DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

“Will you, Sophie, come and live with me in La Rioja?”

There was a heartbeat of a pause while she considered the alternative. “I will,” she said in a low voice, thinking with a poignant longing how much like a wedding vow that sounded. But he was not offering her marriage. He wanted her, yes, and he was entrusting her with the care of his son. But not love. Not marriage.

His mistress and his son’s caregiver.

“You would leave all this behind?” he asked.

“I would.”

“Why?”

“Because of your son.” She faltered, and saw his face suddenly become closed.

“And…and for you, Luis.”

“But what for me, exactly, querida?” he questioned softly.

“I want you.”

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Mistress of La Rioja
Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For my darling TK, who has inspired more passion and romance than he will ever know…

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE phone chose precisely the wrong moment to ring. Up to her eyes in spreadsheets, Sophie gave a little groan of irritation as she clicked the button up. She still had masses to get through, which was why she had been in the office since the crack of dawn.

She normally worked from around eight until late—however late she needed to be to get the job done; no one could ever accuse Sophie of a lack of dedication, but for once she wanted to leave early. To spend an outrageously indolent time getting ready for a date. A hot date, too—with Oliver Duncan, owner of rival ad agency Duncan’s.

She wriggled her shoulders with anticipation—because she was about to spend the evening with one of London’s most eligible men and was currently the envy of all her single girlfriends!

‘Now, I did say I didn’t want to be disturbed, Narell,’ she joked in mock-stern tone, knowing full well that Narell was the best assistant in the world, so maybe it was important. It had better be!

But Narell’s voice sounded strained. ‘I’m afraid that this man wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted he speak to you.’

Sophie pulled a face.

‘Insisted, did he?’ she mused aloud. ‘I’m not sure I like men who insist! Who is it?’

‘It’s…it’s…’ Narell cleared her throat, as if she couldn’t quite believe the name she was saying. ‘It’s Don Luis de la Camara.’

Luis.

Luis!

Sophie gripped the desk as if holding on to it for dear life. How mad, how crazy—that just the mention of his name was enough to bring her out into a cold sweat.

She felt excitement. Gut-wrenching and stomach-melting excitement. And then, hard on the heels of excitement came guilt. She felt its icy heat pin-pricking at her brow.

Just what was it about Luis de la Camara? She knew what kind of man he was. Shallow and sexy and completely out of bounds, and yet here she was now, calm and rational Sophie—Sophie who was supposed to be excited at the thought of dating Oliver— only now her heart was racing like a speeding train as she stared at the phone. Oliver was forgotten, and in his place exploded the dark presence of the most formidable man she had ever met.

But she pulled herself together, wondering why the arrogant Spaniard was ringing her here, at work, and demanding to speak to her, no less!

Ruing the day that her cousin had ever married him, Sophie gave a reluctant nod. ‘OK, Narell. You can put him through.’

‘Right.’

There was a momentary pause and then Sophie heard the unmistakable voice of Luis de la Camara, pouring like rich, sensual honey down through the intercom, and despite her good intentions she felt the slow wash of awareness creeping colour across her pale cheeks. He’s married, she reminded herself, and he’s married to your cousin. A man you despise, remember?

But animosity was an acquired skill she had learned along the way. She had had to teach herself to hate him. Far better to hate a man than to admit that he excited you in a way which was as frightening as it was inappropriate. And how could you feel anything other than hate for a man who could look at a woman with pure, undiluted lust in his eyes—just days before he was due to be married to her cousin?

‘Soph-ie?’

He said her name as no one else did. The slight lilt to the voice, the faintest idiomatic Spanish accent which could send goosebumps all over your skin. She hastily clicked the switch down and grabbed the receiver—the last thing she wanted was the amplification of those dark, richly accented tones filling her office.

‘This is she,’ she answered crisply. She put her pen down. ‘Well, this is certainly a surprise, Luis.’ And how was that for understatement?

‘Yes.’

His voice sounded unfamiliar. Heavy. Hard. Burdened. And Sophie suddenly felt some ghastly premonition shiver its way over her skin as logic replaced her first instinctive reaction to hearing him. Her voice rose in fright. ‘What’s happened? Why are you ringing me at work?’

