“The deal is subject to a condition?” Diego’s expression was coolly aloof.

Cassandra’s eyes glittered with barely repressed anger. “My brother said it was personal. How personal?”

“Two separate nights and one weekend with you.”

It took her a few seconds to find her voice. “I won’t have sex with you.”

“You’re not in any position to bargain.”

“I’m not for sale,” Cassandra replied with dignity.

“Everything has its price.”

VIVA LA VIDA DE AMOR!

They speak the language of passion.

In Harlequin Presents, you’ll find a special

kind of lover—full of Latin charm. Whether he’s

relaxing in denims or dressed for dinner, giving

you diamonds or simply sweet dreams,

he’s got spirit, style and sex appeal!

Latin Lovers is the miniseries

from Harlequin Presents for anyone

who enjoys hot romance!

Watch for more Latin Lovers—

you can never have enough spice in your life!

In the Spaniard’s Bed
Helen Bianchin

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘I’M ON my way.’ Cassandra released the intercom, caught up her evening purse, keys, exited her apartment and took the lift down to the foyer where her brother was waiting.

At twenty-nine he was two years her senior, and he shared her blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes. Average height in comparison to her petite frame.

‘Wow,’ Cameron complimented with genuine admiration, and she responded with an affectionate smile.

‘Brotherly love, huh?’

The ice-pink gown moulded her slender curves, its spaghetti straps showing silky skin to an advantage, and the diagonal ruffled split to mid-thigh showcased beautifully proportioned legs. A gossamer wrap in matching ice-pink completed the outfit, and her jewellery was understated.

‘Seriously cool.’

She tilted her head to one side as she tucked a hand through his arm. ‘Let’s go slay the masses.’

Tonight’s fundraiser was a prestigious event whose guests numbered among Sydney’s social élite. Held in the ballroom of a prominent city hotel, it was one of several annual soirées Cassandra and her brother attended on their father’s behalf after a heart attack and stroke two years ago forced him into early retirement.

Guests were mingling in the large foyer when they arrived, and she summoned a practised smile as she acknowledged a few acquaintances, pausing to exchange a greeting with one friend or another as she selected iced water from a hovering drinks waiter.

Observing the social niceties was something she did well. Private schooling and a finishing year in France had added polish and panache. The Preston-Villers family held a certain social standing of which her father was justly proud.

While Cameron had been groomed to enter the Preston-Villers conglomerate from an early age, Cassandra chose to pursue gemmology and jewellery design, added the necessary degree, studied with a well-known jeweller and she was now beginning to gain a reputation for her work.

Mixing and mingling was part of the social game, and she did it well.

Committee members conferred and worked the room in a bid to ensure the evening’s success. The hotel ballroom was geared to seat a thousand guests, and it was rumoured there had been a waiting list for last-minute ticket cancellations.

‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

Cassandra met Cameron’s gaze, examined his expression, and restrained a faint frown as she glimpsed the slight edginess apparent.

‘Here, now?’ she queried lightly, and waited for his usual carefree smile.

‘Later.’

It couldn’t be anything serious, she dismissed, otherwise he would have mentioned it during the drive in to the city.

‘Darling, how are you?’

The soft feminine purr evoked a warm smile as she turned to greet the tall, slender model. ‘Siobhan.’ Her eyes sparkled. They’d attended the same school, shared much, and were firm friends. ‘I’m fine, and you?’

‘Flying out to Rome tomorrow, then it’s Milan followed by Paris.’

Cassandra uttered a subdued chuckle in amusement. ‘It’s a hard life.’

Siobhan grinned. ‘But an interesting one,’ she conceded. ‘I have a date with an Italian count in Rome.’

‘Ah.’

‘Old money, and divine.’

The musing twinkle in those gorgeous green eyes brought forth a husky laugh as Cassandra shook her head. ‘You’re wicked.’

‘This time it’s serious,’ Siobhan declared as Cassandra’s smile widened.

‘It always is.’

‘Got to go. The parents are in tow.’

‘Have fun.’

‘I shall. In Italy.’ She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Cassandra’s in a gesture of affection.

‘Take care.’

‘Always.’

Soon the ballroom doors would be open, and guests would be called to take their seats. There would be the introductory and explanatory speeches, the wine stewards would do their thing, and the first course served.

Speaking of which, she was hungry. Lunch had been yoghurt and fruit snatched between the usual weekend chores.

Cameron appeared deep in conversation with a man she presumed to be a business associate, and she sipped chilled water from her glass as she debated whether to join him.

At that moment she felt the warning prickle of awareness as her senses went on alert, and she let her gaze skim the guests.

There was only one man who had this particular effect on her equilibrium.

Innate instinct? An elusive knowledge based on the inexplicable?

Whatever, it was crazy. Maddening.

Maybe this time she had it wrong. Although all it took was one glance at that familiar dark head to determine her instinct was right on target.

Diego del Santo. Successful entrepreneur, one of the city’s nouveau riche…and her personal nemesis.

