The Spaniard's Defiant Virgin. Jennie Lucas
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he asked shortly.
She hesitated. “Yes. Thank you.”
He went to the bar at the end of the dining room and her eyes followed his every step. Tall and broad-shouldered, he walked with lazy, sinuous movements, like a lion prowling the savannah. His crisp white shirt and finely cut trousers silhouetted the muscular shape of his body.
He turned back to face her. His strong jawline was dark with late-day shadow and his hair was black and full of curl. With his aquiline profile and full lips, his face was as perfectly chiseled and as cold in expression as a statue by Michelangelo.
Marcos Ramirez was a dark angel, she thought with a shiver. Beautiful, cruel and utterly without remorse.
“The brandy is from my own vineyards.” He put her snifter on the table and sat next to her. She jumped when she felt his knee brush against her bare leg.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Did I startle you?”
She blushed in embarrassment, furious at herself for acting like the virgin she was. She tried to recover. “No. Your legs are just very…big.”
“Gracias.”
So far, so good. She leaned forward to lightly brush her hand on his knee. “I admire strong legs on a man. Big hands. Big feet.” She gave them a conspicuous glance. “So good for heavy lifting.”
“I don’t just have strength, but stamina,” he observed, looking at her over his glass with an amused expression. “I can lift anything you want. All night.”
Oh, my God.
Flirting with Marcos was very different from dancing with a pallid young earl or drinking with a bull-headed celebrity at a London club. Marcos was a full-grown man, and a dangerous one at that. She was his prisoner, in his castle. He could do anything he wanted with her.
Playing with him was playing with fire.
You can do this, she told herself. Make him think you want him. Act like the promiscuous woman he believes you to be. Lean forward and kiss him now.
But she couldn’t do it. He was too powerful, too masculine, too in control of himself. It made her lose her nerve.
Grabbing her snifter, she lifted the brandy to her lips and drank deeply until the potency of the liquor caused her to choke and cough.
“Careful.” He pounded on her back with his left hand. “Inexperienced with brandy?”
She felt inexperienced, and not just with brandy, either.
“I was thirsty,” she responded lamely.
“Yes, I can see that.” His gray eyes gleamed. “Are you hungry as well?”
“Very.” She took another sip of brandy, more carefully this time. “By the way, I owe you my thanks.”
He regarded her with some suspicion. “For what?”
“For kidnapping me,” she said, keeping her eyes wide with admiration. “For saving me from Aziz.”
“Saving you? You were so desperate to marry him that you wanted to jump in the sea and swim back to Morocco.”
“That was just because I was frightened. I didn’t know what you meant to do to me. But I never wanted to marry Aziz—never. He would have stuck me away in the desert, a million miles away from shops, clubs, Harrods, everything.” She shivered prettily. “What kind of life is that for a girl to lead?”
His lip curled. “Qué lástima, you are right. It would be a tragedy.”
The only tragedy is how easily you’re buying this, she thought. She leaned forward to put her hand over his. “I’m not your enemy, Marcos. I have no love for my brother or Aziz. Perhaps we can…help each other.”
He glanced down at her hand. “What did you have in mind?”
His eyes had fallen to her mouth, and she licked her lips. Again, she had the feeling of being out of her league, out of her depth, and out of her mind. She couldn’t manipulate a man like this. Could she?
She swallowed the last of the brandy with a gulp and held up the snifter, looking at him with her best smile. “Would you get me some more brandy?” She gave a little giggle. “My head is starting to spin in such a wonderful way.”
Without a word, he took the glass and strode across the old stone floor to the wet bar. She watched him with narrowed eyes, but the moment he turned back to face her she simpered at him, dimpling.
“Tell me your plans, and I’ll tell you how I can help.” She stretched her arms above her head with a dainty yawn, well aware that it would cause her breasts to rise against the low-cut halter dress. “I still don’t understand why you think kidnapping me will hurt Aziz and my brother.”
His eyes followed the swell of her breasts against the plunging black neckline. “It’s enough that it will.”
“But why do you want to hurt us?”
“Not you, querida. Them.”
“Why do you want to hurt them?”
He shrugged. “They’ve got it coming.”
Selfish bastard, she thought, irritated that he wouldn’t explain further. I won’t let Nicole’s life be ruined because of your stupid desire for revenge.
Tamsin had already seen enough in her life, thank you, especially from her father’s example. When he’d finally died of apoplexy, he’d been friendless and un-mourned, and all Tamsin had felt was relief that he couldn’t hurt them ever again.
“Here’s your brandy.” Marcos placed it on the table next to her.
“Thank you.” She crossed her legs, trying to show them to their best advantage, then pretended to accidentally drop one of her high-heeled shoes to the floor. She leaned forward to pick it up, just to give him a nice view down her neckline.
When she sat up, he was looking at her like a hungry wolf waiting to devour a lamb.
Perhaps it had worked too well, she thought as he slowly walked around her. She could feel his hot stare move up and down her body and nearly jumped when his hands touched her bare shoulders. She hadn’t expected her own senses to have such a strong reaction. Her voice trembled. “What are you doing?”
He smiled down at her, softly brushing her hair aside, causing shivers of awareness to spread from her scalp down her body. “You’ve had a difficult day, but we have the whole night ahead of us. To eat. To drink. To…enjoy.”
Her heart gave a strange little thump as he massaged her shoulders. She felt his hands move lower on the bare skin of her upper back, rubbing the tense muscles around her shoulder blades. She closed her eyes, unable to resist leaning back.
“Qué belleza,” he whispered. His fingers lightly traced the edge of her shoulder, the crook of her neck, the curl of her hair. “You are so beautiful.”
“It’s not me,” she gasped. “It’s just the dress.”
“It’s the woman in the dress.” He bent forward to wrap his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”
“Tell me your plans,” she said, hardly able to believe that he was falling for her act, “and I will tell you how I can help you.”
Running his hands down her arms, he gave her an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps. We shall see.”
It was working! He thought he could trust her! But, just as triumph was coursing through her, the housekeeper and two waiters entered the sala with trays of dinner, interrupting them. To her chagrin, Marcos moved away to his own chair.
“I’m serving dinner all at once, as you wanted,” the housekeeper said in Spanish, throwing a hard