Latin Lovers: Passionate Spaniards

Latin Lovers

Passionate Spaniards

The Spaniard’s Marriage Demand

Maggie Cox

Kept by the Spanish Billionaire

Cathy Williams

The Spanish Doctor’s Convenient Bride

Meredith Webber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Spaniard’s Marriage Demand

Maggie Cox

About the Author

The day MAGGIE COX saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loves most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, is the mother of two wonderful sons and her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/writing—are music and films.

PROLOGUE

THE sun on the back of Isabella’s head was like a laser beam of burning heat. Forced out of the stupor of her shocked thoughts by the discomfort, she got up from the couch and pulled down the fashionable bamboo blinds at the window behind her to introduce some much-needed shadow into the room. Summer had hit the UK with a vengeance and the pavement outside was hot enough to double up as a griddle. But even as she padded barefoot across the cool laminate flooring to return to the couch all Isabella could really focus on was the astounding revelation that she was pregnant. The results of the pregnancy test she’d just done, plus the tiredness and nausea she’d been suffering from for over a week now, were incontrovertible. Of all the unbelievably reckless, heart-stopping situations she could have returned from her trip abroad to face, this was one cataclysmic scenario she hadn’t foreseen.

Trying to calm the throb of panic and wave of sickness that added to her already escalating anxiety, she leapt up again from her seat and fled to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, a cup of soothing chamomile tea at her elbow and a cool washcloth applied to the back of her heated neck, Isabella reviewed her situation with an acceptance and determination that stunned even her. Her passionate interlude with a handsome and famous son of Spain had resulted in her finding herself pregnant with his child. As she stoically assured herself she had all the necessary resources to cope alone and cope well she forced herself to resist the deep river of fear that was underlying her determined optimism, threatening to wreck everything. An ache for him—an earnest, bone-deep, silent plea that had surfaced before when she’d had to say goodbye to the man who had ‘interrupted’ her trip with the most profound impact—suddenly reinstated itself deep in Isabella’s core and she knew even then …it would probably be her companion for the rest of her life.

CHAPTER ONE

May 2004—The Port of Vigo, Northern Spain.

‘No! I don’t care what you say to me or even if you never speak to me again, Emilia, but I’m not going to break off my own research for my book and hare off to God only knows where in pursuit of some surly, egocentric film director who may or may not be where you say he’ll be and most certainly wouldn’t give me an impromptu interview even if I professed to be dying!’

Sucking in a deep, irritated breath following her passionate tirade to her sister over the phone, Isabella tapped her fingernails impatiently on the hotel reception desk where she’d taken the call and sensed a trickle of sweat meander slowly down her back. It felt like warm glue. It might be raining yet again but the dead heat was relentless. Right now she’d sell her soul for a cool shower and a cold drink followed by a lie down in her very plain but peaceful little room to gather her thoughts and perhaps catch a nap before doing some work. She’d been walking all day interviewing pilgrims on the famous route to Santiago de Compostela. Her back ached and her feet hurt but she was buoyed up by the companionship and enthusiasm of the pilgrims and after a rest was eager to get some writing done for her book. What Isabella most certainly didn’t want was to fly off on some wild-goose chase in search of a man who apparently protected his privacy with the same level of heightened awareness and suspicion that security at international airports applied to their passenger checks these days. All because her beseeching, impulsive and ruthlessly ambitious sister saw an opportunity for an exclusive for her magazine.

‘Please, Isabella …you can’t not do this for me! You’re right in the Port of Vigo in the same damn town as Leandro Reyes on the one and only day he’s there on a speaking engagement and I’m pleading with you to do me this one huge favour! What do I have to do to convince you? Look …I’ll pay you any amount of money you want …just name your price.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Emilia! I don’t want money! All I want is to be left alone to get on with my trip in peace!’

Her sister’s desperation was getting ridiculous, but then Emilia was hardly used to being denied anything. She was definitely the blue-eyed girl in their family. Three years younger than Isabella, she was the result of their mother’s marriage to Hal Deluce—an amiable American she had met on a cruise round the Bahamas that she’d taken a year after Isabella’s own father had died. Consequently Emilia had been credited a ‘wonderful omen of better things to come’ and since the day of her birth could do no wrong. On the other hand, a lot of unfair expectation had been laid on Isabella’s shoulders simply because she was the eldest …expectations that she’d ultimately always known she would fail. An expensive wedding financed and arranged by her parents being a case in point. Isabella hadn’t been able to go through with that particular scenario because she’d discovered at the eleventh hour that the relationship she’d had with her fiancé had been a complete and utter sham.

