Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About The Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

“Keeping me here isn’t a joke.”

“I didn’t say it was.” That sexy mouth curled as Francisco joined Sarah on the sofa.

“It could be weeks before my father gets your message. And there’s no guarantee he’ll respond.” He really was much too close!

“A man not respond to his daughter’s plight?” He wasn’t taking her seriously. He moved closer and with a groan of helplessness she slithered toward him, winding her arms around his neck, his mouth so close to hers she could feel the passionate heat of it and savor the kiss that surely had to come…

DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic, and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic lifestyle, ever since she learned to read and write Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.

Hostage of Passion

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘SOMEONE to see you, Sarah.’ Jenny poked her glossy brown head round the inner office door, her pretty face flushed. ‘He doesn’t have an appointment and he wouldn’t give his name.’ Her brown eyes turned into saucers. ‘I explained that the agency was closed right now and offered to arrange an interview with you tomorrow morning— but he refuses to leave until he’s seen you.’

Sarah pushed the last file into the steel cabinet and locked it, a tiny frown on her smooth wide brow as she registered her deputy’s agitation. She selected her permanent staff very carefully, paying as much attention to temperament as ability because for the last four years her life had been dedicated to making her secretarial and business agency utterly professional, efficient and highly respected, not only in the North London suburb where it was located but throughout the capital.

Jenny Fletcher had been chosen for her pleasant personality and her calm unflappability but she was unaccountably acting as if she had as much professionalism as a giddy teenager.

Sarah sighed and glanced at her watch. Business had closed for the day twenty minutes ago and she had a dinner date. Nevertheless, even though Scott Secretarial Services wasn’t short of clients it went against her policy to turn prospective business away.

‘Show him in; I can give him ten minutes,’ she instructed, straightening the jacket of her sage-green linen suit as she placed herself neatly on the chair behind her desk, sliding the large leather-bound diary towards her, one fine brow arching quizzically as Jenny gushed breathily,

‘I’ll sit in, shall I? Take details of his needs.’

Her last word degenerated to an expressive giggle and Sarah’s aquamarine eyes went frosty, her voice repressive as she stated, ‘That won’t be necessary. You may as well go home. I’ll lock up.’ She wondered again what had got into her normally controlled and perfectly sober assistant and, with deep resignation, decided she knew the answer to that particular question when the most ferociously handsome male she had ever encountered shouldered arrogantly into the room.

Despite the elegantly styled dark business suit there was a raw sexuality, an aura of brooding power about the stranger that few women would be immune to and, in his mid-thirties, she guessed, he would be all too well aware of it. And Jenny, although professional to her fingertips, could be partly excused because she wouldn’t have the inbuilt immunity to such primary masculine magnetism that came completely naturally to her boss.

Sarah gestured to the seat on the opposite side of the desk, gave her usual cool smile and didn’t bother to wonder why it felt so forced on this occasion and wasn’t surprised when she registered that his voice was dark and smoky, the seductive accent betraying his Spanish birth, because he was far too exotic to be an ordinary, run-of-the-mill English businessman.

What did surprise her was the edge of accusation that threaded through his voice, and his use of the name she had discarded years ago as being utterly unsuitable to her image of herself.

‘Salome Bouverie-Scott.’

It wasn’t a query but a brief hint of a question did gleam in the depths of those black Spanish eyes and when she dipped her ash-blonde head in reluctant agreement the delicate skin on her fine cheekbones was stained pink with something close to embarrassment.

Perplexity followed as she watched his sensual mouth straighten with what looked like distaste because she hadn’t used that name for years. Sally, the natural diminutive of the hatefully flamboyant Salome, had been discarded in late adolescence as sounding too slapdash, too frivolous. And as Sally was also the accepted diminutive of Sarah she had plumped for that, feeling it had far more authority, dropping the Bouverie part of her name because who needed it?

Somehow he had got hold of the names she had been blessed with at birth. But although it was puzzling it wasn’t really important. Features serene again, she gestured once more to the vacant chair but his obdurate stance just inside the door didn’t alter so she cast a brief glance at her wristwatch, bit back a sigh and asked calmly, ‘How may I help you?’

Black eyes impaled her and his head was held arrogantly high above the impressive width of his shoulders, and there was something definitely intimidating about his penetrating, unwavering gaze. It made her suddenly wish she’d asked Jenny to stay.

But that was plain ridiculous. Maybe his command of the English language wasn’t so hot and he was searching for words. But time was passing. She would be late for her date. Nigel hated unpunctuality and, come to that, so did she.

Stifling the impulse to shoot another glance at her watch, she gave the stranger a cool, encouraging smile and he spoke then, the clipped words at strange variance with the throaty, almost hoarse dark velvet voice, as if he was trying hard to contain some kind of elemental, nameless emotion.

‘You may help me by telling me where to find Piers Bouverie-Scott.’ Strong, blue-shadowed jaw out-thrust, the sensual lower lip pugnacious, he regarded her down the length of his arrogantly aquiline nose, his hands planted on his non-existent hips now, parting the perfection of his tailored jacket to reveal a waistcoat that moulded his upper body with understated sartorial elegance.

