Hostage Of Passion

Or—and this was the worst-case scenario, her secret fear—she could find him with his new young mistress and have the disagreeable task of making him see sense, pointing out, with graphic emphasis, what he could expect if Francisco Garcia Casals ever got within thrashing distance, trying to make the wayward young minx see the error of her ways and return to her family home.

That Piers would be at the house in Arcos, innocently or not so innocently, was in no real doubt now. When her mother had been alive they had often spent the spring there because Piers had always felt spiritually at home in the Andalusian mountains, executing some of his best work there.

After her death—when Sarah herself was only thirteen—Piers had closed the house up for a time but in later years he had often used it as a bolthole when he wanted to get down to serious, concentrated work.

He called it his cabaña, but it wasn’t, of course. It was a small house in a tiny warren of streets in the old town, but, as he said, he liked the way the word cabaña rolled off the tongue. Her father, she thought resignedly, wasn’t spectacularly clever when it came to seeing things as they really were.

And no matter how often she told herself that there had to be some mistake, the letter had been all too explicit. Impatiently, she dabbed her damp forehead with the back of her hand. It was all too tiresome to be borne and she could only pray that, as Encarnación had obviously met Piers at some time or other, the little minx had picked his name out of the ether and used it as a smokescreen for her own questionable activities.

The Spaniard had described his sister as being sheltered and protected—and that, of course, pointed to innocence. From the little Sarah knew of Señor Casals she guessed that translated into the fact that the eighteen-year-old had been utterly dominated by his sledge-hammer personality, that he expected his female relatives to stick to rigidly old-fashioned codes of behaviour, gave them no freedom whatsoever in a changing world, a world where female emancipation was the accepted thing in all levels of society, even here.

She didn’t blame the unknown girl for wanting out of such a stultifying situation. But that didn’t excuse Encarnación’s abuse of Piers’ name, if that was what had happened—and oh, how she prayed that it was. He was more than capable of making trouble for himself; he didn’t need help in that direction from a Spanish teenager who wanted to toss a red herring or two in front of her big brother’s aristocratic nose.

At last the driver flourished to an untidy halt, the ramshackle old Seat splayed across the narrow street, and Sarah scrambled out thankfully and paid him off, standing in the scorching sun for long moments after he’d reversed flamboyantly away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, trying to recover her poise after the hair-raising drive into the mountains.

Not many things gave her the jitters but bucketing around in the back of a car that had obviously long since passed its use-by date, driven by a man who took hairpin bends and horrifying gradients with as much apparent care as a swallow testing the thermals, was one of them.

Shuddering, she pulled herself together, becoming aware now of a round señora clad in voluminous black who was observing her with brightly inquisitive eyes from the doorstep of one of the neighbouring houses.

Alone in the tiny street, her father’s house looked neglected and shabby. The others were brightly painted, the window-boxes and balconies brimming with abundantly flowering plants, whereas Piers’ so-called cabaña had peeling paintwork, rusting balconies and seemed to sag, held up only by its neighbours.

But that was no surprise. When Patience had been alive she had done her utmost to keep up outward appearances, pretend that they were a normal family just like everyone else, creating a comfortable home wherever they happened to behere in Spain in the fecund months of spring or in the rented stone cottage on a remote mountain-flank in Wales which had been the nearest thing to a settled home Sarah had had during her early childhood.

Her mother, she decided, not for the first time, had been aptly named.

Her father had never cared what his surroundings were like. He actually seemed to thrive in an atmosphere of chaos and turmoil.

Bracing herself for the coming encounter with her wayward, irresponsible parent, she pushed on the bleached-wood door and found it securely locked, then hammered without any real hope on the grainy surface.

He would almost certainly be out in the surrounding countryside, sketching or painting. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She might have to wait for hours before he decided to come back.

The watching woman shuffled off her doorstep, bombarding her with a rapid carillon of Spanish, and Sarah, who had long ago forgotten the few words of the language she had picked up in her childhood, smiled tightly, shrugging her slim shoulders.