There was a moment of silence which only increased her foreboding, because Sophie had never heard Luis hesitate before. Indecision was not on his agenda. Some men were never at a loss for words and de la Camara was a prime example.

‘What is it?’ she whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Are you sitting down?’

‘Yes! Luis, for God’s sake—tell me!’

In another world, another country away, Luis flinched. There was no easy way to say it, nothing he could do to ease the painful words. ‘It’s Miranda,’ he began slowly. ‘I am afraid to have to tell you, Sophie, that there has been a terrible accident. Your cousin…she has been killed. Murio en un accidente de coche,’ he finished on a note of disbelief, as if only repeating the words in his native tongue could make him believe the terrible truth himself.

A cry was torn from Sophie’s throat, so that she sounded like a wounded animal. ‘No!’

‘It is true,’ he said.

‘She’s dead? Miranda is dead?’ she questioned, as if, even now, he still had the opportunity to deny it. To make it go away.

‘Sì. I am sorry, Soph-ie. So very sorry.’

Buffeting against the sick feeling in her stomach, the words punched their way home.

Dead! Miranda dead? ‘But she can’t be dead!’ Sophie whimpered. How could a beautiful woman of twenty-five be no more? ‘Say it isn’t true, Luis.’

‘Do you not think that if I could I would?’ he said, and his deep voice sounded almost gentle as he carried on with the grim story. ‘She died in a car crash earlier today.’

‘No.’ She shuddered, and closed her eyes.

Until an even more horrific scenario reared its terrifying head and they snapped open again. ‘What about Teodoro?’ she cried, her heart clenching with fear as she thought about her adorable little nephew. ‘He—he wasn’t with her, was he?’

‘In the early hours of the morning?’ he questioned heavily. ‘No, Sophie, he was not with her. My son was tucked up in bed, safely asleep.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ she breathed, and, just as a great wave of grief pierced her like a dagger, so did his words imprint themselves on her consciousness.

If Teodoro was tucked up safely in bed, then what was Miranda doing out in the early hours of the morning—and how come Luis had not been injured? Unless…unless he had been injured. ‘Were you hurt yourself, Luis?’ she questioned unsteadily.

In the fan-cooled air of the vast hacienda, Luis’s hard, dark features set themselves into bleak and unforgiving lines. ‘I was not in the car,’ he said roughly.

Though her thoughts were fragmented by the enormity of what he had told her, Sophie frowned in confusion. Why not? she wondered. Why was Miranda travelling in the early hours without her family?

Her fingers clenched themselves into a tight little fist. The whys and the wheres and the hows were not appropriate—not now, not when the cold practicalities of death must be dealt with in as sympathetic a way as possible.

And Luis must be grieving—he must be. Despite the ups and downs of a marriage which Sophie knew had definitely not been made in heaven. His wife— the mother of his son—had met a tragically early end, and, no matter what had gone on before, Luis’s world had imploded.

Her own feelings about him didn’t count—not at a time like this. He was owed her condolences and not her hostility.

‘I’m…I’m so sorry,’ she said stiffly.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘I rang to tell you the news myself rather than having the police contact you. And to enquire whether you wish me to ring your grandmother…’

His words reminded her of the awful task which lay ahead—of telling her elderly and now frail grandmother what had happened. Sophie drew in a painful breath, thankful that her cousin’s parents had been spared the ordeal of learning the fate of their beautiful daughter. For wasn’t the premature death of a child the most terrible bereavement of all—even if they had treated Miranda with a kind of absent carelessness?

Miranda’s parents had been nomads at heart, inveterate travellers who had journeyed to all four corners of the earth, greedily seeking out new experiences, never growing tired of the adventure of the unexplored. Until one day when their light aircraft had plummeted out of the sky and into the unforgiving mountains. Miranda had been just seventeen at the time, and soon after that, she had begun to live as though there were no tomorrow.

And now there never would be, not for her.

