Spring Bride. Sandra Marton
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And so he had, he thought now, suppressing the faintest smile of satisfaction. It was a long time since he’d used his fists, but then, disarming a fool with a knife was not a skill one forgot.
His smile turned into a frown as he remembered how the smile of gratitude disappeared from the turista’s lips when she’d realized who it was that had saved her beautiful neck. Did she really think she was the only one who was appalled by this unbelievable coincidence? To find himself face-to-face with the woman again…
Not in a million years would he have imagined such a thing!
Antonio turned away from the window. One good thing, at least, had come of this encounter.
He knew with certainty that he would not be bothered by unwanted images of the American’s coldly beautiful face any longer.
Inconceivable as it seemed, her face had haunted him, but that was over now. He’d seen her again and the only emotion he’d felt had been disbelief. Better still, he’d given her a taste of her own medicine. He’d kissed her, had the satisfaction of knowing that he could make her tremble with desire for a man like him…
Who was he kidding? She hadn’t trembled. The kiss had only lasted for an instant but it had been long enough for him to feel her go rigid with shock in his arms.
And then the skies had opened up and Consuelo had stuck her nose where it didn’t belong yet a second time. She’d come dashing out into the street, shot him a look of fierce remonstration, and before he could stop her, she’d put her arm around the woman and rushed her inside.
Now here he was, cooling his heels, a captive in his own office, dammit, waiting for the American to deign to reappear so he could call her a taxi and send her back to wherever she’d come from, so he could get back to work and maybe, just maybe, tie up his business in Caracas so he could get out of here and be back on San Sebastian Island tonight.
He shot back his cuff, glared at his watch, then marched to the door and yanked it open.
“Consuelo,” he bellowed.
His secretary looked up from her desk, her expression impassive.
”Sí, señor?”
Antonio folded his arms over his chest. “Where is she?”
“She is still in the ladies’ room, señor.”
“Does she think I have the day to waste?”
“I am certain she will only be another few minutes. She asked for a comb and—”
“And you obliged? What for? Are you her maid?”
Consuelo’s tone grew cool. “The señorita has been through a most unfortunate experience, señor. I should think any decent human being would feel some compassion for her.”
Antonio opened his mouth, then closed it again. The rebuke was unsubtle, but then, lack of subtlety was one of his secretary’s assets. Consuelo was old enough to be his mother; she had been with him for ten years, and whenever he needed to be brought back to size—as, he supposed, he might on extremely rare occasions—she was the only one with the courage to do it.
“She has had a difficult time, Señor del Rey,” Consuelo added softly.
Antonio’s mouth hardened. “Perhaps she has also learned a lesson. The world and its inhabitants are not toys put here for her amusement.”
He turned and slammed the door behind him before Consuelo could respond. Then he walked to his desk and sat down behind it.
What god with a bad sense of humor had brought the woman to Venezuela and then deposited her outside this office on the one day in weeks—in weeks, dammit!—he had chosen to stop by?
It was insane.
“Insane,” Antonio muttered, slapping his palms against his desk.
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