The Spaniard's Seduction. Anne Mather
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feel his stomach tighten as he thought of confronting Cassandra again. Dios, he hated that woman, he thought savagely. If only he could tell Sanchia how he really felt, she would have no further cause for concern.
‘Muy bien.’ She pivoted on her high heels and, waiting for him to fall into step beside her, she started towards her car. ‘But you will ring me later this morning, sí?’
‘Make it this afternoon,’ said Enrique, suppressing a sigh. ‘If I cannot reach you at home, I will call your mobile.’
‘Which will not be switched off as yours was last night,’ remarked Sanchia waspishly, inspiring another twinge of irritation. Dammit, when had they got to the point where every move he made had to be justified?
‘I will ring,’ he assured her, making no promises of when that would be. He swung open the door of the scarlet convertible. ‘Adiós!’
CASSANDRA trudged back to the lodging house with a heavy heart. She had wasted the whole morning waiting to see her holiday representative to try and get David and herself transferred to an alternative pensión, but she was no further forward.
The trouble was, the kind of accommodation she and her son could afford was in short supply and, without paying a huge supplement and moving to a hotel, they were stuck. The young rep who was based at the nearby Hotel Miramar had been very polite, but after spending the morning dealing with other holidaymakers’ complaints, she was naturally puzzled by Cassandra’s request. Particularly as the only excuse she could offer for wanting to leave the Pensión del Mar was because Punta del Lobo was too quiet. The girl had probably thought she was used to frequenting bars and nightclubs, thought Cassandra unhappily. And what kind of a mother did that make her appear to be?
It was all Enrique de Montoya’s fault, she thought resentfully. If he hadn’t turned up and ruined what had promised to be the first really good holiday they had had in ages, she wouldn’t have had to tell lies to anyone, or now have to face the prospect of David’s disappointment when he discovered their options had narrowed. As far as she could see, she only had one alternative: to bring the date for their homeward journey forward. Whatever it cost.
And, as she approached the pensión, she was forced to admit that it wasn’t just the de Montoyas’ fault that she was in this position. David had to take his share of the blame. All right, perhaps she should have been more honest with him right from the beginning, but surely he had known that what he was doing was wrong? Wasn’t that why he had kept the letter a secret from her?
She turned in at the gate of the pensión, tipping her head back to ease the tension in her neck, and then felt a quivering start in the pit of her stomach. As she looked ahead again, she saw a man rising from the low wall that bordered the terrace, where chairs and tables offered an alternative to eating indoors. The striped canopy, which gave the Pensión del Mar its individuality, formed a protective shade from the rays of the midday sun, but it also cast a shadow that Cassandra at first thought had deceived her eyes. But, no, she was not mistaken. It was Enrique who had been sitting there, waiting for her, like the predator she knew him to be.
But, as always, he looked cool and composed, his lean muscled frame emphasised by a tight-fitting navy tee shirt and loose cotton trousers. Despite herself, she felt her senses stir at his dark, powerful masculinity, and it was that much harder to steel herself against him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, taking the offensive before he could disconcert her, and he gave her a retiring look.
‘Where is he?’ he demanded, looking beyond her, and she was inordinately grateful that the Kaufmans had taken David out for the day.
‘He’s not here,’ she said, deciding to let him make what he liked of that. ‘You’ve wasted your time in coming here.’
Enrique’s eyes grew colder, if that were at all possible. He was already regarding her with icy contempt, and she was unhappily aware that again he had found her looking hot and dishevelled. But after a morning sitting in the open foyer of the Miramar, which was not air-conditioned and where she had not been offered any refreshment, she was damp and sweaty. Her hair, which she should really have had cut before she came away, was clinging to the nape of her neck, and her cropped sleeveless top and cotton shorts fairly shrieked of their chainstore origins.
But what did it matter what he thought of her? she asked herself impatiently. However she looked, he was not going to alter his opinion of her or of David, and, even if she’d been voted the world’s greatest mum, the de Montoyas would still be looking for a way to take David away from her.
‘Where is he?’ Enrique asked again, and this time she decided not to prevaricate.
‘He’s gone out with friends,’ she replied, making an abortive little foray to go past him, but he stepped into her path.
‘What friends?’ His dark eyes bored into her. ‘The Kaufmans?’
‘Got it in one,’ said Cassandra, acknowledging that Enrique never forgot a name. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’
Enrique said something that sounded suspiciously like an oath before his hard fingers fastened about her forearm. ‘Do not be silly, Cassandra,’ he intoned wearily. ‘You are not going anywhere and you know it.’
She didn’t attempt to shake him off. It wouldn’t have done any good and she knew it. But perhaps she could get rid of him in other ways and she widened her eyes challengingly at him as she opened her mouth.
But the scream she’d been about to utter stuck in her throat when he hustled her across the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, his words harsh against her ear. ‘Make a scene and I may just have to report Señor Movida to the licensing authorities.’
Cassandra stared at him. ‘You can’t do that. Señor Movida hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘I am sure my lawyers could come up with something, if I paid them enough,’ retorted Enrique unfeelingly, propelling her around the corner from the pensión to where his Mercedes was parked. ‘And you, I am equally sure, would not risk that.’
Cassandra trembled. ‘You’re a bastard, Enrique!’
‘Better a bastard than a liar, Cassandra,’ he informed her coldly, flicking the switch that unlocked the car. ‘Please get in.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Enrique regarded her with unblinking eyes. ‘Do not go there, Cassandra. You are only wasting your time and mine. We need to talk, and you will have to forgive my sensibilities when I say I prefer not to—how is it you say it?—wash my linen in public?’
‘Dirty linen,’ muttered Cassandra, before she could stop herself, and Enrique’s mouth curved into a thin smile.
‘Your words, not mine,’ he commented, swinging open the nearside door and waiting patiently for her to get into the car. And, when she’d done so with ill grace, unhappily conscious of her bare knees and sun-reddened thighs, he walked round the back of the vehicle and coiled his long length behind the steering wheel. Then, with a derisive glance in her direction, ‘Do not look so apprehensive, Cassandra. I do not bite.’
‘Don’t you?’
Now she held his gaze with hot accusing eyes and then experienced a pang of anguish when he looked away. Was he remembering what she was remembering? she wondered, despising herself for the unwelcome emotions he could still arouse inside her. God, the only memories she should have were bitter ones.
His starting the engine caught her unawares. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she cried, diverted from her thoughts, and he lifted his shoulders in a resigned gesture.
‘What does it look like I am doing?’ he enquired, glancing in the rearview mirror, checking for traffic. ‘You didn’t think we were going to sit here and talk?’
‘Why