Born in New York of Spanish immigrant parents, it was reported he’d lived in the wrong part of town, fought for survival in the streets, and made his money early, so it was rumoured, by means beyond legitimate boundaries of the law.

He took risks, it was said, no sensible man would touch. Yet those risks had paid off a million-fold several times over. Literally.

In idle fascination she watched as he turned towards her, then he murmured something to his companion and slowly closed the distance between them.

‘Cassandra.’

The voice was low, impossibly deep with the barest trace of an accent, and possessed of the power to send tiny shivers feathering the length of her spine.

Tall, broad-framed, with the sculptured facial features of his Spanish ancestors. Dark, well-groomed hair, dark, almost black eyes, and a mouth that promised a thousand delights.

A mouth that had briefly tasted her own when she’d disobeyed her father and persuaded Cameron to take her to a party. Sixteen years old, emerging hormones, a sense of the forbidden combined with a desire to play grown-up had proved a volatile mix. Add her brother with his own agenda, a few sips too many of wine, a young man who seemed intent on leading her astray, and she could easily have been in over her head. Except Diego del Santo had materialised out of nowhere, intervened, read her the Riot Act, then proceeded to show her precisely what she should be wary of when she heedlessly chose to flirt. Within minutes he had summoned Cameron and she found herself bundled into her brother’s car and driven home.

Eleven years had passed since that fateful episode, ten of which Diego had spent in his native New York creating his fortune.

Yet she possessed a vivid recollection of how it felt to have his mouth savour her own. The electric primitiveness of his touch, almost as if he had reached down to her soul and staked a claim.

Diego del Santo had projected a raw quality that meshed leashed savagery with blatant sensuality. A dangerously compelling mix, and one that attracted females from fifteen to fifty.

Now there were no rough edges, and he bore the mantle of power with the same incredible ease he wore his designer clothes.

In his mid-to-late thirties, Diego del Santo was a seriously rich man whose property investments and developments formed a financial portfolio that edged him close to billionaire status.

As such, his return to Australia a year ago had soon seen him become an A-list member of Sydney’s social élite, receiving invitations to each and every soirée of note. His acceptance was selective, and his donations to worthy charities, legend.

Preston-Villers’ involvement with similar charity events and her father’s declining health meant they were frequently fellow guests at one function or another. It was something she accepted, and dealt with by presenting a polite façade.

Only she knew the effect he had on her. The way her pulse jumped and thudded to a rapid beat. No one could possibly be aware her stomach curled into a painful knot at the mere sight of him, or how one glance at his sensual mouth heated the blood in her veins in a vivid reminder of the way it felt to have that mouth possess her own.

The slow sweep of his tongue, the promise of passion, the gentle, coaxing quality that caught her tentative response and took it to an undreamt-of dimension.

Eleven years. Yet his kiss was hauntingly vivid…a taunting example by which she’d unconsciously measured each kiss that followed it. None matched up, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself imagination had merely enhanced the memory.

There were occasions when she thought she should dispense with her own curiosity and accept one of his many invitations. Yet each time something held her back, an innate knowledge such a step would put her way out of her depth.

His invitations and her refusals had become something akin to a polite game they each played. What would he do, she mused, if she surprised him by accepting?

Are you insane? a tiny voice queried insidiously.

‘Diego,’ Cassandra acknowledged coolly, meeting his compelling gaze with equanimity, watching as he inclined his head to her brother.

‘Cameron.’

For a millisecond she thought she glimpsed some unspoken signal pass between the men, then she dismissed it as fanciful.

‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

Tonight’s event was a charity fundraiser aiding state-of-the-art equipment for a special wing of the city’s children’s hospital.

Without doubt there were a number of guests with a genuine interest in the nominated charity. However, the majority viewed the evening as a glitz-and-glamour function at which the women would attempt to outdo each other with designer gowns and expensive jewellery, whilst the men wheeled and dealed beneath the guise of socialising.

Diego del Santo didn’t fit easily into any recognisable category.

Not that she had any interest in pigeon-holing him. In fact, she did her best to pretend he didn’t exist. Something he seemed intent on proving otherwise.

He could have any woman he wanted. And probably did. His photo graced the social pages of numerous newspapers and magazines, inevitably with a stunning female glued to his side.

There was a primitive quality evident. A hint of something dangerous beneath the surface should anyone dare to consider scratching it.

A man who commanded respect and admiration in the boardroom. Possessed of the skill, so it was whispered, and the passion to drive a woman wild in the bedroom.

It was a dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and latent sensuality. Lethal.

Some women would excel at the challenge of taming him, enjoying the ride for however long it lasted. But she wasn’t one of them. Only a fool ventured into the devil’s playground with the hope they wouldn’t get burnt.

Eluding Diego was a game she became adept at playing. If they happened to meet, she offered a polite smile, acknowledged his presence, then moved on.

Yet their social schedule was such, those occasions were many. If she didn’t know better, she could almost swear he was intent on playing a game of his own.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Cassandra ventured. ‘There’s someone I should catch up with.’ A time-worn phrase, trite but true, for there were always a few friends she could greet by way of escape.