Her shirt was sticking to her in the heat. She was getting a headache, felt almost sick with thirst and almost had to add a threatened heart attack to her list of unpleasant physical inconveniences when the arrogantly confident, uncompromisingly masculine Francisco Garcia Casals said from directly behind her, ‘Having trouble, señorita?’

She twisted round, her insides clenching, her heart palpitating wildly under her breasts. How in the name of everything sacred had he got here? Followed her? All the way from London? Determined to get to Piers and beat him to a pulp?

She couldn’t ask because she couldn’t breathe. He filled all her space, stole the air from her lungs. And he was talking to her father’s neighbour, his Spanish smooth and rich, a deceptively soothing counterpoint to the elderly woman’s shrill stacatto. Deceptive, because he turned and held her eyes with the penetrating blackness of his, telling her with a twisted sardonic little smile that curled her toes, ‘Papá is away from home and not expected back for a number of weeks. But I have been reliably informed of his exact whereabouts.’ His smile as he turned to his compatriot was warm and beguiling, making him look thoroughly gorgeous, and watching the way the woman bridled, a grin splitting her face, made Sarah feel ill.

They said all men were suckers for a pretty face but the same could be said for women. If a sexy man turned on the charm they went to mush.

Not this one, though. She had far more sense. Very aware of the problems her father could be facing, she fixed the wretched man with cool blue eyes and demanded, ‘Then I insist you share the information.’

‘Do you indeed?’ One black brow drifted slowly upwards and she flinched under the impact of that slight, lopsided smile as he reminded her, ‘Did you share your information with me? I think not, señorita. I suspected the agent had said something to turn the wheels of your cold little brain. You put me to the trouble of following you.’

He examined his square-cut, perfect fingernails briefly before shooting her a fiercely derisive look. ‘I found the exercise highly tedious. Regard the withholding of my information as punishment. A just punishment, you must agree, when I tell you that the señora here described the “friend” who left with him. She was either my sister or her nonexistent twin.’

Hot temper glared in his eyes and, seared by it, by the damning information he had relayed, Sarah stepped back, her legs shaking.

And then he turned his back, the silky white fabric of his shirt falling in graceful folds from his wide shoulders, his mean and moody narrow hips and long black-clad legs moving with eloquent dismissive arrogance as he stalked away.

For a moment she simply stared. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening, that he was walking away, refusing to tell her where Piers was, leaving her to stew in this heat, expecting her tamely to return to London, knowing that her headstrong, selfish parent had indeed seduced an innocent girl away from her deeply protective family, and wait for a call from a Spanish hospital to tell her that her father was hooked up to a life-support system in Intensive Care!

She gritted her teeth until they hurt. How could he do this to her? How dared he? He was not, she decided toughly, going to get away with it!

Grabbing her overnight bag and her jacket, she hared after his tall, receding figure, and was out of breath, her hair beginning to come down, falling all over the place, damp tendrils clinging to her temples, when she finally caught up with him.

And only just in time. He was already opening the door of an intimidating scarlet Ferrari. There was only one thing for it. Since she couldn’t follow on foot she would have to prevent him leaving.

Using her last gasp of breath, she swooped over the cobbles and neatly inserted her body between him and the door, really hating him now for forcing her to behave like a hoyden, lose all her dignity, her highly valued poise.

He barely moved, only enough to accommodate her, and he didn’t even look surprised. His conceit was monumental, his self-confidence appalling, she thought disgustedly, mentally grinding her teeth as she struggled to regain enough breath to make a few succinct demands.

But her breathlessness, if anything, was getting worse. And she was horribly aware of the hot metal burning her back as she was forced against the door by the infinitely more searing heat of his body. There was a strange tingling, burning sensation where her heaving breasts were thrusting against the heated male skin beneath that sinfully expensive shirt and she wasn’t even going to think about what the pressure of those mean hips was doing to her abdomen…

‘Did you want something, señorita?’ The voice was slow and rich and smooth, and was the slight glide and gyration of that hard pelvis really accidental?

