The Spaniard's Woman

Trouble was, her head was a total muddle when he was around.

He took something from the tray and walked towards her with the indolent grace that made her toes curl in her scuffed old plimsolls.

‘For you.’ Bending slightly from the waist, one of his hands uncurled her bunched together fist while the other deposited a single, perfect white camellia, slightly tinged with pale lemon colour at the ruffled centre, in the palm of her small hand.

A corner of his mouth curled wryly. ‘I stole it from Marcus’s greenhouse—though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Not much of a birthday gift, ciertamente, but perhaps it will make you smile?’

Sebastian straightened abruptly. Madre di Dio! She would think he was shooting a line! The impulse that had sent him to cut that bloom now seemed ridiculous.

Until he had what he’d unconsciously known he’d been missing. That smile. And then he knew that the impulse hadn’t been ridiculous at all.

Her eyes were on the blossom she held cupped in the curve of her hands, thick sweeping lashes hiding her expression, her silky blonde hair falling forward, a stray tendril kissing the petal-soft skin of her cheek. And then it began. A slight trembling of those luscious lips, an upward curve and then that radiant, brilliant smile her fathomless eyes winging towards his, deepest purest blue sparkling with dancing lights.

‘It’s perfect,’ she breathed, and then, propelled by something far stronger than his formidable will, he bent towards her again, dipped his dark head, and kissed her.

CHAPTER THREE

ROSIE’S enticing lips were even softer and sweeter than he could have imagined they would be in his wildest dreams. Cool and still for that first split second—a challenge to his male ego. Then warm, warmer, exploding into an earth-shattering response.

As Sebastian’s body leapt with a charge of forceful passion he felt an answering deep shudder of pleasure pulse through her slight frame and he placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her, or himself—he wasn’t sure which—as a wave of atavistic male lust gripped and tightened every muscle in his own body.

As her lips parted, welcoming his entry, his kiss deepened and his mindless hands slid down to find her breasts. And Dio mio! they were so very beautiful. Small, pertly rounded, peaking nipples, blatantly aroused—perfect—

Her husky mew of drowning pleasure finally penetrated the red mist of lust that had fogged his brain. He went still, turned to stone as her sweet mouth clung, her small hands rising, fingers tangling in his hair, inviting, tormenting.

He dragged in a harsh breath. What in the name of all that was sacred did he think he was doing?

With a ragged inner groan for his own crass stupidity, he jerked upright, away from her, away from a deeper temptation than he had ever known, struggling to regain some semblance of his shattered self-control.

His heart crashing around against his ribs, he staunchly ignored the sudden, bewildered, lost look in her wide eyes, and turned away to hide the evidence of his aching sex.

‘Wine,’ he said, his voice roughened and raw. Dio! It had been a near disaster. A few more seconds and he’d have been making wild love to her right there on the sofa, and she would have been a push-over. Little Rosie Lambert deserved better than that!

His hand shook as he poured wine into two glasses. For the first time in his life he despised himself. It was a vile sensation! He’d been without a woman for so long he was turning into an animal!

Alcohol wasn’t the best idea in the world, not in his inflamed state. But if he removed himself from her presence, as common sense dictated he should, she would know that what had happened back there had affected him catastrophically.

He had to act as though that kiss hadn’t meant a thing to either of them. He wouldn’t even apologise and suggest it was best forgotten. Just act as though it had been neither here nor there. Transmit the message that it had been just one of those things, not worth a mention.

Rosie was in shock. Her body was threatening to go up in flames. Sensations she hadn’t known existed were bombarding her so that she didn’t know whether she was on her head or her heels.

Why had he kissed her?

Why had he stopped?

Didn’t he know that she hadn’t wanted him to stop?

That kiss had been magic, heaven and excitingly scary all rolled into one and she’d wanted it to happen ever since she’d first clapped eyes on him! Didn’t he know that?

Of course he did, the cool voice of rapidly returning sanity tartly informed her. He’d only meant to give her a brotherly birthday peck.

Because he’d been sorry for her?

And what had she done? Practically eaten him alive, begging for something he would never want to give! Then, to make matters even worse, his hands had sort of slipped down off her shoulders and come into contact with breasts that were still straining avidly against her top.

And while she’d gone all delirious, and so much out of her head she would have done anything he wanted her to do, he had jumped away just as if he’d had a very nasty shock and she’d never felt so humiliated and ridiculous in the whole of her life!

