In The Spaniard's Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN
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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?
CHAPTER THREE
TWO evenings later Cassandra stood sipping excellent champagne in the lounge of a stunning Rose Bay mansion.
Guests mingled, some of whom she knew, and the conversation flowed. However, the evening, the venue, the fellow guests…none had as much impact on her as the man at her side.
Diego del Santo exuded practised charm, solicitous interest, and far too much sexual chemistry for any woman’s peace of mind. Especially hers.
Worse, she was all too aware of the way her nervous tension escalated by the minute.
She didn’t want to be here. More particularly, she didn’t want to be linked to Diego del Santo in any way.
Yet she was bound to him, caught in an invisible trap, and the clock was ticking down towards the moment they were alone.
Even the thought of that large, lithe frame, naked, was enough to send her heartbeat into overdrive.
‘More champagne?’
His voice was an inflected drawl as he indicated her empty flute, and he was close, too close for comfort, for she was supremely conscious of him, his fine tailoring, the exclusive cologne, and the man beneath the sophisticated exterior.
‘No,’ she managed politely. ‘Thank you.’ There was some merit in having one drink too many in order to endure the night. However, the evening was young, dinner would soon be served, and she valued her social reputation too much as well as her self-esteem to pass the next few hours in an alcoholic haze.
Choosing what to wear had seen her selecting one outfit after another and discarding most. In the end she’d opted for a bias-cut red silk dress with a soft, draped neckline and ribbon straps. Subtle make-up with emphasis on her eyes, and she’d swept her hair into a careless knot atop her head. Jewellery