Sarah’s initial heated reaction was that he had wasted her precious time. Her second was to control her annoyance, rise fluidly to her feet, close the leather-bound diary and reach for her handbag, extracting the keys.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there, Mr—Señor…?’ She stopped, her cool smile cut off as an oblong of white pasteboard flipped through the air, landing on the polished surface of the desk. Not thinking, she picked it up. She had no interest in his name, but found her eyes skimming the black letters all the same. Francisco Garcia Casals. ‘I have no idea where my father is, Señor Casals.’

When had she ever had more than a vague notion of where her remaining parent might be? Wherever he was, he was probably creating a ruckus and she’d eventually have the unenviable chore of reading all about it in the Press. The seamier tabloids always had a field day when Piers went on the rampage.

‘My name means nothing?’ He sounded as if he didn’t belive her. ‘Or Encarnación?’

‘Should it do?’

Aquamarine eyes gathered a frown. He was still planted in front of the door, blocking the way. She wondered how many tons of dynamite it would take to shift him and then shuddered because he began to move towards her, long, lean legs narrowly clothed, slim hips barely moving at all. She thought, He walks like a matador, then swiftly told herself not to be so all-fired silly because she had never seen a matador in the whole of her twenty-eight years and for all she knew they might have to be transported in a wheelbarrow on account of wounds collected in painful places.

Then she heard herself gasp because, for one thing, it was utterly out of character for her to indulge in such juvenile flights of stupidity and, for another, he was looming over her now and for the first time in her adult life she had the strangest feeling that she wasn’t in control of the situation.

‘Then you would be wise to make it your business to find out because until I am satisfied my name and that of my sister will mean a very great deal to you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Was that her voice? That thready whisper? And ‘looming’ wasn’t the word. His proximity was swamping her, engulfing her in waves of confusion. Only because he was talking in riddles, she assured herself stoically. Why should his name mean anything to her—let alone his sister’s— Encarnación?

The tip of her neat nose was on a level with his top waistcoat button. She took a rapid step backwards but sharp contact with the top of her desk reminded her that she didn’t back down for anyone. She squared her shoulders and informed him sternly, ‘Come to the point, Señor Casals, if there is one. I’m already running late.’

His wide shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. ‘All the more reason for you to tell me what I want to know. Tell me where your father is, and you’re free to go.’

Her hackles rose with painful immediacy. He was talking as if she were his prisoner, as if she had no choices. Unease prickled her spine but she resolutely ignored it and answered precisely, ‘You can’t have heard me. I have no idea where Piers is at the moment. I had a card from him at Christmas and that was the last I heard. It was postmarked Edinburgh, but that’s no help because he often makes a point of being in Scotland over Hogmanay.’

She didn’t add that he liked the company of a certain Scottish widow who stroked his massive ego, fed all his voracious appetites and sent him lovingly on his way to pastures new a happy man. Annie Kelp had been an artist’s model in her heyday, before her Junoesque figure had become richly rotund, and entertaining the great Piers Bouverie-Scott took her back to the wild bohemian days of her young womanhood.

‘He has no fixed abode?’ The Spaniard made it sound like a crime and Sarah was almost in sympathy with him. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as Piers would have had it—there were plenty of Annie Kelps scattered around the globe, women who were only too happy to offer succour to the supremely talented, wildly rumbustious artist.

Piers never let a mistress go; he collected them— to Sarah’s deep mortification—as other men might collect rare postage stamps and he loved the female sex far too much to let them go. Once they were hooked they were well and truly hooked. Sarah couldn’t understand it. Didn’t any of them know they were on a hiding to nothing, being used? Or didn’t they care? Was each and every one of them happy to be taken advantage of provided she had the opportunity to enjoy the exhilaration of his company every now and then?

She sighed, shaking her head in answer to his question, then gathered her thoughts.

‘Why do you want to find him?’ It couldn’t be money. Piers, for all his manifold faults, paid his bills. People fought to acquire his latest paintings. He could charge what he liked, and did. He probably had no idea how wealthy he was. His agent, Miles Hunter, handled all his financial affairs.

Nevertheless, Sarah knew instinctively that whatever it was this man wanted it wasn’t to shake her father by the hand, congratulate him on his genius, beg him to take a commission. And, even though her wayward parent had been a source of continual and often excruciating embarrassment for as long as she could clearly remember, she would never disclose his whereabouts—even if she knew them—to anyone who might harm him.

‘You are telling me you do not know, cannot make an educated guess?’ Cynical disbelief stared out of his eyes. ‘You cannot be unaware of your father’s reputation. It is legendary.’ His dignity at this moment was chilling and Sarah quickly averted her eyes.

She was certainly no stranger to her father’s reputation. But it was something she tried to forget. His crazy nomadic lifestyle, the months of hard work when nobody knew where he had hidden himself away, followed by wild parties, his affairs—endless affairs—and his explosive temperament earned far more comments in the tabloids than his creative genius.

But surely her father couldn’t have stolen this man’s wife or lover? She couldn’t imagine any female in her right mind preferring the older man, even if bombarded by the vital life force that seemed to trap most people who came into contact with him, over this undeniably spectacular specimen of Spanish manhood.

Realising she was fiddling with the office keys, tossing them from one hand to the other, she stopped herself at once. She never fidgeted, and certainly wasn’t about to start now.