‘No.’ Biting back her tears, Sophie slowly let the word out. ‘I will tell my grandmother myself, in person. It’ll be easier…’ She swallowed. She wouldn’t break down in front of him, she wouldn’t. ‘Less painful, coming from me.’ And try somehow to contact her own parents, who were having their own holiday of a lifetime, ensconced in luxury on some vast, ocean-going liner.

‘You’re sure?’ he questioned.

‘Yes.’

‘It will be…hard,’ he said, but his voice was un-characteristically soft now, soft as butter. ‘She is an old woman now.’

She steeled herself not to react to that murmuring voice, because it was vital that she remained impervious to Luis de la Camara—for all their sakes. ‘It is thoughtful of you to care.’

Did she mock him with that cool, unfathomable tone of hers? ‘Of course. She is family, Sophie—what did you expect?’

What did she expect? She didn’t know, and she wondered how he could ask her a question like that at a time like this.

She hadn’t expected her beloved Miranda to die so needlessly, or for her nephew to grow up without a mother, so far away from the land of her birth.

Teo.

Just the thought of him focused Sophie’s grief into energy and resolution. ‘Wh-when is the funeral?’

‘On Monday.’

Which gave her three days.

‘I’ll be there. I’ll fly out on Sunday.’

And, to Luis’s appalled horror, he felt the stirring of triumph and the impossible ache of knowing that soon he would see her once more, and he cursed the body which betrayed him so completely. ‘Contact my home or my office to let me know the times of your flight,’ he said tightly. ‘You will have to fly to Madrid and then take a connection on to Pamplona. I will arrange to have a car pick you up at the airport. Have you got that?’

‘Thank you,’ she said, thinking how in control he sounded, until she remembered that he was in control—always—and that, whatever happened, it was Luis de la Camara who was calling the shots.

‘Adios, Sophie,’ he drawled softly.

With a shaking hand, Sophie let the phone fall down into its cradle, and at the harsh finality of the sound reaction set in at last. She stared blankly at the wall in front of her, her mind spinning with disbelief as she thought of Miranda.

Her poor cousin—dying alone in a strange, foreign country! Poor, sweet Miranda—envied by so many women, solely because she was married to a man so universally desired. A man whose child she had borne, whose money she had enjoyed, but whose heart had always been tantalisingly locked away from her.

A man, moreover, whose black eyes glittered with such stark sexual promise that Sophie could not imagine that he would have been able to remain faithful for even the first year of marriage.

After all, she had ignored the unmistakable invitation she had read there, but that was because she loved Miranda. She doubted whether other women would have such scrupulous morals where Luis de la Camara was concerned.

And now a little baby would now have to grow up without a mother.

Sophie’s gaze was drawn to the silver-framed photo which stood in pride of place on her desk and she picked it up and studied it.

It showed Teodoro and it had been taken just before his first birthday, only a few short weeks ago. He was an adorable child, but Teodoro’s looks owed very little to her cousin’s exquisite blonde beauty. Instead his face was stamped with the magnificent dominance of his father’s colouring, and as she stared at it the image of his hard and handsome face came flooding back into her mind with bitter clarity.

Gleaming black eyes, fringed with sinfully thick lashes and hair which was as dark as the moonless night she had first met him. When she had virtually bumped into him in the deli at the end of her road and he had stopped dead, stared at her intensely, as if he knew her from somewhere, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

And the feeling had been mutual. When just for a moment her heart had leapt with a wild and unexpected joy. And an unmistakable lust which had set up a slow, sweet aching.

The kind of thing which wasn’t supposed to happen to sensible city girls who were cool and calm in matters of the heart.

Was it possible to fall in love in a split-second? she remembered helplessly thinking as she gazed at the proud, aristocratic features she seemed to have spent her whole life waiting for.

She’d seen his eyes darken, the heated flare of awareness which moved along the angular curve of his high cheekbones. His lush lips had unconsciously parted and she’d seen a thoroughly instinctive movement as his tongue flicked through to moisten them, and outrageously she had imagined that tongue on her body…in her body…

She had never been looked at with quite such insolent and arrogant appraisal before. He wants me, she’d thought, with the warm flooding of awareness. And I want him, too. She had found herself wondering whether she would be able to resist him if he touched her, while at the same time asking if she had completely taken leave of her senses.