Cameron wanted to protest, she could tell, although Diego del Santo merely inclined his head.

Which didn’t help at all, for she could feel those dark eyes watching her as she moved away.

Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and something tugged deep inside in a vivid reminder of the effect he had on her composure.

Get over it, she chided silently as she deliberately sought a cluster of friends and blended seamlessly into their conversation.

Any time soon the doors into the ballroom would open and guests would be encouraged to take their seats at designated tables. Then she could rejoin Cameron, and prepare to enjoy the evening.

‘You had no need to disappear,’ Cameron chastised as she moved to his side.

‘Diego del Santo might be serious eye candy, but he’s not my type.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ She managed a smile, held it, and began threading her way towards their table.

‘Do you know who else is joining us?’ Cassandra queried lightly as she slid into one of four remaining seats, and took time to greet the six guests already seated.

‘Here they are now.’

She registered Cameron’s voice, glanced up from the table…and froze.

Diego del Santo and the socialite and model, Alicia Vandernoot.

No. The silent scream seemed to echo inside her head.

It was bad enough having to acknowledge his presence and converse for a few minutes. To have to share a table with him for the space of an evening was way too much!

Had Cameron organised this? She wanted to rail against him and demand Why? Except there wasn’t the opportunity to do so without drawing unwanted attention.

If Diego chose the chair next to hers, she’d scream!

Of course he did. It was one of the correct dictums of society when it came to seating arrangements. Although she had little doubt he enjoyed the irony.

Cassandra murmured a polite greeting, and her faint smile was a mere facsimile.

This close she was far too aware of him, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes, the subtle aroma of his exclusive cologne.

Yet it was the man himself, his potent masculinity and the sheer primitive force he exuded that played havoc with her senses.

A few hours, she consoled herself silently. All she had to do was sip wine, eat the obligatory three courses set in front of her, and make polite conversation. She could manage that, surely?

Not so easy, Cassandra acknowledged as she displayed intent interest in the charity chairperson’s introduction prior to revealing funding endeavours, results and expectations.

Every nerve in her body was acutely attuned to Diego del Santo, supremely conscious of each move he made.

‘More water?’

He had topped up Alicia’s goblet, and now offered to refill her own.

‘No, thank you.’ Her goblet was part-empty, but she’d be damned if she’d allow him to tend to her.

Did he sense her reaction? Probably. He was too astute not to realise her excruciating politeness indicated she didn’t want anything to do with him.

Uniformed waiters delivered starters with practised efficiency, and she forked the artistically arranged food without appetite.

‘The seafood isn’t to your satisfaction?’

His voice was an accented drawl tinged with amusement, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity, almost inclined to offer a negation just to see what he’d do, aware he’d probably summon the waiter and insist on a replacement.

‘Yes.’

The single affirmative surprised her, and she deliberately widened her eyes. ‘You read minds?’

The edge of his mouth curved, and there was a humorous gleam apparent. ‘It’s one of my talents.’

Cassandra deigned not to comment, and deliberately turned her attention to the contents on her plate, unsure if she heard his faint, husky chuckle or merely imagined it.

He was the most irritating, impossible man she’d ever met. Examining why wasn’t on her agenda. At least that’s what she told herself whenever Diego’s image intruded…on far too many occasions for her peace of mind.

It was impossible to escape the man. He was there, a constant in the media, cementing another successful business deal, escorting a high-profile female personality to one social event or another. Cameron accorded him an icon, and mentioned him frequently in almost reverent tones.

Tonight Diego del Santo had chosen to invade her personal space. Worse, she had little option but to remain in his immediate proximity for a few hours, and she resented his manipulation, hated him for singling her out as an object for his amusement.

For that was all it was…and it didn’t help that she felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall.

Cassandra took a sip of wine, and deliberately engaged Cameron in conversation, the thread of which she lost minutes later as the waiter removed plates from their table.

She was supremely conscious of Diego’s proximity, the shape of his hand as he reached for his wine goblet, the way his fingers curved over the delicate glass…and couldn’t stop the wayward thought as to how his hands would glide over a woman’s skin.

Where had that come from?

Dear heaven, the wine must have affected her brain! The last thing she wanted was any physical contact with a man of Diego del Santo’s ilk.

‘Your speciality is gemmology, I believe?’

Think of the devil and he speaks, she alluded with silent cynicism as she turned towards him. ‘Polite conversation, genuine interest,’ she inclined, and waited a beat. ‘Or an attempt to alleviate boredom?’

His expression didn’t change, although she could have sworn something moved in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘Let’s aim for the middle ground.’

There was a quality to his voice, an inflexion she preferred to ignore. ‘Natural precious gemstones recovered in the field by mining or fossiking techniques are the most expensive.’ Such facts were common knowledge. ‘For a jewellery designer, they give more pleasure to work with, given there’s a sense of nature and the process of their existence. It becomes a personal challenge to have the stones cut in such a way they display maximum beauty. The designer’s gift to ensure the design and setting reflect the stone’s optimal potential.’ A completed study of gemmology had led to her true passion of jewellery design.