‘Suppose you tell me,’ she uttered coldly. ‘I really don’t have time to play guessing games.’

He gave her a look that was sheer enmity and his voice was raw with disgust as he told her, ‘Your father seduced my sister. He has taken her away with him. Encarnación is barely eighteen years old. Her life was sheltered, protected, until that demonio spoiled her!’ His black eyes blazed, his passionate mouth pulled back against his dazzlingly white teeth. His fury filled the room.

Sarah groped for the chair and sat down quickly. If what he claimed was true, then he had every right to be angry. But surely he had to be mistaken? Piers had dozens of affairs, some of which had been going on for years, but never, as far as she knew, with young inexperienced girls. His tastes ran to the more mature type, women who would mother him, smother him with love, asking for little in return except the glow of his reflected glory, basking in it for a little while until he roamed away again.

‘Are you sure of your facts, Señor Casals?’ She did her best to keep her voice perfectly level and incisive and heard the edge of anxiety creep in with alarm. One of them had to stay calm, and by the sizzling fury that came her way it wasn’t going to be him.

He disdained to answer, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and slapping it down on the desk, glaring at her from hooded eyes as if daring her to argue.

Straightening her spine, she took the paper in cool white fingers. Its crumpled state told her it had been read and reread many times, but nothing more, although her father’s name leapt from the page.

She didn’t look at him. ‘I don’t read Spanish, señor, she said, and watched strongly lean olivetoned fingers snatch it back.

‘Por Dios!’ he growled, as if her lack had snapped what little patience he had. ‘It says, and I quote, “Do not try to find me. I have met someone who really cares about me. Where he is, I will go. His name is Piers Bouverie-Scott and that alone will tell you all you need to know.”’ He thrust the note back into his pocket, his skin tight with disgust. ‘As your father’s name is synonymous with wild orgies, reckless philandering and mistresses by the cartload, I am in no doubt as to what has happened to Encarnación. This note spells it out, if any further proof was needed.’ His sensual mouth thinned ominously. ‘When I find him, I will kill him!’

‘Don’t you think that’s rather extreme?’ Sarah said frigidly. She felt cold all over, through and through, but she recognised an uncontrolled temperament when she came up against it. She had had enough experience of handling Piers’ volatile, creative personality in the past to know that the cold voice of reason was the only weapon. ‘I’d like to help you,’ she went on firmly, not letting him know how sick and cold she felt inside. ‘But I truly don’t know where he is.’ She pulled the telephone towards her. ‘However, his agent might.’ Distasteful circumstances called for some sort of action.

‘Miles Hunter? Do you think I haven’t already contacted him—do you think I am loco?’ He sent her a look of such heated derision that the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She wriggled uncomfortably in her chair as he pushed his extravagantly handsome face close to hers, his throaty voice bubbling over with scorn as he uttered, ‘I don’t sit around waiting for things to happen, I make them happen, señorita. I have made it my business to track down anyone who might know where el diablo is—his agent, the owner of the gallery where he habitually shows his new work, the people who supply his materials, all to no avail. Like the devil, he has disappeared in a puff of purple smoke…

‘So finally I have come to you. You, the last slender hope. Few daughters would knowingly deliver a father into the hands of a man who was out for his blood. But one look at you, with your big icy eyes, gave me the hope that you were cold enough not to care! So by all means phone,’ He pushed the receiver into her hands. ‘Ask Hunter. He might tell you, where he wouldn’t tell a stranger. Do it!’ he ordered as she stared at him with shocked blue eyes.

Biting her lip, she dialled Miles Hunter’s number, her fingers disgracefully unsteady. It was generally understood that first impressions were often the truest. Did this big, vital man really believe she was icy, cold enough to betray her nearest relative because she didn’t have it in her to care?

It didn’t matter what he thought, she told herself as she waited for her call to be answered, drumming the fingers of her right hand on the top of the desk. Her decision to call the agent, to try, in a small way, to help the Spaniard, had been instinctive. She was sure there had been a mistake, a crossing of wires. Reprobate though he was, Piers wouldn’t set out to seduce an innocent young girl, and she could sympathise with Señor Casals’ concern, his need to locate his run-away sister.

But that letter had been damning… Her arched brows knotted then eased again as Miles Hunter answered, and after a few pleasantries she asked, as coolly as she could, ‘Do you know where I could contact Piers? I haven’t heard from him since Christmas. Four months is a long time, even for him.’ In her state of heightened awareness, she felt the Spaniard’s black eyes boring into the back of her head, monitoring every word she said, and instinctively held the receiver closer to her ear. If, by a stroke of good fortune, Miles knew and divulged her father’s whereabouts, she had no intention of allowing the looming, murderous brute to overhear it, get to him before she could.

‘You’re the second person to ask today,’ Miles confessed, and she could hear the grin in his voice as he told her, ‘This arrogant Spanish Don practically threatened me with the Inquisition. Obviously, I acted dumb. I don’t know what your dear daddy’s been up to this time—and don’t really want to—but from the prolonged silence I’d hazard a guess that he’s got his head down, working hard. In Spain, more than likely,’

‘Well, I’m so sorry to have bothered you,’ Sarah said, her voice coolly apologetic. ‘If he does get in touch, let me know, would you, please?’ Then she changed the subject, asking about his wife and family, allowing herself time to grab back her control.