And then Miranda had appeared, carrying a bottle of champagne, her mouth falling open in surprise. ‘Sophie! Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, and glanced up at him, not seeming to notice the brittle tension in the air which surrounded them. ‘What an amazing coincidence! We were just on our way to see you, weren’t we, darling?’

Darling?

With a jolt which went deeper than disappointment, Sophie registered dully that Miranda was possessively touching the arm of the tall, dark man with the glittering eyes and the softly gleaming lips. And the champagne…

‘Are you—are you celebrating something?’ she questioned with a sinking heart as she quickly realised exactly what they must be celebrating.

‘We sure are! Sophie—I’d like to introduce you to Don Luis de la Camara,’ Miranda announced proudly and then smiled up into the dark, shuttered face. ‘Luis—this is my cousin, Sophie Mills.’

‘Your cousin?’ he questioned with a frown, and his voice was as rich and dark as bitter chocolate. The predatory look had disappeared in an instant, and Sophie had seen the rueful shrug which replaced it, knowing that Don Luis de la Camara would never look at her in that way again. As the cousin of his wife-to-be, she was much too close to home to play around with. But a man who looked like that just days before his wedding would play around. Sophie recognised that with a blinding certainty and she hated him for it.

‘Well, we spent all our holidays together—so we’re more like sisters, really!’ Miranda smiled her wide, infectious smile. ‘Sophie—we’re getting married! Isn’t it wonderful? Luis has asked me to marry him!’

Sophie shuddered as she remembered the jealousy which had ripped through her. To be jealous of your own cousin! But she had forced a smile and hugged Miranda and given Luis her hand, all too aware of the warm tingle as their flesh touched. And he had bent and raised her fingertips to his mouth, in an old-fashioned and courtly style—faithful to the manner of the Spanish aristocrat he was, his black eyes seeming to mock and to tantalise her in tandem.

They had gone back to her flat and drunk champagne and chinked glasses and toasted the future. But while Miranda had fizzed with life the Spaniard had sat watchfully, choosing his words with care, looking so right and yet so wrong in Sophie’s flat and her world. Because he was Miranda’s, she had reminded herself. Miranda’s.

With an effort she pushed away the disturbing memories and forced herself back to the present. Concentrating on the image of the child in the photo instead of the potent sexuality of his father.

At least Teodoro’s face still had the softness of innocence and she could see little of the indomitable nature which so defined Luis.

She wondered what would happen to Teodoro now—whether his mother’s memory would be allowed to fade until it was so distant that it was almost forgotten. Sophie bit her lip. What chance would he have of learning about his mother and the land of his mother’s birth?

And suddenly a sense of duty dulled some of the raw edge of sorrow. Luis shall not take him from us entirely, she vowed. I will fight for the opportunity to get to know him as if he were my own! And he will know me, too. With a trembling hand, she buzzed through to Narell to ask her to book her flight to Spain.

And then she washed her face, dragged a comb through her hair and called Liam Hollingsworth into the office, who took one look at her and started.

‘What the hell have you been doing to yourself?’ he demanded. ‘Are you OK?’

Her voice still trembling slightly, she said, ‘Not really, no.’

‘For God’s sake, Sophie—what’s the matter? What’s happened to you?’

She framed the unbelievable words. ‘It’s my cousin, Miranda,’ she told him. ‘She’s been…killed in an accident. I’ve…I’ve got to go and break the news to my grandmother—’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘And th-then fly on to Spain to the funeral.’

‘Oh, honey!’ He was round her side of the desk in an instant, staring down at her with a look of dazed concern on his face as she began to cry. ‘Honey!’

‘Oh, Liam!’ she sobbed.

‘Come here,’ he said gently, and put his arms around her.

