The Spaniard's Summer Seduction: Under the Spaniard's Lock and Key / The Secret Spanish Love-Child / Surrender to Her Spanish Husband

She was the easiest woman to please he had ever met and by far the most beautiful.

Would she be equally appreciative in bed?

The sybaritic image of her naked body beneath him, her dark hair spread out on a pillow, flashed into his head. Struggling to banish the erotic sequence of images that followed it, he shut his eyes, disconcerted by the strength of the desire that gripped him.

It seemed the moment to remind himself that she was not his type at all.

Luscious, obviously, but there was an aura of wide-eyed innocence about her that under normal circumstances he would have steered well clear of.

He had a low boredom threshold and virtue was, in his experience, boring. It was admittedly not boredom that had him in a constant state of painful arousal, but sexual hunger once quenched did not have a long shelf life. He gave a jaundiced smile; if anyone knew that it was him.

Maybe, he mused, it was genetic. His father’s numerous mistresses had never lasted long—pride in his family name had not extended to Felipe Castenadas depriving himself of female companionship after Rafael’s mother’s departure.

There had been many women and his father had spoken about them with a lack of respect behind their backs and sometimes to their faces that had never sat easily with Rafael as a boy.

Rafael had been in his early teens when he had gone to leave the room in disgust during the middle of one of his father’s coarse diatribes about his mistress of the moment.

His father had stood up and blocked the door. Rafael could still recall the smell of alcohol on his breath. ‘You know what your problem is, boy, you romanticise women,’ he had sneered. ‘Don’t shake your head, boy, I’m doing you a favour. Do you want a woman to make a fool of you? At heart they are all like your mother, basically whor—’

The crude sentence had never been completed. Felipe had met his son’s eyes—realising for the first time perhaps that he had to tilt his head to do so—and what he had seen there had made him pale.

He had moved away from the door maintaining an illusion of macho bluster, but clearly shaken. It had been a turning point. He had never pushed Rafael in the same way, or mentioned his mother again.

In other respects nothing had changed. It wasn’t just female companionship his father had not deprived himself of—Felipe Castenadas had lived a lavish lifestyle even when he couldn’t afford it. Rafael had been forced to watch silently as his father sold off the estate he’d claimed to love piece by piece to pay for his indulgences, all the time silently vowing to one day restore it.

He had done so now and gained in the process the respect and gratitude of the people on the estate. Though his father would never have accepted an invite to a party like this, Rafael did so regularly, and he frequently enjoyed these simple occasions more than the lavish social events he was expected to attend.

He had never brought anyone along before so he could almost see the speculation in his tenants’ faces as they looked at his companion. It was annoying but the speculation would die away.

He studied her through his lashes as she smiled. The man who did end up with her would have to share her—the woman loved the whole world, and paella.

He watched as her smile had a predictable effect on a group of young men who stood a few feet away, staring. He could almost smell the testosterone from here; she remained cheerfully oblivious to the effect it had on them.

Rafael’s clenched teeth were starting to ache.

If that smile had turned out to conceal a mean and spiteful agenda he might not be feeling this uncharacteristic guilt.

He had nothing to feel guilty about.

So why do you feel the need to remind yourself of that so frequently?

‘You are not counting carbs, then?’

The sardonic observation made Maggie lift her chin. ‘Sorry if that offends you,’ she said, sounding anything but.

‘It was not a criticism.’

Almost certain that, despite this reassurance, it was exactly that, Maggie paused, her fork in the air. The furrow between her brows deepened as she studied his dark face. His entire attitude since they had arrived had been offhand and she was getting the impression he had regretted bringing her.

She ought to be regretting it too, but the hormonal rush she got every time she looked at him had an addictive quality. Then there was the smell of his skin and the way he. She inhaled deep, closing down this chain of thought, which could, if left unchecked, go on for a long time—there was a lot about him she found fascinating!

He might be her hormonal Achilles’ heel, but she was not about to apologise for liking food. She had been there, done that before.

‘I tried dieting.’ Simon had bought her a number of very useful books on the subject of healthy eating. ‘It made me cranky and I almost fainted running for the bus.’

A look of astonishment crossed his face. ‘Why would you diet?’ His eyes dropped, sliding appreciatively over her lush curves; by the time he made the return journey to her face Maggie’s cheeks were burning and her heart was slamming hard against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She was trapped, trapped by the sheer strength of the sexual awareness that had invaded every cell of her body.

‘I know I could do with losing my hips and my bottom is a bit…’

A hoarse rattling sound emerged from Rafael’s throat. ‘You have a magnificent body.’

Heat flashed through her body as their eyes meshed, the sweet sharp ache between her legs made Maggie shift uncomfortably and feel acutely embarrassed—but mingled with the embarrassment was a strong element of dizzy excitement.

‘Clothes hide a multitude of sins,’ she joked, trying to lower the sexual temperature, she was mortified by the thought of anyone listening in to this conversation.

‘It depends on your definition of sin.’ His slurred drawl made her shiver. ‘Would you like to compare notes?’

Maggie swallowed, the fork slipping from her nerveless fingers. His smoky eyes were eating her up.

‘I would really like to know what sinful thoughts are going through that beautiful head right now.’ His finger trailed down her cheek.

Maggie gasped and pulled back breaking the spell that held her in sexual thrall. ‘I’d really like to dance.’

Rafael laughed at the change of subject and thought I would like to see what those clothes are hiding. ‘This is not my sort of music.’

‘Your foot was tapping.’ Perhaps it was just her he didn’t want to dance with?

He heaved a sigh, there was time to ring Angelina and warn her later.

And why should he pass up the opportunity to legitimately hold that soft warm body next to his own?

It looked as if he was not the only person to have this idea.

Recognising the young man who, egged on by shouts from his friends lining the makeshift bar, was approaching, Rafael acknowledged him. ‘Enrique.’

The friends, who clearly had not really thought their friend this bold, fell silent.

Maggie watched as the two men spoke; the young man with the bold eyes and macho swagger kept flashing her smouldering looks that made her want to laugh. Despite the physical dissimilarities—he was dark and not very tall; Sam and Ben were tall and fair—he reminded her of her brothers.

When Rafael showed any inclination to smoulder in her direction she felt no desire to smile—in fact her reaction was worryingly close to throwing herself on the floor and screaming, Take me!

There had to be a logical reason for her bizarre behaviour. That fish last night had tasted funny…?

‘Enrique wants to know if you’d like to dance.’

‘And you don’t mind?’