She really should have made the connection herself. Encarnación was Spanish, her removal from her family home—wherever—obviously sudden. So it was highly unlikely that Piers would have met her in any other country but Spain. And therefore she knew exactly where to look!

When the spurt of elation had died down sufficiently she said her farewells and replaced the receiver, turning in her chair, her cool eyes fixed on a point beyond those intimidating shoulders, her voice clipped but not antagonistically so as she stated, ‘As you’ve probably gathered, Miles doesn’t have a clue either,’ and mentally crossed her fingers, hoping he hadn’t picked anything out from the agent’s conversation. Expecting a renewed outburst of ferocity, she risked a direct look, but he was leaning against the filing cabinet, his arms crossed over his chest, and, far from snapping, the black eyes were almost slumbrous, their expression hidden by lowered olivetoned lids and sweepingly thick, lustrous black lashes.

Then, almost lazily, he levered himself upright and, with an almost imperceptible shrug, gave her, ‘Then there is nothing left but to thank you for your time, señorita,’ and sketched a bow of such courteous gravity that she was left speechless, staring at the space he had occupied for several long seconds after he had walked out of the office.

Somehow, strangely, she felt incomplete, as if his going had left something dangling, unresolved, oddly regretted. Which was, of course, she rebuked herself, utter nonsense. She had fully expected him to continue to harass and harangue her, had psyched herself up to deal with it—only to watch him capitulate gracefully, accept that she could tell him nothing, do no more. Which left all that adrenalin with nowhere to go.

And prodded her into immediate action.

She hadn’t expected Francisco Garcia Casals to give up quite so easily. But as he had she took advantage of it thankfully, ignoring the irrational sense of disappointment. Checking that he had indeed left the premises, she sat at her desk, opened her personal directory and pulled the phone towards her.

Half an hour later she had booked her flight and cancelled her date with Nigel, who had, to her astonishment, turned quite nasty.

Their relationship of six months’ standing was purely platonic as yet, although she had wondered, in her off-moments, if it could progress to something more, and permanent, because he was sober enough, conscientious enough to be that rare animal—a male she could possibly be persuaded to entrust her future contentment to.

But now she was quite sure he wasn’t. If she ever allowed a man to become part of her life she certainly wouldn’t expect him to throw a tantrum because, as she had explained, something urgent had cropped up, making the cancellation of their plans unavoidable.

Registering that she felt no regret at all, she contacted Jenny and asked her to take over the office for two or three days, phoned a local taxi firm because she didn’t have time to waste on making her way home to her apartment—four rooms in a converted Victorian villa—by public transport, booked the same driver for the morning to take her to Gatwick and spent the evening packing and congratulating herself that by this time tomorrow she could well have cleared up the mystery of the missing Encarnación without ever having to clap eyes on the daunting Francisco Garcia Casals again.

CHAPTER TWO

SARAH, bouncing about in the back of the taxi, almost wished she’d given in to temptation and hired a car. The drive from the airport to Arcos de la Frontera was a long one and her ears were being assaulted by the raucous music coming from the radio, her nose by the aroma of cheap tobacco and a particularly violent brand of aftershave, and her eyes by the plethora of tawdry fluffy and glittery mascots bouncing around on lengths of coloured string.

But as she only intended to be in Spain for two days at the very most she had deemed the expense of hiring a car a luxury she could do without. No one could accuse her of being mean, but she had learned to be careful, not throwing her money around unnecessarily.

Awkwardly, she wriggled out of the severely styled dark grey blazer she had chosen to wear over paler grey linen trousers and a matching shirt Even in April the heat was astonishing. She had forgotten how fierce the sun could be in southern Spain and couldn’t wait to get back to the cool English spring she had left behind. It was far more suited to her temperament, she decided tiredly, feeling an annoying crop of perspiration spring out on her upper lip.

Closing her eyes on the vibrant landscape, the terrifyingly twisty road, she picked over the situation that faced her.

On the one hand she could find her father alone, working like a man possessed, never having heard of the absconding Encarnación, in which case she would stay overnight and leave first thing in the morning with a huge sigh of relief.

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!

Inside, the foyer was all hushed, cool opulence, slow-moving brass-bladed fans overhead, marble slabs underfoot, intricate plasterwork and rich carved wood. And glass telephone booths, Sarah noted, filing the information tidily away, her stomach tightening with the excitement of knowing that her plan might possibly work.

‘You are hungry?’ her escort asked, apparently without a great deal of interest.

She shook her head without thinking. She was too wound up inside to think of eating now. But then she realised that if she had said she was ravenous it would have delayed his departure for a little longer, so she tacked on quickly, before he could walk away and leave her, ‘I’d love a long cold drink, though, if you’re having something,’ and added, ‘Might I freshen up first? Could you tell me where to go?’

‘But of course.’ He seemed bored now, and she tagged along as he approached the reception desk, but her spirits soared to fresh heights as he addressed the male clerk in English.

‘The señorita wishes to use the rest-room. I shall be waiting in the terrace restaurant; will you bring her to me?’