She allowed herself to cry a little more, but after a couple of moments she broke away and went to stand by the window, staring out at a world which no longer looked the same place. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said dully.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘I know very few facts. Just that she was in a car crash. I was too…too shocked to ask for any details, I guess.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Her husband, Luis—he rang me from Spain to tell me.’

He frowned. ‘That’s the millionaire guy—the one you can’t stand?’

‘That’s the one,’ she said tightly, thinking how much more complex the truth was than a simple case of not being able to stand the man.

‘And when’s the funeral?’

‘Monday. I’m flying out on Sunday.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Liam, I don’t know if I can bear it.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘Well, it’ll be hard, but at least after that you need never meet again.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘But it isn’t that easy. I wish it was. I can’t just spirit Luis out of my life, however much I might want to. Don’t forget—he’s the father of my nephew, and I feel I owe it to Miranda, and to Teodoro…’ The words seemed to come from an unknown place deep inside her. ‘To fight for him.’

Liam stared at her. ‘Fight for him?’ he echoed. ‘You surely don’t mean you’re going to apply for custody, Sophie? You wouldn’t stand a hope in hell. Not if he’s as rich and as powerful as you say he is. And he is the father.’

Tiredly, Sophie rubbed at her temples. ‘I don’t know what I mean—other than knowing I have to get out there. To let Teo know that he has relatives, and that we care.’

‘And once the funeral is over? Will you come straight back?’

She met his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I can’t commit to a time scale. But I’ll still be able to do some work— I can always use my laptop, and you’ll be able to manage here without me for a bit, won’t you?’

‘Of course we can manage,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll just miss you, that’s all.’

‘Thanks,’ she whispered, and, gulping back more tears, she began to pack her briefcase.

She and Liam went way back.

They had met at university and discovered a shared sense of humour coupled with an ambition to make lots of money while having fun. Which had been how the Hollingsworth-Mills advertising agency had come about. Now they were tipped for the top. A combination of enthusiasm and employing bright young staff with similar high-reaching goals meant that Sophie and Liam were poised on the brink of unforeseen success.

But what did any of that matter at a time like this?

Feeling too shaky to drive safely, she took the train to Norfolk, her heart weeping for her grandmother as she walked up the path of her Norfolk country cottage, where she and Miranda had spent part of their school holidays, every summer without fail. They had walked for miles on the vast, empty beaches which were close by, and climbed trees and fed the fat ducks on the pond with pieces of bread.

And Sophie had watched as Miranda’s beauty had become something more than breathtaking. Had seen for herself the bewitching power which that beauty gave her over men…

She rang the old-fashioned jingly-jangly doorbell, praying for the right words to tell her grandmother what had happened, and knowing that there were none which would not hurt.

But Felicity Mills was almost eighty, and there was little of life she hadn’t seen. She took one look at Sophie’s face. ‘It’s bad news,’ she said flatly.

‘Yes. It’s Miranda—’

‘She’s dead,’ said her grandmother woodenly. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘How? How could you possibly have known that?’ Sophie whispered, much later, when tears had been shed and they had sought some kind of comfort in old photographs of Miranda as a baby, then a sunny toddler and every other stage through to stunning bride. But Sophie hadn’t wanted to linger on that photo—not when the dark face of Luis mocked her and stung her guilty conscience. ‘How?’ she asked again.

‘I can’t explain it,’ sighed her grandmother. ‘I just looked into your face and I knew. And, in a way, there was a dreadful inevitability about it. Miranda always flew too close to the sun. One day she was bound to get burned.’

‘But how can you be so accepting?’

‘How can I not? I have lived through war, my darling. You have to accept what you cannot change.’

She squeezed the old woman’s hand. ‘Is there—is there anything I can do for you, Granny?’

There was a long silence and Mrs Mills stared at her. ‘There is one thing—but it may not be possible. I’m too old and too frail to fly to Spain for the funeral—but I should like to see Teodoro again before I die.’

Sophie swallowed down the lump in her throat. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask—even of Luis— not under these circumstances. ‘Then I’ll br-bring him to you,’ she promised shakily. ‘I promise.’

‘But Luis might not allow it.’

Sophie’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears. ‘He must, Granny—he must!’