Diego saw the way her mouth softened and her eyes came alive. It intrigued him, as she intrigued him.

‘You are not in favour of the synthetic or simulants?’

Her expression faded a little. ‘They’re immensely popular and have a large market.’

His gaze held hers. ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’ He lifted a hand and fingered the delicate argyle diamond nestling against the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Your work?’ It was a rhetorical question. He’d made it his business to view her designs, without her knowledge, and was familiar with each and every one of them.

She flinched at his touch, hating his easy familiarity almost as much as she hated the tell-tale warmth flooding her veins.

If she could, she’d have flung the icy contents of her glass in his face. Instead, she forced her voice to remain calm. ‘Yes.’

A woman could get lost in the depths of those dark eyes, for there was warm sensuality lurking just beneath the surface, a hint, a promise, of the delights he could provide.

Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and she barely repressed a shiver at the thought of his mouth on hers, the touch of his hands…how it would feel to be driven wild, beyond reason, by such a man.

‘Have dinner with me tomorrow night.’

‘The obligatory invitation?’ Her response was automatic, and she tempered it with a gracious, ‘Thank you. No.’

The edge of his mouth lifted. ‘The obligatory refusal…because you have to wash your hair?’

‘I can come up with something more original.’ She could, easily. Except she doubted an excuse, no matter how legitimate-sounding, would fool him.

‘You won’t change your mind?’

Cassandra offered a cool smile. ‘What part of no don’t you understand?’

Diego reached for the water jug and refilled her glass. The sleeve of his jacket brushed her arm, and her stomach turned a slow somersault at the contact.

It was as well the waiters began delivering the main course, and she sipped wine in the hope it would soothe her nerves.

Chance would be a fine thing! She was conscious of every move he made, aware of the restrained power beneath the fine Armani tailoring, the dangerous aura he seemed to project without any effort at all.

Another two hours. Three at the most. Then she could excuse herself and leave. If Cameron wanted to stay on, she’d take a cab home.

Cassandra drew a calming breath and regarded the contents on her plate. The meal was undoubtedly delicious, but her appetite had vanished.

With determined effort she caught Cameron’s attention, and deliberately sought his opinion on something so inconsequential that afterwards she had little recollection of the discussion.

There were the usual speeches, followed by light entertainment as dessert and coffee were served. Never had time dragged quite so slowly, nor could she recall an occasion when she’d so badly wanted the evening to end.

To her surprise, it was Cameron who initiated the desire to leave, citing a headache as the reason, and Cassandra rose to her feet, offered a polite goodnight to the occupants of their table, then preceded her brother out to the foyer.

‘Are you OK?’

He looked pale, too pale, and a slight frown creased her brow as they headed towards the bank of lifts. ‘Headache?’ She extended her hand as he retrieved his car keys. ‘Want me to drive?’

CHAPTER TWO

MINUTES later she slid behind the wheel and sent the car up to street level to join the flow of traffic. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and cool indicative of spring.

A lovely time of year, she accorded silently as she negotiated lanes and took the route that led to Double Bay.

Fifteen, twenty minutes tops, and she’d be home. Then she could get out of the formal gear, cleanse off her make-up, and slip into bed.

‘We need to talk.’

Cassandra spared him a quick glance. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’

It was most unlike Cameron to be taciturn. ‘Is something wrong?’ Her eyes narrowed as the car in front came to a sudden stop, and she uttered an unladylike curse as she stamped her foot hard on the brakes.

‘Hell, Cassandra,’ he muttered. ‘Watch it!’

‘Tell that to the guy in front.’ Her voice held unaccustomed vehemence. Choosing silence for the remaining time it took to reach her apartment seemed a wise option. The last thing she coveted was an argument.

‘Park in the visitors’ bay,’ Cameron instructed as she swept the car into the bricked apron adjacent to the main entrance.

‘You’re coming up?’

‘It’s either that, or we talk in the car.’

He didn’t seem to be giving her a choice as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid out from the passenger seat.

She followed, inserted her personalised card into the security slot to gain entry into the foyer, and used it again to summon a lift.

‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she cautioned as she preceded him into her apartment, then she turned to face him. ‘OK, shoot.’

He closed his eyes, then opened them again and ran a hand through his hair. ‘This isn’t easy.’

The tension of the evening began to manifest itself into tiredness, and she rolled her shoulders. ‘Just spit it out.’

‘The firm is in trouble. Major financial trouble,’ he elaborated. ‘If Dad found out just how hopeless everything is, it would kill him.’

Ice crept towards the region of her heart. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

‘Preston-Villers is on a roller-coaster ride to insolvency.’

‘What?’ She found it difficult to comprehend. ‘How?’

He was ready to crumple, and it wasn’t a good look.

‘Bad management, bad deals, unfulfilled contracts. Staff problems. You name it, it happened.’