Sarah barely registered the man’s reply. It was all going better than she would ever have dared to hope. Veiling her aquamarine eyes in case they betrayed her mounting inner excitement, she extracted her shoulder-bag from the baggage he was still holding, said, ‘See you in around ten minutes,’ and headed smartly for the rest-room, ignoring his drawled ‘Take your time’, not caring an atom if he was regretting his decision to do her the courtesy of allowing her to refresh herself before he abandoned her to go off in murderous pursuit of her father.

He was going to regret his ‘honourable’ impulse far more before the day was out. She was about to make very sure of that.

CHAPTER THREE

THIS time round Sarah didn’t in the least object to being jolted about in the back of a taxi. And she kept her eyes wide open. If they hadn’t been screwed tightly shut for most of that earlier, stomachtwisting journey into Arcos then sooner or later she would have noticed the prowling Ferrari behind them. And been warned.

But, never one to take lingering backward looks at past mistakes, Sarah now kept her sparkling eyes firmly glued to the road ahead, on the unsuspecting speck of scarlet in the distance.

Little more than an hour ago, the gut-wrenching fear that Francisco Casals would roar off into the wild blue yonder, reclaim his erring sister then beat her father senseless, without her being around to stop it or temper the Spanish brute’s ferocity, had seemed a frightening certainty. He had made her feel utterly impotent for the first time in years, and she hadn’t liked the sensation one little bit.

But a few careless words of his had given her the idea of following him, as he had so obviously followed her all the way from London. And the rest had been amazingly, brilliantly easy. Even now, with her plan working out perfectly, she could hardly believe her good fortune, the way everything had neatly fallen into place without a single hitch.

A few seconds in the rest-room, just long enough to give him time to take himself off to the terrace restaurant, had been followed by a thoroughly satisfying whirlwind of activity.

The availability of public telephones had been a foregone conclusion and she’d been able to get through to her London office with hardly any delay, her tone brisk and concise as she’d told Jenny, ‘Look, something’s cropped up and I’m going to have to be away longer than I bargained for. Hold the fort for me, would you? I’ll get back just as soon as I can.’

‘Not to worry, boss. Take all the time you need.’ Jenny sounded emphatic. ‘It’s ages since you had a break—just make sure you have a great time, and relax for just once in your life.’

Ordeal by a vengeful, tricky Spaniard was hardly her idea of a holiday, Sarah thought wryly as she replaced the receiver. But two could be tricky—as the lordly Francisco Garcia Casals would soon discover—and as for relaxing, well, there would be no time for that until she’d outwitted that black Andalusian devil…

Her shoulders straight, she marched purposefully over to Reception and asked the man she now knew spoke English—which had been another stroke of sheer good luck, hadn’t it just?—‘Could you help me, please?’

‘Sure.’ He almost sprang to attention. ‘Señor Casals is waiting on the terrace. If you’ll follow me…’

His dark eyes showed no surprise at her obviously unrefreshed appearance but his brows did rise a fraction when she corrected him swiftly, ‘In a moment. First, though, I need to arrange for a taxi—I speak no Spanish, I’m afraid.’

She ignored his openly surprised, momentary stare and followed coolly as he led the way outside to where three or four drivers were waiting for a fare, boredom or a kind of resignation written all over them. He probably couldn’t understand why any woman would be thinking of transport when that suavely gorgeous hunk of Spanish manhood was waiting—especially a woman who must look as if she’d spent the last few hours fully dressed in a Turkish bath.

She didn’t care what chauvinistic thoughts were rattling around inside his brain but embarrassment reared its debilitating head when he turned to her, bland-eyed now, asking, ‘Tell me where you want to go, señorita, and I will translate.’

For one weak moment, Sarah was tempted to ask for the airport, to fly back to England and hide from the mess Piers had unwittingly got her into. But, she reminded herself, she had never run from anything yet, and wasn’t going to start acting like a moral coward now. And she could weather a little embarrassment, couldn’t she?

So she held her head high, looking down the length of her neat nose, toughing it out.

‘I want a driver who is prepared to wait until Señor Casals and I leave. The señor will be driving the red car. I will want my driver to follow, at a discreet distance, naturally, to—’ Her voice faltered, echoing the way she was cringing inside, but she overcame the slight problem and went on firmly, ‘To wherever he goes. I am prepared to pay well over the odds.’

She refused to look away, even when he smirked with unconcealed amusement, just tilted her chin that little bit higher. She knew just what he was thinking. The handsome señor, who drove the kind of car only the seriously wealthy could afford to run, had grown bored with his English bit on the side—who could blame him?—and had dumped her. But the unglamorous, sadly plain creature wasn’t prepared to be dumped, was determined to follow wherever he went, make a nuisance of herself. The conclusion was so obvious that she couldn’t blame him for reaching it.

With a fatalistic shrug that implied that all men, even the mightiest, had to pay for their pleasures in the end, the receptionist spoke rapidly to one of the drivers and, the deal apparently clinched, turned back to Sarah, his smile very broad now.

‘You wish now to join Señor Casals?’

‘Of course.’ It was difficult to maintain her dignity in the face of his amusement, but she managed it as he escorted her to the terrace restaurant. The incident would have enlivened his otherwise dreary working day. And if the sly, sideways glance he gave Francisco Casals as he rose to his feet when Sarah was led to his table was anything to go by they would both be the subject of endless jokes and speculation among the rest of the staff here.