In contrast, the words ‘failure’ and ‘Emilia’ would never be used in the same sentence as far as her parents were concerned. Along with her thriving career as a journalist on one of the top-selling woman’s magazines, she had married a handsome young stockbroker from a family who were practically landed gentry and had recently cemented her unchallenged position as ‘she who can do no wrong’ by moving into a rather grand house in Chelsea, where she rubbed shoulders with some of the glitterati she wrote about in her magazine. In their mother’s view, their youngest had definitely ‘arrived’, whilst Isabella was still travelling.

Philosophical about it because she had to be, Isabella still couldn’t deny that sometimes it hurt to be the one that hadn’t quite ‘made it’. And, because of her high standing in the family, sometimes Emilia’s demands on the generosity and good nature of those who cared about her could almost border on the totally unreasonable. Like now—when she knew that Isabella was in Northern Spain specifically to research her book and meet the challenge of a five-hundred-mile pilgrimage covering from fifteen to twenty miles a day on foot over Northern Spain’s dusty mesas. She wasn’t on holiday or pursuing something ‘frivolous’ …she was working as well as walking.

That was not to say that Isabella didn’t totally love what she was doing. Right now researching the Santiago de Compostela and why people sought to undertake the five-week-long trail, and actually walking it herself—she was in seventh heaven. That was why she didn’t want to get distracted by something like this totally unexpected telephone request from Emilia.

‘Don’t you understand, Em? I’m working! I’ve taken a three-month career break from the library to do this and I don’t want to waste even a second. I’ve been hiking all day, it’s hot, I’m tired, I’ve got blisters on my feet the size of sumo wrestlers and I need to get some rest before working on into the night and walking again tomorrow. You’re a resourceful woman—if you found out that Leandro Reyes is in Vigo today then I’m sure you can manage to find out where he’ll be tomorrow! I’m sorry, but I can’t help you …I really can’t.’

There was a deep frustrated sigh at the other end of the line that spoke volumes. It said, If you don’t do this for me then it proves you’ve let this family down again. It also said, I thought you were my sister? I thought you cared about me? Now I can see that you obviously don’t.

A stab of unhelpful guilt wove its nefarious way down Isabella’s already suffering spine and she bit her lip to stop herself from automatically changing her last statement to a more agreeable one.

Stealing an agitated glance at her watch, she lifted her eyes to the small, winding stone staircase where her plain, peaceful room tantalisingly beckoned. She hadn’t even unpacked her rucksack yet. She’d been about to do just that when she’d had the call from Emilia. Isabella had given all the phone numbers of where she’d sometimes be staying ahead of her travels to her mother. That was on the odd occasion when she was staying in small cheap hotels and not the refugios and monasteries widely used by the pilgrims. Now after this call from her sister, Isabella had cause to wish she’d told nobody in her family where she would be.

‘I’d sell my house to get any information I could on Leandro Reyes, Isabella! When I found out from Mum that you were due in the Port of Vigo today I got so excited! I only heard last night that he was going to be there and I’ve got several crucial meetings lined up this afternoon or else I would have flown out there to try and see him myself. It’s too late now even if I could get a flight …as far as I know he’s only planning on being there for the evening. This means so much to me, sis …to my career. Leandro Reyes is a God amongst art-house film directors! Most feature writers would sell their soul to interview him! Please try and get to meet him …please! Even if you get only one or two sound bites it wouldn’t matter. At least you’d get some good impressions of the man himself that I could embellish for the magazine!’

Isabella’s heart sank. Emilia worked for a supposedly respectable upmarket glossy, but they still weren’t above ‘dishing the dirt’ on a star or a celebrity if the opportunity arose. That kind of sensationalist tabloid journalism was despicable in Isabella’s opinion. She knew it was naïve, but couldn’t they leave these people alone? Everyone was entitled to some privacy …even much-lauded and sought-after film directors, in her opinion. Especially ones like Leandro Reyes who—she’d heard somewhere or another—had a reputation for being almost spectacularly reclusive and enigmatic. Her heart bumped a little at the idea of even being in the same sphere as a man like that—never mind trying to get him to talk to her! Swallowing over the dryness of her parched throat and quite desperate for a drink, Isabella caught the curious gaze of the elderly plump Spanish matriarch bedecked in black behind the small reception desk and politely smiled. ‘I have to go now, Emilia. I need a shower and a drink and then I—’

‘I’m begging you, Isabella! Leandro will be at the Paradisio. It’s one of the more discreet places in the Port and he’s meeting a colleague there for a drink.’

‘I suppose I’m wasting my time asking you where you get your information from?’

‘If you must know I was at a film première last night and at the party afterwards I overheard a conversation between a couple of Americans in the film business who’d just done some work with Leandro. They happened to mention that he had a speaking engagement today at a local college and was meeting a mutual friend of theirs afterwards in the Port of Vigo for drinks. He’ll be there from seven o’clock onwards. Ring me at home tonight after you’ve seen him. I’ll wait up to get your call. Thanks, sis …you’re an angel! I knew I could count on you!’

