered on the mobile curve…wow! Even compressed into a line of impatient disapproval, his lips were indecently sensuous.
Everyone in the village had a story about him. How delightful he’d been as a young man. How since he’d inherited the manor from his grandfather he didn’t stand on ceremony but just mucked in like everyone else.
Fleur had listened politely, and thought, Sure, that’s really likely. The person they described bore little resemblance to the reputedly charismatic and ruthless entrepreneur who got almost as many column inches in the gossip pages as he did in the business pages.
And, anyhow, if he was so involved, how come she’d been living here for almost twelve months and she’d never set eyes on this beloved member of the community?
Until now.
‘This…animal belongs to you…?’
If, while they were singing his praises, someone had touched on the subject of his extraordinary eyes and mentioned the fact that they were so blue that looking into them made a person light-headed, Fleur might have avoided the humiliating experience of being temporarily struck dumb.
Unlike the animal, Antonio noticed that its owner was not unattractive. Young, she looked barely out of her teens, long dark blond hair shaggily cut—not, he suspected, by an expert hand—surrounded an oval face. Her face was in shadow, but he could see that her mouth was soft and her eyes exotically slanted beneath the delicate curve of darkish brows.
She was dressed in jeans and what appeared to be several layers of clothing. The layers made him wonder about what was underneath. As he stared she lifted a hand to brush aside a thick strand of hair from her eyes, the knitted thing she wore hung open and the action pulled her shirt tight against the curve of her breasts. The unexpected lick of lust that travelled through his body reminded Antonio that it had been over two months since he had come out of a relationship.
‘Yes, he is.’ Fleur was relieved that, in contrast to the shameful sexual heat that made her skin prickle, her voice, when she regained the power of speech, was cool and composed. ‘Come here, Sandy,’ she said, clicking her fingers. ‘Good boy,’ she added coaxingly.
The dog looked at her, wagged his tail on the ground, and then went back to acting like some sort of savage beast interspersing his malevolent growls with the occasional loud, excited yap.
‘Good boy…?’ Antonio rolled his eyes skyward and wondered irritably, ‘Why do people have animals they cannot control?’
One thing was certain—when he was back in a relationship again it wouldn’t be with anyone who bore any resemblance to this petite blonde. No, not his type at all, and as for that wide-eyed innocent quality—did grown men really fall for that?
Fleur’s chin went up. ‘Was that question directed at me?’ she asked him frostily.
‘He is your animal, I take it?’
‘Don’t raise your voice—you’ll only scare him more.’
His dark brows lifted at the sharp note of censure in her voice. Actually, it was quite an attractive voice, even when its owner was being shrewish—soft, rather deep and with an unusual sexy huskiness. It wasn’t a voice that belonged to a teenager, and neither did her manner, so possibly he had misjudged her age, but then it was a long time since he had seen a woman without make-up. It probably didn’t hurt that she had been blessed with flawless skin and naturally dark lashes. He caught himself wondering if her hair colour was real.
You’re not going to find out, Antonio, he reminded himself.
‘He does not look very scared to me,’ he observed in a sardonic drawl.
Fleur, who had crouched down to entice Sandy back, slung him a tight-lipped look through the spiky fringe of dark lashes. His lashes, she noticed, were not straight but jet-black, thick and curled and ridiculously long. She found herself wondering resentfully why long lashes in a male face were so utterly irresistible?
‘You obviously know nothing about animals.’
Did she know that he had a direct view of her cleavage? That he could see the lacy edging on her bra?
‘And you obviously cannot read,’ he snapped, thinking irritably that all work might well make for a dull boy, but in his case it made for an easily distracted one. The time he was spending looking down this woman’s blouse was time that would be better spent looking for his errant daughter.
She lifted her head and he saw for the first time that her eyes were amber. He saw her realise where he was staring and flush to the roots of her hair. He hadn’t been around a woman who blushed that way in a long time, if ever.
‘You do know you’re trespassing, I suppose?’
‘Maybe your dogs can read…’ Her eyes flashed angrily as she fastened another button on her shirt and gave an angry sniff.
‘My dogs can respond to a command.’ Pity the same couldn’t be said for his libido, which, in the space of thirty seconds, had spiralled out of control.
Does that go for his women too? she wondered scornfully. He looked the type, she decided, studying his arrogant profile with a contemptuous little smile.
‘Why on earth did you let him off his lead?’
Good question, and one she had been asking herself ever since he had taken off after a rabbit.
Fleur got to her feet, rubbing a weary hand across her face. ‘Look, let’s start again, shall we?’
‘Again? You enjoyed it that much, querida?’
She was already scowling in response to his mocking tone; when he threw in the casual endearment her expression did a freeze-frame on tight-lipped disapproval. She could feel something unraveling—she just hoped it was her temper!
‘I am sorry about the trespassing. It wasn’t intentional and it won’t happen again.’
‘We’ve had a lot of trouble with poachers.’
Fleur looked at him in exasperation. ‘Do I look like a poacher?’ she demanded, stabbing her chest with a finger.
She actually looked soft, warm.
‘I try not to stereotype; poachers come in all shapes and sizes.’ So, he realised, did temptation, but then variety added a little spice to life.
Antonio was not into indiscriminate sex and he hadn’t been in a position where he was forced to fight against an urge to kiss a total stranger for some time. Especially as her fleabitten excuse for a dog had decided yet again to grab his jeans by the teeth. His resentment at finding himself in this position directed itself at the cause of his discomfort.