Oddly enough it gave her a weird sense of fellowfeeling with Francisco as he dismissed the receptionist with a curt word of thanks. As if, in some strange way, they were bound together.

Which was complete and utter nonsense, she dismissed as she took her seat at the white-covered table, refusing anything from the lavish bowl of luscious-looking fruits, just accepting the glass of orange juice he poured from a jug that nestled in a bowl of crushed ice.

He was her father’s enemy and that made him hers—because, whatever the rights or wrongs of the situation, violence was demeaning, it solved nothing, and she intended to be around to see that it didn’t happen.

Ignoring the magnificent view of rumpled, sunbaked mountains spread out in front of the terrace restaurant, she gave him her full attention. There was a gleam in his eyes she didn’t like—it gave her the mental shudders—so she ignored that too, offering him one last chance to redeem himself.

‘You say my father’s neighbour told you where he is, and that a girl answering Encarnación’s description was with him when he left Arcos. And that you intend right now to go and find them.’

She took a sip of her juice to moisten her suddenly parched throat, horribly aware of the way his black eyes never once left her consciously prim features, and then a huge gulp of the cold, delicious liquid because that sip hadn’t eased the annoying constriction in her throat. Then from somewhere she found the most businesslike tone she possessed and suggested sensibly, ‘Tell me where they are and let me sort it out. I promise to separate them and personally deliver your sister to you. I sympathise with your concern, believe me, but violence won’t solve anything.’

She couldn’t put it plainer than that. It gave him the opportunity to rethink, to do the civilised thing and allow the whole unfortunate affair to be settled without aggression.

‘No,’ he responded unfeelingly, with not even a flicker of one dark eyelash to change his expression. He went on, his tone unaltered, ‘Tell me, señorita, are you always so prim and pedantic, so completely lacking in passion? Your father is an undisputed amoral hedonist and he has seduced an innocent young girl away from her home, yet all you can do is say that you “sympathise with my concern”—’ his mouth tightened dangerously, the fingers of one hand now tapping restlessly on the spotless linen that covered the table ‘—and mouth meaningless, bloodless platitudes about the ineffectuality of violence. Do you really think I’m the type of man who would be willing to sit tamely in the background and allow a woman to deal with my family problems? Do you think I have no pride?’

Something deep inside her shuddered. This man would never do anything tamely; a basic, atavistic intuition told her that much. No appeal to more civilised instincts, however sensibly couched, could reach him because, for him, civilisation was only a thin surface veneer. But only the restless fingers, the smouldering fires in the dark depths of his translucent black eyes told of the volcanic rage inside him as he continued in the same chillingly measured tone, ‘If ever a man deserved a thrashing, it is your father. And I fully intend to teach him a lesson he will never forget. Without any interference from you. Now, señorita, if you have finished, I will find you a taxi to take you back to the airport.’

He got elegantly to his feet, his arrogant, remote features telling her more clearly than any words that she was dismissed, and, her eyes cloudy, she scrabbled around for her belongings, determinedly bottling up the unwelcome emotion that made her want to hurl her overnight bag at his head, wipe that superior, condescending expression from his face.

She straightened, quickly and nicely back in control again, firmly squashing that brief moment of insanity, her possessions held neatly in her hands. He had talked of passion and violence as if they were qualities to be admired. He disgusted her.

She had seen enough of both destructive emotions during her time with her father, witnessed the cheerful and, from her own viewpoint, utterly demeaning stoicism of her mother, and had made a solemn vow never to allow emotion of any kind to rule her life, mess it up and lead her into a state where she had no control over anything.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she told him coolly, her bluey-green eyes perfectly clear and steady now. ‘The hotel receptionist has already dealt with it.’ And she watched his tiny, elegant shrug, the small quirk of his beautiful, passionate mouth and put the sharp punch of sensation beneath her breastbone down to the sheer excitement of knowing she had outwitted him.

And now the sensation of churning, bubbling excitement was still with her, hardly containable. She had experienced nothing quite like it in the whole of her adult life. Ever since that proud chunk of Spanish manhood had assumed control—or so he, in his haughty arrogance, had believed—every single thing had gone her way. Which meant that the angels were on her side!

The red vehicle ahead disappeared from sight round a bend on the twisty mountain road and she was unconcerned enough to spare a glance at the awe-inspiring scenery. Dry rocky ranges dropped precipitously to deep river valleys mantled by the green of olive groves and forest trees and somewhere here, in this remote and ferocious landscape, her irresponsible father was hiding away with his latest conquest.

But even her deep distaste for yet again having to sort out the problems Piers had created for himself was almost forgotten in the intense satisfaction to be had from beating the Spaniard at his own game.

She had been eighteen years old when she had finally decided that enough was enough, that it was high time she abandoned her father to his own wild devices and got on with her own life. She had stuck rigidly to that earlier decision and going against it didn’t seem to matter now, not when they rounded the bend and saw the Ferrari disappearing in a puff of arrogant dust around the next.

Whatever his faults, Señor Casals was certainly a careful driver. His sober speed couldn’t have been more granny-like if he’d set out to break a record. Which begged the question of why he’d equipped himself with such a potent piece of machinery in the first place. The scarlet Ferrari was obviously a status symbol only, a look-at-me macho statement which he obviously had the financial wherewithal to purchase but hadn’t the bottle to use to its powerful potential.

