Spaniard's Seduction / Cole's Red-Hot Pursuit: Spaniard's Seduction

Rafaelo shifted his attention to the taller of the two Saxons. “Then you must be Joshua.”

Joshua nodded, his eyes hooded.

“I am Rafaelo—” he held up a peremptory hand as Heath started to interrupt “—and I am your half brother.”

Heath sucked in his breath, an audible sound. “I don’t think so. I think you’re a scammer!”

“Heath!” Caitlyn’s hands went to her mouth.

“This is not a scam.” Rafaelo’s hand dropped and curled into a fist at his side. “You think this is easy for me?”

“You expect us to believe that you found out six months ago? And it took you until now to act on this laughable claim?” Heath sneered. “Why wait so long?”

“I had responsibilities. I had a man to bury—the man I believed to be my father,” Rafaelo said with what Caitlyn considered great restraint. “Afterward there was my mother to comfort and legalities to tend. I came as soon as my obligations allowed.”

With Rafaelo standing to one side, his fisted hands the only evidence that he wasn’t quite as relaxed as the curl of his lips would have them all believe, the air grew thick with menace. Caitlyn held her breath. Heath and Joshua stood shoulder to shoulder, brother beside brother, staring him down.

Caitlyn had seen that pose before. She shuddered. It wouldn’t take much for the frozen tableau to ignite into a brawl.

Determined to prevent that at all costs, she stepped forward to stand beside Rafaelo and, without thinking, placed a hand on his arm. “Rafaelo is about to leave.”

He turned his head. “I am?”

There was a sardonic light in his eyes.

She tightened her grip on his arm. With a sudden sense of shock she felt the texture of the fine wool of his dark suit give under her fingertips, felt the hardness of flesh and muscle beneath. It scorched her.

“Yes, you are. I was walking you to your car,” she said with quiet determination, even as her heart began to race, and the terrifying fear that she worked so hard to avoid bolted through her bloodstream.

“That’s our Cait!” Heath said loudly. “Mate, you better do what she says if you know what’s best for you.”

Rafaelo went rigid under her hold. “I am not a milksop.” He gave Heath an insulting head-to-toe-and-back-again look. “I do not let a woman placate the enemy on my behalf. I do what I want—not what a woman dictates.” When his eyes met Caitlyn’s appalled gaze, his features curdled with contempt. “So you fight his battles all the time?”

Instantly the thrill of apprehension that touching him roused and her irritation at his overt chauvinism were superseded by horrified concern. Not for him—if the Spanish grandee had his features rearranged by Heath it would serve him right. The concern was all reserved for Heath…for the Saxons. Kay would hate to learn that her sons had gotten into a brawl on this day because she’d cried.

Was Rafaelo stupid? Did he not realise what he was provoking? Or did he want a fight for reasons of incomprehensible masculine pride?

That notion caused her to worry even more. But there would be no fight. Not if she could help it.

“Sometimes the little woman knows best,” Caitlyn cooed up at Rafaelo, fluttering her lashes, and moving squarely in front of him, daringly brushing his lapels free of imaginary fluff. Anything to stop Heath swinging the punch that she suspected was pending. But the tension in the lean body so close to hers, the sudden bulge in the chest muscles under her fingers, made her wish she hadn’t been so reckless.

Heath watched and laughed uproariously. “Our kitten is now Cait-the-seductress. Priceless.”

That hurt.

She blinked back the sudden prick of tears and, feeling totally ridiculous, she yanked her hands away from Rafaelo.

Furiously angry with Heath for highlighting how unwomanly she was, with Rafaelo for starting this whole debacle just by being there, and with Joshua for doing nothing to stop it, Caitlyn swung away, turning her back on all three of them.

“Fine,” she said in a voice that indicated the situation was anything but okay. She pushed an annoying strand of hair out of her face, wishing it was back in its customary ponytail. And wishing that she could kick off the uncomfortable shoes and skirt and unfamiliar jacket. Above all, wishing she was a million miles from this maddening trio. “Do it your way. I’ll just leave you all to bash each other’s brains out. See if I care.”

“Slowly, querida.” Rafaelo caught her arm.

His hold was firm, possessive. His fingers were square and tanned against the apricot hue of her jacket. No rings. But the knuckles were ridged. Yes, a fighter.

Shockingly, her arm started to tingle alarmingly under the warmth of his touch. Caitlyn lifted her gaze and gave him a fulminating glare. There was speculation in his expression—and something else. He glanced at Heath and back to her. He released her arm, and his gaze became calculating.

And that was when she knew that he’d seen what no one else had. The miserable remains of her hopeless infatuation for Heath.

Horror swept her. He wouldn’t say anything, would he?

Then she realised that of course he would. Why shouldn’t he? The damn man didn’t like her one little bit. She’d been a thorn in his side since the moment he’d arrived. Why shouldn’t he humiliate her?

But instead of adding to her humiliation, she heard him say, “Caitlyn will walk with me. I am leaving. But be warned, I will be back.”

Relief flooded her as he wheeled away from Joshua and Heath. But Caitlyn wasn’t sure whether it was because the fistfight had been forestalled…or because one of her heart’s innermost secrets had been saved. Either way, she couldn’t help feeling a surge of gratitude toward Rafaelo as she trotted off in his wake.

Three

A lanky youth with a baseball cap jammed down on his head was standing with his back to the door when Rafaelo walked into the reception area of the winery the next morning.

“Buenos días,” he said, “I’m looking for Phillip Saxon.”

The youth turned and Rafaelo found himself staring into a pair of very familiar pale blue eyes. No youth this. Those unique eyes could only belong to one person…

Caitlyn Ross.

He did a rapid inspection to see how he could have made such an unforgivable mistake. The jeans she wore were faded and baggy, stained with the juice of grapes. The oversized navy-and-white striped T-shirt bore a sports team’s logo and swamped her slender body. The baseball cap pulled low over her forehead hid the fine, beautiful copper-blond hair. Every trace of the feminine creature he’d met yesterday had vanished.

Except for the eyes.

Those hadn’t changed. They met his directly, challenging him, stirring a primal need. The slow pounding of his heart under the force of her gaze ensured that he paid careful attention to everything about her.

“Did you call to let Phillip know you were coming?”

The awakening attraction withered. “Are you always so—” he searched for the word he wanted “—bossy?”

Irritation flashed in her eyes. She edged toward a stone archway. “I’m not bossy. I just don’t want you causing trouble with the Saxons.”

¡Vale! Okay, she’d made her feelings clear enough. Rafaelo followed her through the arch into the winery. Immediately the familiar smell of French oak surrounded him. Two rows of vats lined the long, dimly lit room where they stood. Another step forward brought a newer fragrance. The feminine fragrance of wildflowers. Caitlyn’s fragrance.

Subtle. Evocative. Unexpectedly fragile.

Rafaelo drew a deep breath. “So you’ve decided that I’m the big bad wolf coming to eat your lambs?”

She shook her head. “I’d hardly describe Phillip or his sons as lambs.”

Tipping his head to one side, Rafaelo said, “Perhaps they are the wolves…and I am the lamb?”