She adored her brother, but he wasn’t the son her father wanted. Cameron didn’t possess the steel backbone, the unflagging determination to take over directorship of Preston-Villers. Their father had thought it would be the making of his son. Now it appeared certain to be his ruination.

‘Just how bad is it?’

Cameron grimaced, and shot her a desperate look. ‘The worst.’ He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I’ve done the round of banks, financiers, sought independent advice.’ He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘It narrows down to two choices. Liquidate, or take a conditional offer.’

Hope was uppermost, and she ran with it. ‘The offer is legitimate?’

‘Yes.’ He rubbed a weary hand along his jaw. ‘An investor is prepared to inject the necessary funds, I get to retain an advisory position, he brings in his professional team, shares joint directorship, and takes a half-share of all profits.’

It sounded like salvation, but there was need for caution. ‘Presumably you’ve taken legal advice on all this?’

‘It’s the only deal in town,’ he assured soberly. ‘There’s just a matter of the remaining condition.’

‘Which is?’

He hesitated, then took a deep breath and expelled it. ‘You.’

Genuine puzzlement brought forth a frown. ‘The deal has nothing to do with me.’

‘Yes, it does.’

Like pieces of a puzzle, they began clicking into place, forming a picture she didn’t want to see. ‘Who made the offer?’ Dear God, no. It couldn’t be…

‘Diego del Santo.’

Cassandra felt the blood drain from her face. Shock, disbelief, anger followed in quick succession. ‘You can’t be serious?’ The words held a hushed quality, and for a few seconds she wondered if she’d actually uttered them.

Cameron drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘Deadly.’ To his credit, Cameron looked wretched.

‘Let me get this straight.’ Her eyes assumed an icy gleam. ‘Diego del Santo intends making this personal?’ His image conjured itself in front of her, filling her vision, blinding her with it.

‘Without your involvement, the deal won’t go ahead.’

She tried for calm, when inside she was a seething mass of anger. ‘My involvement being?’

‘He’ll discuss it with you over dinner tomorrow evening.’

‘The hell he will!’

‘Cassandra—’ Cameron’s features assumed a grey tinge. ‘You want Alexander to have another heart attack?’

The words stopped her cold. The medics had warned a further attack could be his last. ‘How can you even say that?’

She wanted to rail against him, demand why he’d let things progress beyond the point of no return. Yet recrimination wouldn’t solve a thing, except provide a vehicle to vent her feelings.

‘I want proof.’ The words were cool, controlled. ‘Facts,’ she elaborated, and glimpsed Cameron’s obvious discomfiture. ‘The how and why of it, and just how bad it is.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I need to be aware of all the angles,’ she elaborated. ‘Before I confront Diego del Santo.’

Cameron went a paler shade of pale. ‘Confront?’

She fired him a look that quelled him into silence. ‘If he thinks I’ll meekly comply with whatever he has in mind, then he can think again!’

His mouth worked as he searched for the appropriate words. ‘Cass—’

‘Don’t Cass me.’ It was an endearing nickname that belonged to their childhood.

‘Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?’

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I think it’s about time Diego del Santo discovered who he is dealing with!’ She pressed fingers to her throbbing temples in order to ease the ache there.

‘Cassandra—’

‘Can we leave this until tomorrow?’ She needed to think. Most of all, she wanted to be alone. ‘I’ll organise lunch, and we’ll go through the paperwork together.’

‘It’s Sunday.’

‘What does that have to do with it?’

Cameron lifted both hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Midday?’

‘Fine.’

She saw him out the door, locked up, then she removed her make-up, undressed, then slid into bed to stare at the darkened ceiling for what seemed an age, sure hours later when she woke that she hadn’t slept at all.

A session in the gym, followed by several laps of the pool eased some of her tension, and she re-entered her apartment, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose top, then crossed into the kitchen to prepare lunch.

Cameron arrived at twelve, and presented her with a chilled bottle of champagne.

‘A little premature, don’t you think?’ she offered wryly as she prepared garlic bread and popped it into the oven to heat.

‘Something smells good,’ he complimented, and she wrinkled her nose at him.

‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’ Lunch was a seafood pasta dish she whipped up without any fuss, and accompanied by a fresh garden salad it was an adequate meal.

‘Let’s eat first, then we’ll deal with business. OK?’

He didn’t look much better than she felt, and she wondered if he’d slept any more than she had.

‘Dad is expecting us for dinner.’

It was a weekly family tradition, and one they observed almost without fail. Although the thought of presenting a false façade didn’t sit well. Her father might suffer ill-health, but he wasn’t an easy man to fool.

‘This pasta is superb,’ Cameron declared minutes later, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.

By tacit agreement they discussed everything except Preston-Villers, and it was only when the dishes were dealt with that Cassandra indicated Cameron’s briefcase.

‘Let’s begin, shall we?’

It was worse, much worse than she had envisaged as she perused the paperwork tabling Preston-Villers slide into irretrievable insolvency. The accountant’s overview of the current situation was damning, and equally indisputable.

She’d wanted proof. Now she had it.