A solitary tear slipped down the side of her face and dripped on to the mangled petals of the camellia she’d scrunched up in an excess of sexual excitement. She scrubbed her damp cheek with the back of her hand and tried to smooth out the tattered blossom. She would probably press it and keep it for ever; she was daft enough, she thought despairingly.

Sebastian had turned. He held two glasses of wine. He looked as cool as a cucumber, she noted numbly. She couldn’t bear it if he joked about her shameless behaviour or looked wary, as if he thought she was slightly insane and might jump on him and start tearing his clothes off!

But his gorgeous features were bland—just a small polite smile playing around the sexy mouth that had so recently played havoc with every last one of her senses. He handed her a glass and took his own to the other end of the sofa and angled himself into the corner, his endless legs outstretched, casually crossed at the ankles, as far away from her as he could get without looking as if he were trying to avoid contact.

‘You could have invited family or friends over this evening to help you celebrate your birthday, Rosie,’ he remarked carefully, hoping his voice didn’t give his dark thoughts away, give her the least intimation that he burned to kiss her again, run his hands through that tangled silky hair, explore every delicious inch of her lovely body, possess her.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to blank the ache of sex from his mind and body, and said as levelly as he could manage, ‘You’re entitled to have visitors at any time when you’re not working; I hope you know that. Neither Madge nor I would want you to feel imprisoned while you’re working here.’

Relief shuddered through Rosie. Thank heavens he wasn’t going to mention her awful behaviour. He was back in kind-employer mode and she couldn’t regret that, not if she wanted to have some pride left.

So she cleared her throat and floundered for the cool part she knew she was expected to play. ‘Thank you. But I don’t have anyone to invite.’ And could have bitten her tongue out when she saw his dark brows peak in what looked embarrassingly like sympathy. She had only been telling the truth, but how humiliating if he thought she was angling for his pity!

For something to do—something that didn’t involve scurrying up to her room to hide her head under the pillow—she took a healthy gulp of the wine in her glass. It wasn’t the cheap stuff, like the bottles she and Mum had shared on their birthdays because they couldn’t afford anything halfway decent. It slipped down her throat like the softest of dark velvet.

Sebastian expelled his breath slowly. ‘No one? Forgive me—Madge mentioned that you’d recently lost your mother—but what about your father, brothers, sisters?’

Skirting around the touchy subject of her father, Rosie said, ‘No siblings. There was only ever Mum and me.’ And took another long swallow of wine to disguise the sudden wobbling of her mouth.

Pretending to be cool and sophisticated was fine when it came to acting as if that kiss had been nothing special, merely the sort of thing that adults indulged in when there was nothing better to do. It was certainly salvaging her pride, but, my, was it difficult.

Leaning forward, his untouched glass of wine held loosely between his hands, Sebastian asked, ‘What about your boyfriend?’ and wondered why he had phrased the question so harshly. Why he’d phrased it at all, come to that.

It was none of his business but he’d bet his life on her having a string of them. Despite her ingenuous big blue eyes, the aura of vulnerability that had previously made his under-used protective genes work overtime, she was no novice when it came to sex. She’d been well and truly turned on a short while ago, more than willing.

He could have taken her just like that!

‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ Rosie lowered her eyes. His were glittering at her, as if she’d done something wrong. But he was only trying to make conversation and being nice about her having visitors. So why was she feeling so jumpy and on edge when it was patently obvious by now that he was being a gentleman and wasn’t going to shame her by mentioning the way she’d kissed him as if she were a sex-mad trollop?

Meaning she was between men? Sebastian’s mouth tightened. He wouldn’t ask. It wasn’t of the slightest importance. She was blushing again, he noted, her long thick lashes veiling her eyes, her full lips slightly parted. Kissable.

‘You mean you haven’t a man in your life at the moment?’ He heard the words slip out and despaired of himself. Why couldn’t he leave the subject alone? He was behaving totally out of character and didn’t know why.

Rosie drained the last of her wine in sheer desperation. Why the inquisition? He was looking incredibly macho and domineering right now, his powerfully virile body really tense. And why didn’t he just keep quiet and so give her the opportunity to say goodnight, thanks for the wine, and take herself off to her room?

He couldn’t be interested in the state of her love life. Could he? No, of course not.

If this was a soppy romantic film he would be asking because he wanted to know if the coast was clear for him to start up a relationship with her. But real life wasn’t like that and she wasn’t daft enough to think it was. Wealthy, handsome, hard-headed businessmen didn’t have relationships with nobodies.

Metaphorically planting her feet firmly back on the ground, she told herself that as he was standing in for her absent employer he would naturally want to vet her thoroughly.