‘It is a big favour to ask him. Tread carefully, Sophie—you know how fiercely possessive he is about his son and you know the kind of man you’re dealing with,’ her grandmother added drily. ‘You know his reputation. Few would dare to cross him.’

‘I’m hoping it won’t come to that,’ said Sophie, then stared up at her grandmother, her eyes confused.

‘Don’t you hate him, Granny? For making Miranda so unhappy?’

‘Happiness is not the gift of one person to another,’ answered her grandmother slowly. ‘It takes two people to be happy. And hate is such a waste of emotion—and a total waste of time. What good would be served if I hated the father of my great-grandson?’

But if Sophie took hate out of the equation, then what did that leave her with? An overpowering attraction which she prayed had weakened with the passing of time.

All she wanted was to have grown immune to his powerful presence and his dark, unforgettable face. After all, she hadn’t seen him since just after Teodoro’s baptism, a year ago, when they had brought the baby over to England.

Sophie had deliberately kept her distance from Luis, although she’d been able to feel those steely dark eyes watching her as she moved around the room. She’d wondered if he had broken his wedding vows yet, and when she’d had a moment had asked her cousin if anything was wrong, but Miranda had just shrugged her bare brown shoulders.

‘Oh, Luis should have married a docile little Spanish girl who didn’t want to set foot outside the door,’ she had said bitterly. ‘It seems that he can’t cope with a wife who doesn’t whoop for joy because she happens to live in the back of beyond.’

And Sophie had directed a look of icy-blue fire across the room at Luis, meeting nothing but cold mockery in return.

Sophie’s plane touched down in Pamplona in the still blazing heat of an early Spanish evening and she hurried through Customs, her eyes scanning the arrivals bay, expecting to see a driver holding a card aloft with her name on it, but it took all of two seconds to see the tall and distinctive figure waiting there.

And one second to note the hard and glittering black eyes, the unsmiling mouth and the shuttered features. He was taller than every other man there, and his face still drew the eyes of women like a magnet. No, he hadn’t changed, and Sophie’s heart gave a violent and unwelcome lurch.

He stood in the crowd and yet he stood alone.

It seemed that Don Luis de la Camara had come to collect her in person.

CHAPTER TWO

LUIS watched as Sophie walked through the arrivals lounge, unsmilingly observing the heads which turned to follow her as she walked, though she herself seemed completely oblivious of it. But of course she had the fair skin and hair which made the hearts of most male Spaniards melt, though none of the deliberately provocative style of her cousin.

He felt his pulse quicken and his blood thicken as she made her way towards him, her light cotton dress defining her slender legs and such delicate ankles that he was surprised they could support her weight at all. He remembered the very first time he had seen her, when she had captured his imagination with her natural beauty and grace, and such completely unselfconscious sexuality.

He had met her and wanted her in an instant and had despised the hot, sharp hunger she had inspired in him, a hunger which would never—could never— be satisfied.

And then she was standing in front of him, all honey-coloured hair and pale, translucent skin. As slender and as supple as a willow—with a look of almost grim determination glittering from the china-blue eyes.

Luis sensed danger in that determination, but he did not acknowledge it. Keeping his face a mask of formal courtesy, he inclined his head in greeting. To any other woman he might have given the traditional kiss on either cheek, but not this one. He had wanted to kiss her the first time he had seen her, but by then it was too late.

And now it was later still.

‘Sophie.’ A small, formal bow of his dark head. ‘I trust that you have had a pleasant flight?’

He was so tall that she had to look up at him, and Sophie’s heart sank as she realised that all that raw and vibrant masculinity was as intact and as potent as it had ever been. But the way he was speaking, he might as well have been enquiring about the weather. He certainly didn’t sound like a bereft and newly-widowed man, and for the first time she wondered if tragedy had not, in fact, proved a convenient ending to an unhappy marriage.

She kept her face neutral—though God only knew how. ‘It was smooth enough, thank-you.’ Though in truth the hours had passed in a blur as she had tried to equip herself with the emotional strength to stay polite and impassive towards him.