‘I can think of several questions,’ she began, but only one stood out. ‘Why did you let things get this bad?’

Cameron raked fingers through his hair. ‘I kept hoping the contracts would come in and everything would improve.’

Instead, they’d gone from bad to worse.

Cassandra damned Diego del Santo to hell and back, and barely drew short of including Cameron with him.

‘Business doesn’t succeed on hope.’ It needed a hard, competent hand holding the reins, taking control, making the right decisions.

A man like Diego del Santo, a quiet voice insisted. Someone who could inject essential funds, and ensure everything ran like well-oiled clockwork.

There was sense in the amalgamation, and as Cameron rightly described, it was the only deal in town if Preston-Villers was to survive.

‘Shall I contact Diego and confirm you’ve reconsidered his dinner invitation?’

‘No.’

Disbelief and consternation were clearly evident.

‘No?’

‘My ball. My play.’ Something she intended to take care of tomorrow. She stood to her feet. ‘I need to put in an hour or two on the laptop before leaving to have dinner with Dad.’ She led the way to the door of her apartment. ‘I’ll see you there.’

‘OK.’ Cameron offered an awkward smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘For what?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘Lunch?’

‘That, too.’

It was after five when Cassandra entered the electronic gates guarding Alexander Preston-Villers’ splendid home. Renovations accommodated wheelchair usage, and a lift had been installed for easy access between upper and lower floors. There was a resident housekeeper, as well as Sylvie, the live-in nurse.

Cassandra rang the bell, then used her key to enter the marble-tiled lobby.

It tore at Cassandra’s heart each time she visited, seeing the man who had once been strong reduced to frail health.

Tonight he appeared more frail than usual, his lack of motor-skills more pronounced than they had been a week ago, and his appetite seemed less.

She looked at him, and wanted to weep. Cameron seemed similarly affected, and attempting to maintain a normal façade took considerable effort.

There was no way she’d allow anyone to upset Alexander. Not Cameron, nor Diego del Santo.

She made the silent vow as she drove back to her apartment. The determined bid haunted her sleep, providing dreams that assumed nightmarish proportions, ensuring she woke late and had to scramble in order to get to work on time.

Confronting Diego del Santo was a priority, and given a choice she’d prefer to beard him in his office than meet socially over a shared meal.

Which meant she’d need to work through her lunch hour in order to leave an hour early.

Cassandra found it difficult to focus on the intricate attention to detail involved with the creative-design project for an influential client.

Diego del Santo’s image intruded, wreaking havoc with her concentration, and consequently it was something of a relief to pack up her work and consign it to the security safe before freshening her make-up prior to leaving for the day.

Del Santo Corporation was situated on a high floor of an inner-city office tower, and Cassandra felt a sense of angry determination as she vacated the lift and walked through automatic sliding glass doors to Reception.

‘Diego del Santo.’ Her voice was firm, clipped and, she hoped, authoritative.

‘Mr del Santo is in conference, and has no appointments available this afternoon.’

She made a point of checking her watch. ‘Put a call through and tell him Cassandra Preston-Villers is waiting to see him.’

‘I have instructions to hold all calls.’

Efficiency. She could only admire it. ‘Call his secretary.’

A minute…Cassandra counted off the seconds…a woman who could easily win secretary-of-the-year award appeared in Reception. ‘Is there a problem?’

You betcha, Cassandra accorded silently, and I’m it. ‘Please inform Diego del Santo I need to see him.’

A flicker of doubt. That’s all she needed. Yet none appeared. Was his secretary so familiar with Diego’s paramours, she knew categorically that Cassandra wasn’t one of them?

‘I have instructions to serve drinks and canapés at five,’ his secretary informed. ‘I’ll mention your presence to him then.’

It was a small victory, but a victory none the less. ‘Thank you.’

Half an hour spent leafing through a variety of glossy magazines did little to help her nervous tension.

Staff began their end-of-day exodus, and she felt her stomach execute a painful somersault as Diego’s secretary moved purposely into Reception.

‘Please come with me.’

Minutes later she was shown into a luxurious suite. ‘Take a seat. Mr del Santo will be with you soon.’

How soon was soon?

Five, ten, thirty minutes passed. Was he playing a diabolical game with her?

Nervous tension combined with anger, and she was almost on the point of walking out. The only thing that stopped her was the sure knowledge she’d only have to go through this again tomorrow.

Five more minutes, she vowed, then she’d go in search of him…conference be damned!

The door swung open and Diego walked into the room with one minute to spare.

‘Cassandra.’

She rose to her feet, unwilling to appear at a disadvantage by having him loom over her.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’ He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, turned his back on the magnificent harbour view, and thrust one hand into his trouser pocket.

Her expression was coolly aloof, although her eyes held the darkness of anger. ‘Really? I imagine keeping me waiting is part of the game-play.’

Sassy, he mused, and mad. It made a change from simpering companions who held a diploma in superficial artificiality.

‘If you had telephoned, my secretary could have arranged a suitable time,’ Diego inferred mildly.

