Spanish Escape. Maisey Yates
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‘Serious?’
Estelle nodded. ‘He’s now in a wheelchair.’
‘That must take a lot of getting used to.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Is that the family emergency you had to fly home from your own holiday for?’
Estelle nodded. She didn’t tell him it had been a trip around churches. No doubt he assumed she’d been hauled out of a club to hear the news. ‘I raced home, and, really, since then things have been tough on them. Amanda was already pregnant when they got married…’
She didn’t know why she was telling him. Perhaps it was safer to talk than to dance. Maybe it was easier to talk about her brother and the truth than make up stories about Dario’s and seedy clubs in Soho. Or perhaps it was the black liquid eyes that invited conversation, the way he moved his chair a little closer so that he could hear.
‘Their daughter was born four months ago. The prospect of being a dad was the main thing that kept Andrew motivated during his rehabilitation. Just when we thought things were turning around…’
Raúl watched her green eyes fill with tears, saw her rapid blink as she tried to stem them.
‘She has a heart condition. They’re waiting till she’s a little bit bigger so they can operate.’
He watched pale hands go to her bag and Estelle took out a photo. He looked at her brother, Andrew, and his wife, and a small frail baby with a slight blue tinge to her skin, and he realised that they hadn’t been crocodile tears he had witnessed during the wedding ceremony. He looked back to Estelle.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Cecelia.’
Raúl looked at her as she gazed at the photo and he knew then the reason she was here with Gordon. ‘Your brother?’ Raúl asked, just to confirm things in his mind. ‘Does he work?’
‘No.’ Estelle shook her head. ‘He was self-employed. He…’ She put away the photo, dragged in a breath, could not stand to think of all the problems her brother faced.
Exactly at that moment Raúl lightened things.
‘My legs are cold.’
Estelle laughed, and as she did she blinked as a photographer’s camera flashed in her face.
‘Nice natural shot,’ the photographer said.
‘We’re not…’ Oh, what did it matter?
‘I need to move.’ He stood. ‘And Gordon asked that I take care of you.’ Raúl held out his hand to her. This dance was more important than she could ever know. This dance must ensure that tonight she was thinking only of him—that by the time he approached her with his suggestion it would not seem so unthinkable. But first he had to set the tone. First he had to make her aware that he knew the sort of business she was in. ‘Would you like to dance?’
Estelle didn’t really have a choice. Walking towards the dance floor, she had the futile hope that the band would break into something more frivolous than sensuous, but all hope was gone as his arms wrapped loosely around her.
‘You are nervous?’
‘No.’
‘I would have thought you would enjoy dancing, given that you two met at Dario’s.’
‘I do love to dance.’ Estelle forced a bright smile, remembered who she was supposed to be. ‘It’s just a bit early for me.’
‘And me,’ Raul said as he took her in his arms. ‘About now I would only just be getting ready to go out.’
She couldn’t read this man. Not in the least. He held her, he was skilled and graceful, but the eyes that looked down at her were not smiling.
‘Relax.’
She tried to—except he’d said it into her ear, causing the sensitive skin there to tingle.
‘Can I ask something?’
‘Of course,’ Estelle said, though she would rather he didn’t. She just wanted this duty dance to end.
‘What are you doing with Gordon?’
‘Excuse me?’ She could not believe he would ask that—could not think of anyone else who would be so direct. It was as if all pretence had gone—all tiny implications, all conversation left behind—and the truth was being revealed in his arms.
‘There is a huge age difference…’
‘That’s none of your business.’ She felt as if she was being attacked in broad daylight and everyone else was just carrying on, oblivious.
‘You are twenty, yes?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘He was ten years older than I am now when you were born.’
‘They’re just numbers.’
‘We both work in numbers.’
Estelle went to walk off mid-dance, but his grip merely tightened. ‘Of course…’ He held her so she could feel the lean outline of his body, inhale the terribly masculine scent of him. ‘You want him only for his money.’
‘You’re incredibly rude.’
‘I’m incredibly honest,’ Raúl corrected. ‘I am not criticizing—there is nothing wrong with that.’
‘Vete al infierno!’ Estelle said, grateful for a Spanish schoolfriend and lunchtimes being taught by her how to curse. She watched his mouth curve as she told him in his own language to go to hell. ‘Excuse me,’ Estelle said. ‘Sometimes my Spanish is not so good. What I mean to say is…’
He pressed a finger to her lips before she could tell him, in her own language and rather more crudely, exactly where he could go.
The contact with her mouth, the sensual pressure, the intimacy of the gesture, had the desired effect and silenced her.
‘One more dance,’ Raúl said. ‘Then I return you to Gordon.’ He removed his finger. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I was being rude—believe me, that was not my intention. Accept my apology, please.’
Estelle’s eyes narrowed in suspicious assessment. She was aware of the pulse in her lips from his mere touch. Logic told her to remove herself from this situation, yet the stir of first arousal won.
The music slowed and, ignoring brief resistance, he pulled her in tighter. If she thought he was judging her, she was right—only it was not harshly. Raúl admired a woman who could separate emotion from sex.
Raúl needed exactly such a woman if he were to see this through.
He did not think her cheap: on the contrary, he intended to pay her very well.
She should have gone then—back to the table, to be ignored by the other guests. Should have left this man at a safer point. But her naïve body was refusing to walk away; instead it was awakening in his arms.
He held her so that her head was resting on his chest. She could feel the soft velvet of his jacket on her cheek. But she was more aware of his hand resting lightly on the base of her spine.
A couple dancing, each in a world of their own.
Raúl’s motives were temporarily suspended. He enjoyed the soft weight that leant against him, the quiet of his mind as he focused only on her. The hand on her shoulder crept beneath her hair, his fingers lightly stroking the back of her neck, and again he wanted his mouth there, wanted to lift the raven curtain and taste her.
His fingers told her so—they stroked in a soft probing and they circled and teased as she swayed in time to the music. Estelle felt the stirring between them, and though her head denied what was happening her body shifted a little to allow for him. Her nipples hurt against his chest. His hand pressed her in just a little tighter