Smiling at her own inverted snobbery, she called a halt to her mental carping and gave hearty thanks instead for the way things were. If he’d put his foot down her driver wouldn’t have had a hope in hell. The taxi would never have kept pace and she would never have been given the opportunity to walk in and temper the proceedings when the violent Spaniard met up with her culpable yet unsuspecting, unprepared parent.

But the impressive view that was now unfolding took her breath away, deflecting her thoughts. Great stone walling, fragmented in parts, marched down the precipitous mountainside, partly enclosing what she could see of a tiny village in the deep and distant, verdant valley below. And high above, straddling a rocky spur, dominating the craggy landscape from its austere, arid heights, the imposing walls, crenellations, turrets and towers of a massive castle soared to the raw blue sky.

As a statement of power and authority it would take some beating, she thought, then opened her eyes very wide as the scarlet Ferrari, with a definite flirt of its rear end, turned beneath an impressive archway that could lead nowhere else but to the castle itself.

Surely Piers and Encarnación weren’t hiding up here? And apparently her driver had his own misgivings because he stood on the brakes, turning to her, gesturing expansively towards the archway.

‘Qué quieres, señorita?’

She stared at him, wrinkling her brow. He was, she assumed, waiting for further instructions. Then she shook her head decisively. Discreetly following the vengefully violent Spaniard was one thing, sweeping up to the main entrance in a taxi was another. She couldn’t afford to advertise her presence until she’d managed to slip inside. She didn’t want every door bolted and barred in her face, to have to pace around outside, waiting while Señor Casals gave Piers the punishment he deserved.

‘I’ll walk the rest of the way,’ she said firmly, then met his blank eyes. He didn’t understand a word. Quickly she extracted her purse from her shoulder-bag and the driver smiled. That much he did understand and she paid him off, using most of her remaining pesetas, gathering her belongings and pacing forthrightly towards the arch and beneath it, not wanting to show the obviously curious taxi driver even the smallest hint of the panic that was beginning to beat its frenzied wings against the inside of her head.

Nothing to panic about, she assured herself, refusing to feel intimidated as the great stone arch swallowed her up. She’d been ultra-successful so far; now all she had to do was find a way inside the thick, looming walls and break up whatever mayhem might be going on inside. Put an end to it with the cool voice of reason. At the very least, Casals would surely temper his violence considerably when she appeared on the scene as a witness.

The idea that Piers might have brought his newest mistress to this isolated but obviously magnificently maintained place wasn’t so unbelievable as she had first thought. His enormous talent, not to mention his larger-than-life personality, had earned him many friends all around the globe, some of them in distinctly exalted positions. She now had little doubt that the exalted personage who actually owned this overwhelming place had handed over the keys, no questions asked—and probably with the high-class equivalent of a nudge-nudge, winkwink—so that the undisputed genius could enjoy his latest sordid peccadillo in splendid isolation.

The very idea made her stomach churn. She might be able to save Piers from a physical whipping at the Spaniard’s hands but no way would he escape the scathing tongue-lashing she fully intended to deliver when she got him on his own.

Emerging from the arch, which, because the outer walls were so thick, had seemed more like a tunnel, Sarah took stock. It was early evening now, but the acreage of stone-paved courtyard was still bathed in sunlight. Even so, she slipped her arms into her jacket—the fewer things she carried the better—and carefully eyed the Ferrari which was crouched in front of what surely had to be the main entrance door.

She had the uncanny feeling of being watched but the massive building looked deserted—apart, that was, from the unoccupied scarlet symbol of machismo.

There was nothing to get goose bumps about, she assured herself. And, although the fortress-like structure might give an initial impression of keeping a stern and watchful eye on the tiny village which shimmered whitely in the heat haze down in the narrow valley, the martins nesting in crevices in the walls helped to create a delicate, swooping counterpoint and the stone of the castle itself was a lovely delicate honey tone, adding an air of almost fairy-tale fantasy.

Definitely not forbidding at all, she chided herself, then, as hovering in the shadow of the enormous archway making foolish assessments of the architectural atmosphere wasn’t getting her anywhere, she squared her slender shoulders and set resolutely out across the massive courtyard.

She was here for a purpose and the sooner she got on with it the better. Once she’d taken a project on board she allowed nothing to deflect her from her purpose; that single-mindedness had helped make her agency the success it now was. Francisco Casals would soon find out that he wasn’t dealing with an empty-headed female who was too feeble to stand up for herself!

The Spaniard had known exactly where to find her father, and even now the elderly man might be sampling a knuckle sandwich. Or worse. Her heartbeats quickened. She began to run. If the main door was locked it could take her quite some time to find a way in. And time was something she was short on.

She was dragging the warm dry air into her lungs in painful gulps by the time she reached the intricately carved stone arch that surrounded her objective—the main door.

It was thick and unyielding, studded and strapped with iron, and she twisted the great iron ring with misgivings, only to hear the infinitely satisfying click of the heavy latch, feel the great door swing inwards as if on oiled hinges. She barged straight through to the dim cool silence of the vast space beyond, adrenalin scudding through her veins, then stopped, disorientated, as the door closed silently behind her, making the dimness almost dark. And all she could hear was the rapid thud of her heartbeats. And the sound of someone breathing.