‘Next week?’ she parried with deliberate facetiousness, and incurred a cynical smile.

‘The very reason I suggested we share dinner.’

‘I have no desire to share anything with you.’ She paused, then drew in a deep breath. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ She indicated the sheaf of papers tabled together in a thick folder. ‘I have the requisite proof, and a copy of your offer. Everything appears to be in order.’

‘You sound surprised.’

Cassandra swept him a dark glance. ‘I doubt there’s anything you could do that would surprise me.’

‘I imagine Cameron has relayed the deal is subject to a condition?’

Her eyes glittered with barely repressed anger. ‘He said it was personal. How personal?’

‘Two separate nights and one weekend with you.’

She felt as if some elusive force had picked her up and flung her against the nearest wall. ‘That’s barbaric,’ she managed at last.

‘Call it what you will.’

It took her a few seconds to find her voice. ‘Why?’

‘Because it amuses me?’

Was this payback? For all the invitations he’d offered and she’d refused…because she could. Now, her refusal would have far-reaching implications. Did she have the strength of will to ruin her father, the firm he’d spent his life taking from strength to strength?

‘An investment of twenty-three million dollars against all sage advice, allows for—’ he paused deliberately ‘—a bonus, wouldn’t you say?’

She didn’t think, or pause to consider the consequences of her actions. She simply picked up the nearest thing to hand and threw it at him. The fact he fielded it neatly and replaced it down onto his desk merely infuriated her further.

‘Who do you think you are?’ Her voice was low, and held a quality even she didn’t recognise.

Stupid question, she dismissed. He knew precisely who he was, what he wanted, and how to get it.

‘I’d advise you to think carefully before you consider another foolish move,’ Diego cautioned silkily.

Her eyes sparked brilliant blue fire. ‘What did you expect?’ Her voice rose a fraction. ‘For me to fall into your arms expressing my undying gratitude?’

She didn’t see the humour lurking in those dark depths. If she had, she’d probably throw something else at him.

‘I imagined a token resistance.’

Oh, he did, did he? ‘You realise I could lay charges against you for coercion?’

‘You could try.’

‘Only to have your team of lawyers counter with misinterpretation, whereupon you withdraw your financial rescue package?’

‘Yes.’

‘Emotional blackmail is a detestable ploy.’

‘It’s a negotiable tool,’ Diego corrected, and in that moment she hated him more than she thought it possible to hate anyone.

‘No.’ Dear God, had she actually said the verbal negation?

‘No, you don’t agree it’s a negotiable tool?’

‘I won’t have sex with you.’

‘You’re not in any position to bargain.’

‘I’m not for sale,’ Cassandra evinced with dignity.

‘Everything has its price.’

‘That’s your credo in life?’

He waited a beat. ‘Do you doubt it?’

She’d had enough. ‘We’re about done, don’t you think?’ She tried for calm, and didn’t quite make it as she hitched the strap of her shoulder bag as she turned towards the door.

Damn Cameron. Damn the whole sorry mess.

‘There’s just one more thing.’

She registered Diego’s silky drawl, recognised the underlying threat, and paused, turning to look at him.

‘Cameron’s homosexuality.’

Two words. Yet they had the power to stop the breath in her throat.

Diego del Santo couldn’t possibly know. No one knew. At least, only Cameron, his partner, and herself.

Anxiety meshed with panic at the thought her father might catch so much as a whisper…

Dear God, no.

Alexander Preston-Villers might find it difficult to accept Cameron had steadily sent Preston-Villers to the financial wall. But he’d never condone or forgive his son’s sexual proclivity.

An appalling sense of anguish permeated her bones, her soul. Who had Diego del Santo employed to discover something she imagined so well-hidden, it was virtually impossible to uncover?

How deep had he dug?

No stone unturned. The axiom echoed and reechoed inside her brain.

It said much of the man standing before her, the lengths he was prepared to go to to achieve his objective.

‘I hate you.’ The words fell from her lips in a voice shaky with anger. She felt cold, so cold she was willing to swear her blood had turned to ice in her veins.

Diego inclined his head, his eyes darkly still as he observed her pale features, the starkness of defeat clearly evident in her expression. ‘At this moment, I believe you do.’

He’d won. They both knew it. There was only one thing she could hope for…his silence.

‘Yes.’ His voice was quiet. ‘You have my word.’

‘For which I should be grateful?’ she queried bitterly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he indicated the chair she’d previously occupied. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

He crossed to the credenza, extracted a glass, filled it with iced water from the bar fridge, then placed the glass in her hand.

Cassandra didn’t want to sit. She preferred to be on her feet, poised for flight.

Diego moved towards his desk and leaned one hip against its edge. ‘Shall we begin again?’

Dear heaven, how did she get through this? With as much dignity as possible, an inner voice prompted.

‘The ball’s in your court.’

Did she have any idea how vulnerable she looked? The slightly haunted quality evident in those stunning blue eyes, the translucence of her skin.