‘Don’t you know that it’s not ethical to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?’

‘Oh, get real, Isabella! You and your high-minded principles!’

Letting that comment ride, Isabella lifted up some hair from the back of her heated neck where it coiled damply in silken black strands. ‘But how will I know what he even looks like?’ Reclusive art house directors weren’t photographed with the constancy of someone like Stephen Spielberg, Isabella was sure.

‘He’s six foot one of pure trained muscle with dark hair and eyes the colour of polished slate and not surprisingly the most sought-after bachelor in the business. Trust me …you won’t be able to miss him!’

Before Isabella could draw another breath, the receiver at the other end was swiftly replaced and the line ominously hummed its disconnection signal in her ear instead.

As Leandro Reyes glanced round at the almost empty bar, the back of his neck crawled with slight unease. Alphonso should have shown up half an hour ago …that had been their arrangement. His fellow director and friend had wanted to meet urgently, he’d said, to discuss a project he had been offered and wanted Leandro’s professional opinion on. When he’d discovered Leandro would be in the vicinity today—en route to his house in Pontevedra after his speaking engagement—he had suggested they meet at the Paradisio to talk. It was a quiet, out of the way place where no one would bother them and the owner of the small bar had promised to provide food if they were hungry. At the thought of food, Leandro’s empty belly obligingly grumbled. He might as well sit it out until Alphonso finally showed his face—if he was going to show it at all—and in the meantime he could have something to eat and think about his own overloaded schedule for the next six months. A waiter appeared almost as soon as Leandro got to his feet and it left him wondering if the man had been spying on him. He smiled secretly at his own paranoia then placed his order for some seafood—something that the port restaurants and bars naturally excelled in.

‘Sí, Señor Reyes. It will be my pleasure.’

‘Grazias.’

Slightly inclining his head, Leandro made his way slowly back to the table he’d briefly vacated. An elderly man a few tables away from him looked up from his newspaper and smiled courteously. The edges of Leandro’s mouth moved only infinitesimally upwards in a return gesture. He wasn’t accustomed to giving his smiles easily. Glancing out through the arched stone windows that overlooked a small neat patio area with various plants dotted around—some better tended to than others—he noticed a woman approach in the twilight. Something about her seemed hesitant …unsure—as if she wasn’t entirely certain that she had found what she’d been searching for. Aside from the fact that she was more than pretty enough to command his full attention, Leandro speculated on her reason for being there. Was she meeting her lover, perhaps? His stomach tightened with a surprising flash of jealousy at the thought.

As she came in through the opened doorway he saw that her beguiling attractiveness pleasurably increased on close quarters. As far as he could tell, her eyes were dark as Columbian roast coffee—with long sable hair in a pony-tail to match—yet her complexion was surprisingly fair. Something told him that she was not Spanish. A tourist perhaps? She was dressed in faded jeans and a loose white shirt—not dissimilar to Leandro’s own garb—and her presence brought a distinct breath of cool, fresh air into the small overheated bar. Waiting to be served, she frowned when the bar’s owner did not immediately appear. Glancing round, she settled her somewhat anxious gaze with startling intent upon Leandro. He felt the impact of that searching gaze ignite a powerful little flame of want deep inside him—this time Leandro’s smile was not so reticent.

Alphonso was either late or not coming at all and so what would it hurt to entice this raven-haired beauty with her big dark eyes into having a little conversation with him to help while the time away?

‘The bar owner is busy,’ he offered in flawless Spanish. Then, when she frowned, Leandro quickly deduced she didn’t understand. ‘Are you meeting somebody?’ he asked, switching effortlessly to English.

‘No …I mean …I mean perhaps.’

Twin circles of scarlet added fetching colour to her otherwise pale beauty. So she was a tourist …an English tourist since there was no trace of any other accent in her soft appealing voice. Leandro’s attention was trapped as thoroughly as a lynx caught in a snare.

‘You are unsure if you are meeting someone?’ he asked teasingly.

‘Not exactly …I mean …can I talk to you?’ Lowering her voice, the intriguing young woman came nearer and with her brought the haunting scent of jasmine. There are other things besides talking I would like to do with you, mi ángel … Leandro thought silently, his senses unbelievably stirred as he considered her arrestingly pretty face.

‘I—this is very awkward and I don’t normally do this sort of thing, but …are you Leandro Reyes?’

