In The Spaniard's Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN
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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