Her breath clogged painfully in her throat then emerged on a foolish squeak as that unmistakable dark, smoky voice said from directly behind her, ‘What kept you?’

CHAPTER FOUR

TOO shocked to speak, Sarah stood frozen as her emotions went into a state of riot, while her stunned, wide-eyed stare took in the glorious, olivetoned features that gave absolutely nothing away. That almost frightening inscrutability increased her whirling sense of dangerous disorientation. Then, thankfully, common sense gained ascendancy and she gathered her mind together. Fast.

His totally unexpected appearance had startled her, naturally enough, making her heart leap up into her throat with shock. But that moment was well and truly behind her and she could breathe a big sigh of relief, congratulate herself on achieving her aim.

Not stopping to wonder why he hadn’t already begun his search of the huge premises for the missing Encarnación and the man he had vowed to beat to a pulp, she did nothing to hide the smile of sheer complacency that curved her soft lips as she suggested, ‘We’ll go and look for them together, shall we? And don’t even think of asking me to wait outside until the shouting’s over.’ She gave him a glittering triumphant look from beneath her eyelashes. ‘No one ever underestimates me twice in one lifetime, Señor Casals, so take my advice and don’t try it again.’

Just to further impress on him that he didn’t have the monopoly on tough-talking arrogance, she straightened her mouth to a cool, firm line and glared haughtily down the length of her nose but his expression was still a total enigma and for some reason shook her all over again, because there was something behind it, a heavy, steely force that could confuse and frighten her if she didn’t keep the upper hand.

And then a slow, beautiful smile spread over his face and that really worried her. She’d outwitted him, after all, so surely he had nothing to smile about! But she refused to step the few paces away from him that all her instincts were urging her to take because she didn’t back down for anyone, certainly not for him.

‘Together. Yes, I like the sound of that.’ Genuine satisfaction honeyed the dark, smoky voice but the sudden trap of his fingers as they closed punishingly on her upper arm was a cruel contrast. ‘Come, little fly. You walked into my web so prettily, and now we will wait. Together, as you said.’

Suddenly, the huge space seemed airless. Those dark, inscrutable eyes rested on her, seeming to map the way her brain was working as it tried to make sense of what he had said.

Wait? Surely he couldn’t be saying that during the relatively short time he’d spent here ahead of her he’d had the opportunity to search the warren of rooms that must make up the interior of the castle? That he’d found someone—one of the staff maybe—who’d told him that Piers was out somewhere, that he’d turn up again if they waited?

It made no kind of sense at all.

She frowned, making a determined effort now to pull away, but that only made the punishing pressure of his steely fingers more intense as he began to urge her across the stone floor. She tried to dig her heels in but it was impossible and she had the horrible feeling that if she resisted further he would pick her up and toss her over his shoulders like a rag doll.

‘Don’t hustle me,’ she snapped, doing her best to sound fully in control and formidably stern. ‘If you’ll show me where we’re supposed to wait, I’ll go without being manhandled, thank you.’ She injected a fine note of sarcasm but it made not a jot of difference, except that she imagined she saw a pitying smile flicker across his lips.

‘And how do you know they’re not in residence?’ she persisted doggedly, doing her level best to keep her breathing nice and regular, to ignore the manacle of his strong, lean, inescapable hand. ‘Dad’s neighbour told you they were here but you only arrived ten minutes before me, so you can’t possibly have had time to make a proper search, and for all you know the owner might be here too, and have us thrown out as mannerless intruders. I don’t suppose you’ve thought of that!’

She might have been talking to thin air for all the response she got and by this time they had emerged through another massive door, out of the dim shadows and into the brilliance of an interior courtyard, open to the deepening sun-shot early evening sky. There were fountains, she noted agitatedly, a single massive fig tree, masses of tubbed exotic flowers and shady arcades surrounding what she took to be the main living quarters.

Whoever owned this place was obviously a man of considerable substance, not to mention clout. But the relentless Spaniard hadn’t taken her warnings on board. He had simply, and with insulting arrogance, ignored every word she had said.

Or so it seemed until he strode into the shade of the nearest pillared arcade and informed her, almost indifferently, ‘I am the owner. And I can assure you that apart from a skeleton staff of two there is no one else in residence. Come, through here.’

Without giving her time to draw breath, let alone gather her thoughts coherently, he steered her through a deep archway into a cool, stone-walled apartment and up a narrow flight of twisting, banisterless stone stairs that clung to one of the inner walls. And her hair, hastily secured back in a makeshift knot with the few clips remaining following the slippery, silky descent in Arcos, flopped down all over again, obscuring her vision, and she could do nothing about it because the arm he wasn’t clutching was hanging on to her bits and pieces. She felt hatred bubble up inside her, vicious and violent and quite unlike her.

The untrammelled mass of hair, tumbling to her shoulders and falling over her face, put her at a distinct physical and psychological disadvantage. She could barely see to put one foot in front of the other, was actually having to rely on that iron-hard hand to guide her. She loathed the sensation of having to rely on this over-privileged boor for anything and the conclusions she was beginning to draw did nothing at all to ease her state of mind.