He remembered the taste of her, her fragrance, the soft, tentative response… He’d sought to imprint her with his touch, unclear of his motivation. A desire to shock, to punish? A lesson to be wary of men whose prime need was sex?

Instead, it had been she who’d left a lingering memory, unexpectedly stirring his soul…as well as another pertinent part of his anatomy. A pubescent temptress, unaware of her feminine power, he mused, wondering at the time how she’d react if he took advantage of her youth.

Sixteen-year-old girls were out of bounds. Especially when this particular sixteen-year-old was the cherished daughter of one of the city’s industrial scions. Her brother, the elder by two years, should have known better than to bring her to a party where drinks were spiked and drugs were in plentiful supply. A fact he’d cursorily relayed before bundling brother and sister out of the host’s house, then following in their wake.

Relationships, he’d had a few. Women he’d enjoyed, taking what was so willingly offered without much thought to permanence. As to commitment…there hadn’t been any woman he’d wanted to make his own, exclusively. Happy-ever-after was a fallacy. Undying love, a myth.

For the past year one woman had teased his senses, yet she’d held herself aloof from every attempt he made to date her, and he’d had to content himself with a polite greeting whenever their social paths crossed.

Until now.

‘As soon as our personal arrangement has satisfactorily concluded,’ Diego drawled, ‘I’ll attach my signature to the relevant paperwork and organise for funds to be released.’

Cassandra registered his words, and felt her stomach contract in tangible pain. ‘And when do you envisage our personal arrangement will begin?’

‘Anyone would think you view sex with me as a penance.’

‘Your ego must be enormous if you imagine I could possibly regard it as a pleasure.’

‘Brave words,’ Diego drawled, ‘when you have no knowledge what manner of lover I am.’

The mere thought of that tall, muscular body engaged intimately with hers was enough to send heat spiralling from deep inside.

Instinct warned he was a practised lover, aware of all the pleasure pulses in a woman’s body, and how to coax each and every one of them to vibrant life with the skilled touch of his mouth, his hands.

It was there, in the darkness of his gaze…the sensual confidence of a man well-versed in the desires of women.

A tiny shiver started at the base of her spine, and feathered its way to her nape, settled there, so she had to make a conscious effort to prevent it from appearing visible.

‘Wednesday evening I’m attending a dinner party. I’ll collect you at six-thirty. Pack whatever you need for the night.’

The day after tomorrow?

An hysterical laugh rose and died in her throat. So soon? Oh, God, why not? At least then the first night would be over. One down, one and a weekend to go.

‘The remaining nights?’ Dear heaven, how could she sound so calm?

‘Saturday.’

She felt as if she were dying. ‘And the last?’

‘The following weekend.’ His gaze never left hers. ‘One million dollars will be deposited into the Preston-Villers business account following each of the three occasions you spend with me. Monday week, Preston-Villers’ creditors will be paid off.’

‘A condition, tenuously alluded to in the documentation as “being met to Diego del Santo’s satisfaction”, doesn’t even begin to offer me any protection. What guarantee do I have you won’t declare the offer documented as null and void on the grounds the condition hasn’t been met to your satisfaction?’

‘My word.’

She had to force her voice to remain steady, otherwise it would betray her by shattering into a hundred pieces. ‘Sorry, but that won’t cut it.’

‘Do you know how close you walk to the edge of my tolerance?’

‘Don’t insult my intelligence by detailing a condition that has so many holes in it, even Blind Freddie could see through them!’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘No.’

He could walk away from the deal. It was what he should do. Twenty-three million dollars was no small amount of money, even if in the scheme of things it represented only a very small percentage of his investments.

He enjoyed the adrenalin charge in taking a worn-down company, injecting the necessary funds and making it work again.

‘What is it you want?’

It was no time to lose her bravado. ‘Something in writing detailing those nights, each comprising no more than twelve hours spent in your company, represents my sexual obligation to you, as covered by the term condition, and said obligation shall not be judged by my sexual performance.’ She took a deep breath, and released it slowly. ‘The original copy will be destroyed when you release funds in full into the Preston-Villers business account.’

She watched as he set up a laptop, keyed in data, activated the printer, proofread the printed copy, then attached his signature and handed her the page.

Cassandra read it, then she neatly folded the page and thrust it into her shoulder bag. Un-notarised, it wouldn’t have much value in a court of law. But it was better than nothing.

The melodic burr of his cellphone provided the impetus she needed to escape.

Diego spared a glance at the illuminated dial, and cut the call. He moved to the door, opened it, then he led the way out to the main foyer and summoned the lift.

‘Six-thirty, Wednesday evening,’ he reminded as the electronic doors slid open.

It nearly killed her to act with apparent unconcern, when inside she was a quivering mess. ‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure,’ Cassandra managed coolly as she depressed the appropriate button to take her down to ground level.

As a parting shot it lacked the impact she would have liked, but she took a degree of satisfaction in having the last word.

Two weeks from now she would have fulfilled Diego del Santo’s condition.

Three, no, four nights in his bed. She could do it…couldn’t she, and emerge emotionally unscathed?

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