Sarah gulped, her lungs fighting for air, and at that moment the rest of her hair fell down from its normal careful restraint, slithering in a silky blonde tumble to cloak her shoulders.

Her dazed eyes narrowed furiously; she hated feeling uncontrolled, hated him for making her feel this way, looking at her as if she were somehow amusing. Amusing! And much as she wanted to get as far away from him as physically possible she couldn’t do it.

He knew where Piers was and intended to get to him and wreak his terrible vengeance. Even if he hadn’t said as much the intent was there, deep in those black Spanish eyes. Come what may, she had to be there when the two men met up, to act as intermediary, a calming influence, at the very least.

He put his hands against the gleaming bodywork of the car, trapping her, the pressure of his hard, lean body increasing to dangerous proportions, and she shot out hoarsely, ‘I demand to know—’

He cut in smoothly, ‘Save your breath. I have no intention of telling you where el diablo is hiding, or of taking you with me when I go to take my sister away from his evil influences. It is a matter between him and me. You understand what I am saying?’

His white teeth gleamed dangerously and her stomach lurched. He meant it, he really meant it, and despite the years of embarrassment and annoyance, the times when she would have preferred not to have a father at all rather than one as wild as Piers, she knew she would do anything to save him from physical damage at the hands of this avenging devil. Her father, for all his faults and failings, she realised with momentary shock, meant far more to her than she had ever supposed.

Yet what could she do? He had already stepped back, removing the shatteringly unwelcome pressure of his body, his hands on her elbows as he shifted her dispassionately out of his way.

‘Please, señor…’ Her voice emerged as a disgraceful whimper but if she had to beg she would do it. Piers wasn’t a young man and a violent encounter between him and this hard-jawed Spanish aristocrat with his damaged family pride and his lust for vengeance was beyond bearable thought.

‘Please?’ An eloquent black brow lifted in shaming derision. ‘Don’t try to appeal to my better nature. When my sister has been damaged, it doesn’t exist. And you have no bargaining power. I have the information I need and you have nothing to offer that could tempt me to reveal it.’

That sexy accent growled through his voice and she stared at him with cold blue eyes. If he thought that lightly veiled insult would upset her he was making a huge mistake. She had no intention of making a bargain, certainly not the one he had conceitedly implied. There were some limits to what she would do to save her father’s hide!

‘However—’ he dipped his head and the harsh

sunlight gleamed on the dark luxuriance of his hair ‘—as I am not without honour, and you are a guest in my country, I will not abandon you in your obvious distress. Come.’ He smiled grimly at her stupefaction, taking her baggage from her suddenly nerveless hands. ‘I will take you to a hotel where you may refresh yourself, señorita. Where you may also hire a taxi to take you back to the airport. Try to find a driver who is a little less impulsive than the one you had before,’ he added drily, opening the passenger door, stiffly formal now.

Formality suited her just fine. Much better than threats and insults, glimpses of a hot, wild temper, the way he had dominated her with his male body as if to impress upon her his vast superiority. Besides, she’d just had a wonderful idea. His reference to the driver who had brought her out had seeded it in her mind.

So she was feeling in control of the situation again as he manoeuvred the Ferrari out of the tiny colourful square, able to give grudging admiration as he negotiated the narrow streets in the shadow of the church of San Pedro, down to the lower reaches of the ancient town that straddled a towering rocky spur, finally parking in front of an imposing hotel, the potent scarlet car a shriek of affluence and power amid the humble waiting taxis.

She exited before he had time to come round to help her, pleased to note that her legs had stopped shaking, and her features were commendably serene as the Spaniard took her belongings in one hand and her elbow in the other and marched her up the broad, sweeping marble steps and into the foyer.

Her idea might not work, of course, for all kinds of reasons. But she would give it her best shot. And hopefully he would soon learn that he was not the only one who made things happen, took the prevailing circumstances and forced them to his will!