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

If he found the request odd he did not show it, and when Maggie struggled to follow his pronunciation of the castillo he produced a notepad and pen from his breast pocket and wrote it down for her.

After her concern that someone might be worried, it appeared no one had noticed her absence! Maggie explained to the person at the other end that she would need a taxi to pick her up. When she gave the address, spelling it out to avoid any mistakes, there was a loud intake of breath the other end, but the hotel agreed it would be no problem.

‘Oh, and how much would it be likely to cost?’

The reply to her afterthought took her breath away. ‘You’re joking.’

The voice the other end assured her that he was not.

Knowing that there was no way her tight holiday budget would run to that sort of money, Maggie thanked him for his trouble but explained that she’d changed her mind.

With a sigh she hung up and sat down beside the dog.

‘So what,’ she asked, burying her face in his fur, ‘do we do now?’

She was still no nearer an answer when fifteen minutes later Rafael walked in.

He made no sound. It was the prickle on the back of her neck that made Maggie turn her head.

She stopped stroking the dog’s ears.

‘How long have you been standing there?’ Nervous tension made her voice sharp.

He had changed and presumably showered, his wet hair was slicked back and he was wearing dark jeans and a white open-necked shirt with no tears. He could have stepped right out of a glossy page advertising…well, actually, advertising anything, because when they said that sex sold they were not wrong.

And every inch of his tall, lean, muscle-packed frame oozed sex, every hollow and plane of his dark face. Maggie’s eyes drifted from the full curve of his sensual upper lip to his hooded glittering gaze and her anxiety levels went off the scale.

She licked her lips nervously and drew her knees up to her chin.

‘Not long.’ He clicked his fingers and the dog lifted his head, his tail thumping loudly against Maggie’s legs.

Rafael said something in Spanish and the dog immediately jumped off the sofa and, tail still wagging, went and sat by his side.

‘He knows he is not allowed on there, but he likes to push the boundaries…and see how far he can go.’

‘Then you click your fingers and bring him to heel.’ He probably used the same method with his women, she thought sourly.

And I bet it works. Imagining the sort of women a man who looked like him and lived in a place like this normally shared his bed with did not improve her mood.

Not that she had any intention of sharing his bed, even if she was invited, which now seemed doubtful. No, her loss of sanity had only been temporary she was now fully in control.

You keep telling yourself that, Maggie.

She was no longer amazed that his initial interest had waned, but she was amazed that he had ever been interested in her in the first place. She had seen the sort of woman she was willing to bet he dated, polished and elegant, not a hair out of place, not a nail chipped and not an extra inch anywhere on her svelte silhouette to ruin the line of her designer clothes.

‘A reward helps,’ he said as the dog took a treat from his fingers before trotting over to the fire and flopping down. ‘It is sometimes hard to work out who has trained who,’ he remarked ruefully.

Maggie, who couldn’t imagine anyone calling him domesticated, shrugged and swept her hair across one shoulder, thinking if he resembled any animal it was a wolf.

‘Sorry about your plans.’ He walked across to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle and two glasses. ‘Tonight did not go as either of us anticipated.’

She laughed. ‘I think you could call that the understatement of the century.’ And she was betting things not going to plan was not something that happened to him often.

He didn’t just have the looks and the animal magnetism, Rafael was also clearly a rich, powerful man, used to getting what he wanted.

Had he really wanted her…?

She breathed through the illicit thrill that raced along her nerve endings at the startling thought. The point was he was used to seeing something and getting it, and equally quickly losing interest. A car, a painting or a woman, and things went smoothly for him because people were there to make sure they went smoothly.

She was sure he had people whose sole purpose in life was to shield him from the unsightly.

Under normal circumstances their paths would never have crossed, but they had and he had thought, Why not.? Had he calculated she was worth the effort of a drive into the country, but when the effort had involved dust, tears and messy hair he had begun to regret his eccentric choice?

She tugged at the medallion that hung between her breasts and watched as he poured some amber liquid into the bottom of both glasses. ‘I don’t want a drink.’

He shrugged and lifted a glass to his lips. ‘Well, I do.’ He took the place she had vacated and looked at her over the rim of his glass; his ludicrously long, dark, spiky lashes cast a shadow along his razor-sharp cheekbones.

‘Well we’ve both gone off the idea of a one-night stand.’ She laughed and tried to act as though this were something that happened to her every day of the week. ‘So where do I sleep? I’m assuming I can cadge a lift back tomorrow morning?’

She was about as convincing as silicone implants. ‘You’ve never had a one-night stand, have you?’

Maggie considered lying, but decided it was doubtful she could pull it off. ‘Not as such.’ she conceded reluctantly.

A muscle beside his mouth clenched. ‘But you came with me. What were you thinking of?’

Outrage with no trace of irony…talk about double standards! ‘You invited me, but let me guess—it’s not the same thing. God, I haven’t actually been missing anything, have I? Simon probably did me a favour.’ Now there was a novel thought. ‘Men are a total disappointment!’ she concluded heavily.

Rafael, struggling to follow the angry diatribe, picked up on one word. ‘Who is Simon?’

He took a swallow of the brandy that appeared to have no effect on him, but Maggie, conscious that she was being uncharacteristically indiscreet, wondered if the effect could be passed on to her like a sympathetic pregnancy.

She was a sympathetic drunk; the frivolous imagery made her smile.

‘Simon is my…was my fiancé.’

A look of utter astonishment crossed his face. ‘You were engaged?’

Maggie lifted her chin. ‘Why shouldn’t I be engaged?’ she demanded in a dangerous voice. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ she asked, banging her chest. ‘Just what’s wrong with me?’ Her voice stalled on a quivering note of self pity.

‘Nothing is wrong with you.’

Maggie glared at his rigid blank face and snarled, ‘Once more with feeling! I actually prefer you when you’re incredibly rude. Mouthing polite platitudes you clearly don’t believe. It’s just so not you!’

‘I am not rude.’

The denial made Maggie roll her eyes. ‘No, you probably call it not caring what people think. Well, newsflash, buster, it’s the same thing!’ she informed him, tacking on seamlessly, ‘I think I will have that drink.’ Buster…? She really had to cut down on her intake of gangster movies.

‘Is that such a good idea?’ he asked, wondering about the man who had let her go. Clearly not very bright, that went without saying, but what had attracted Maggie to this loser and did he still have all his limbs intact?