So …she was not an ‘innocent’ tourist at all! Disappointment bit hard. She was either an opportunist actress looking hopefully for a chance to get into the movies—something that happened with more frequency than Leandro cared to catalogue—or else a reporter. Gut instinct told him it was probably the latter choice. What a pity! If he didn’t dislike journalists with such a vengeance he would have been only too happy to entertain this beautiful young woman all night. As it was, he now saw her presence as a contemptible intrusion into his fiercely guarded privacy. How the hell had she found him here? He did not recognise her from amongst the students at the college he’d spoken at earlier today, so how had she discovered his whereabouts?

‘That is not your concern,’ he replied coolly, the shutters clearly coming down over his sensational silver-grey eyes.

At that moment Isabella could have strangled her own sister. What had Emilia persuaded her to do? She wasn’t the type of person who intruded on anyone’s privacy and even if she recognised someone famous in the street or in public somewhere, she’d be the last person to bother them! Now this Leandro Reyes—this esteemed film director who protected his privacy with a notoriously zealous verve—was looking at her as if she were a fly he would like to swat out of his eye-line!

‘I’m really sorry if I’m bothering you—’ Isabella unconsciously licked her upper lip to stop it from quivering ‘—but I truly meant no offence. I knew this was a bad idea but I’m afraid I acted against my better judgement. I should never have come over to you …please forgive me.’ She turned away, her intention to leave this place as quickly as possible and put the embarrassing memory behind her. When she rang Emilia later on tonight she wasn’t half going to give her a piece of her mind! She must have been insane to even think she might pull off such a thing as garner an interview with this man! She’d seen the disparaging glance he’d swept her with only too clearly. He’d probably been disturbed by unscrupulous journalists and reporters too many times to give them anything but the lash of his tongue—let alone an interview!

‘Wait a moment.’

His voice, throaty and at the same time as richly beguiling as brandy warmed over a flame, halted Isabella in her tracks. ‘What publication do you work for?’

‘I don’t.’

Turning round slowly again, Isabella looped some loose strands from her pony-tail behind her ear. The cool grey eyes of Leandro Reyes were surveying her with suspicion and deep mistrust. Just then Isabella would rather be stranded in the deep snows of Siberia than having to endure his terrifying scrutiny.

‘What do you mean …you don’t?’

‘I mean I’m not a journalist myself. I’m in Spain researching a book I’m writing. And I only came to find you because my sister, who works for a—a women’s magazine in the UK, rang me when she knew I would be here in the Port of Vigo the same time as you, Señor Reyes.’

‘So it is your sister who wants to interview me for her magazine?’

‘That’s right. Once again, I can only offer my apologies for intruding like th—’

‘How did she know that I would be here today? Where did she get her information from?’

How could she tell him that Emilia had overheard a private conversation? It would surely damn both her and her sister in his eyes. Isabella’s desire to escape the scathing cynosure of this disturbing man grew almost unbearable even though she told herself his acute irritation was justified. Right now she should be back at the little hotel she was staying in, closeted in her room making notes from her talks with some of the pilgrims earlier today—not acting like some ill-equipped spy on behalf of her sister! This disturbing and unwanted encounter had totally set her back and it was going to take all her concentration to even write her name, let alone anything more challenging tonight!

‘I’m sorry, but you’d have to talk to my sister about that. Please accept my apologies for disturbing you, Señor Reyes. I told my sister it was a bad idea at the time but she can be very persuasive …unfortunately.’ Grimacing and slightly ashamed that she’d confessed as much, Isabella started to walk away again. Once more, Leandro stopped her in her tracks.

‘So …you are a writer? Are you published?’

‘No …not yet. At the moment I work as a librarian but it’s always been my ambition to write books full time.’

‘And this book you are working on …is it a work of fiction?’

For a moment Isabella was so mesmerised by the hypnotic concentration of this man’s quixotic gaze that thinking was no easy feat. In fact, her thoughts felt like incomprehensible words on a Scrabble board that had been completely muddled up!

‘No …it’s not. I’m—I’m writing about the pilgrims who walk the Camino Way to Santiago de Compostela. My grandfather was Spanish, you see, and he told me so many stories about it that it’s always been my ambition to come here and experience it for myself.’

Leandro found his temper irrevocably easing as he studied the girl in genuine surprise. The Camino de Santiago de Compostela—The Way of Saint James—was very important to him and his family—to all the people in this region of Northern Spain. Many had walked it in their turn and received blessings that they talked about to this day. Perhaps this pretty young woman with her soulful ebony coloured eyes and her milk-and-honey skin was not cut from the same cloth as those ‘kill for a story’ reporters that were sometimes a plague on his industry. Could it not be possible that she had more integrity than that? Leandro wanted to believe so even if his mistrustful nature advised against it. She had to possess some good qualities if she was writing about the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage. Warring within himself to give her the benefit of the doubt, Leandro decided to relent—telling himself that he would find out soon enough if she was the genuine article or not.