‘I suppose you think that’s funny? Well, I…’ she stopped mid-rant and forced herself to smile. ‘If you’d just hand Sandy back we’ll be off your land…’
And not a moment too soon. With all that in-your-face, rampant maleness, he really was not a comfortable man to be around. For some women she could see how that could become a real problem, but fortunately one thing she had never had a problem with was her sexual appetite. Romance was her weakness, and she had realised a long time ago that she wasn’t particularly highly sexed. And she obviously didn’t give off the sort of vibes that sent men wild with lust.
‘Nothing would give me more pleasure,’ he revealed truthfully. He looked at the hand extended to him, it was small, the nails unvarnished and cut short. From nowhere the idea of lifting it to his lips planted itself in his head. ‘But I don’t have any particular wish to lose any part of my anatomy.’
Actually it was his sanity that Antonio was more concerned about at that moment. Every time he looked at this woman’s mouth he felt his much-vaunted self-control slip another notch.
Reminding himself that she wasn’t his type worked about as well as it had the first time.
‘So I’ll let you remove…’ The tremor that rippled through her body as he took her hand in his was visible.
Antonio stopped speaking and watched her eyes slowly lift to his. There was a shocked trance-like quality to her stare. Then as the colour ran up under her fair skin she made a tiny choking sound in her throat and snatched her hand away. She held it tight against her heaving bosom while her wide eyes stayed on his face.
He was accustomed to women looking at him, but not as though he were the embodiment of their nightmares
Fleur took a deep breath and lowered her eyes. She was utterly mortified. It would have been nice to believe that he hadn’t picked up on the fact she had been virtually nailed to the spot by lustful longing. It would have been even nicer to pretend it hadn’t happened at all!
Nicer, but difficult when the heat his touch had ignited still lay curled deep down in the pit of her stomach just waiting for the least excuse to burst into embarrassing flames.
Dear God, I only just stopped short of drooling! She was shaken from her reverie of self-loathing by his grunt of pain.
Antonio had momentarily forgotten about the dog, but the dog had not forgotten about him.
In reflex to the pain that shot up his leg as canine teeth broke skin Antonio straightened his knee. The jerky motion caused the dog to lose his grip. If the animal’s attack had been intended to protect its mistress’s virtue it had worked. The compelling urge to mesh his fingers in the blonde’s hair, pull her face up to his and kiss her senseless had passed.
Fleur let out a cry of shocked outrage as the dog picked himself up from the ground.
‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you pathetic bully?’ she cried, rushing to the cringing animal. ‘You’re such a big man, aren’t you?’ she sneered.
Antonio Rochas, his dark head tilted to one side, appeared to be listening, but not to her. To add insult to injury he raised an impatient hand and snapped tersely, ‘Silence!’
Fleur’s jaw dropped. Unbelievable!
She had come to the conclusion he was going to ignore her totally when his gaze narrowed, which had been focused on some point beyond her, suddenly zeroed in on her face.
His long jet lashes touched the crest of his cheekbones as his glance dropped, making Fleur belatedly aware of the gaping neckline of her shirt. The blatant sexual insolence sent a shard of anger through her and something that felt like a mild electric shock.
‘Who did you have in mind for me to pick on?’ His expressive lips quirked as his glance slid over her outraged figure. ‘You…?’
He had never seen the attraction of women with attitude. But then he had never considered fighting foreplay—not until now, at least.
Fleur watched his lips curl into a patronising smile and gritted her teeth. She had never come across anyone whose body language screamed male arrogance this loudly.
‘You shouldn’t judge by appearances,’ she advised darkly. ‘Couldn’t you see he was afraid?’
‘Afraid…?’ he echoed, looking at her as though she were off her head.
Straightening up with the animal in her arms, she nodded. ‘Yes, afraid.’ Clasping the warm, trembling body against her chest, with her free hand she brushed her hair from her face. Adam had liked it cut in a short neat bob.
She hadn’t had it cut since they had split up.
Antonio arched a dark brow and reminded himself that he wasn’t here to look at anyone’s freshly exposed neck, even if it was just asking to be tasted. He was here to find his wayward daughter.
‘I was the one being savaged by a vicious animal.’
‘Savaged?’ she echoed contemptuously.
‘I doubt the authorities would share your attitude.’
The angry scorn on Fleur’s face faded; she looked at him in horror. Under his ironic gaze a slow flush of colour rose up her neck until her face was bathed in heat. ‘You can’t report him,’ she said in a small voice.
But he could. And he would, she thought, hating him.
‘I think I would be failing in my duty not to. It might be a child the animal attacks next time.’ He watched the colour seep from her face and felt like a total bastard for baiting her.
Fleur shook her head. ‘No, he wouldn’t do that; he loves children. It’s only men he doesn’t like.’
From the way she was looking at him Antonio assumed that this was a trait shared by his owner.
‘He’s a rescue dog. When they found him he was in a terrible state. I don’t even like to think about what his owner did to make him so afraid of men. He’s really a very placid animal normally. If you want to blame anyone blame me—it’s my fault for letting him off the lead.’
A scream like broken glass cut across Fleur’s faltering explanation. Then another and another. The sound of terror lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck.
For a moment she froze. Her companion did not; he hit the ground running. Running with a fluid animal grace and athletic co-ordination that Fleur might have admired on a more appropriate occasion.
With the sound of those screams still ringing in her ears, Fleur didn’t think about not following him. Pausing only to attach the lead to Sandy, she plunged after him, weaving her way with far less grace than he had between the trees. My God, she thought, panting as she ran towards where the screams had come from—worryingly they had stopped—for a big man he could certainly move.