She wondered what his emotional state was. Untouched, she would guess. There was no tell-tale red-rimming of the eyes, no hint that tears had been shed for the mother of his child—but then, whoever could imagine a man like Luis shedding tears?

Today, he looked remote and untouchable. His face was as cold and as hard as if it had been hewn from some pure, honey-coloured marble—but only a blind fool would have denied that he was an outrageously attractive man.

He stood at well over six feet and his shoulders were broad and strong. Lightweight summer trousers did little to conceal the powerful shaft of his thighs, and beneath the short-sleeved cotton shirt his arms looked as though they were capable of splitting open the trunk of a tree without effort.

But it was the face which was truly remarkable— it effortlessly bore the stamp of generations of Spanish aristocracy. Proud, almost cruel—with only the lush lines of his mouth breaking up the unremitting hardness of his features. A mouth so lush that it exuded the unmistakable sensuality which surrounded him like an invisible cloak.

No wonder her cousin had fallen for his devastating brand of charisma, Sophie thought, and a sudden sense of sadness left her feeling almost winded.

He saw the hint of tears which misted the Mediterranean-blue of her eyes. All the fire and determination had been wiped out, her sadness betrayed by the slight, vulnerable tremble of her lips, and he reached out to take her hand. It felt so tiny and cool when enclosed in his.

‘You have my condolences, little one,’ he said gravely.

She lifted her chin, swallowing the tears away, and removed her hand from his warm grasp, despairing of the not-so-subtle chemistry between them which made her want to leave it exactly where it was. ‘Thank you,’ she returned softly, letting her gaze fall to the ground, just in case those perceptive black eyes had the power to read exactly what was going on in her mind.

He looked at her downcast head and the stiff, defensive set of her shoulders. She was grieving for her cousin, he reminded himself—although the defiant, almost angry spark in her eyes on greeting him had little to do with grief, surely?

‘Come, Sophie,’ he said. ‘The car awaits us and we have some drive ahead of us. Here, let me carry your suitcase for you.’

It sounded more like a command than an offer to help, and, although Sophie could have and would have carried it perfectly well on her own, she knew that it was pointless trying to refuse a man like Luis.

He would insist. Instinct told her that just as accurately as anything her cousin had ever divulged. He came from a long line of imperious men, men who saw clearly delineated lines between the roles of the sexes.

Spain might now be as modern as the rest of Europe, but men like Luis did not change with the times. They still saw themselves as conquerors—superior and supreme—and master of all they surveyed.

She could see women looking at him as they passed. Coy little side-glances and sometimes an eager and undisguised kind of hunger. She couldn’t see into his eyes from here, and wondered if he was giving them hungry little glances back.

Probably. Hadn’t he done just that with her, before he had discovered her identity?

And of course now, without a wife, he could behave exactly as he pleased—he could exert that powerful sexuality and get any woman he wanted into his bed.

The airport buildings were refreshingly air-conditioned, but once outside the force of the heat hit her like a velvet fist, even though the intensity of the midday sun had long since passed.

He saw her flinch beneath the impact of the raw heat, and he knew that he must not forget to warn her about the dangers of the sun. ‘Why don’t you take your jacket off?’ he suggested suavely.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said tightly.

His mouth hardened. ‘As you wish.’

Thankfully, the car was as cool and air-conditioned as the airport terminal, and she waited until he had driven out of the car park and was setting off towards the open road before turning to him.

‘Where’s Teodoro?’

‘At home.’

‘Oh.’

He heard the disappointment in her voice. ‘You imagined that I would have brought him out on a hot summer’s night to await a plane which could have been delayed?’

‘So who’s looking after him?’

Did her question hint at reprimand? he wondered incredulously. Did she imagine that he had left the child alone? ‘He is in the charge of his ninera…’He saw her frown with confusion and realised that she, like her cousin, spoke almost no Spanish at all. ‘His mother’s help,’ he translated immediately.

‘Not any more,’ said Sophie quietly.

‘No,’ he agreed heavily. There was a short, painful pause and he shot her a side-glance. ‘How did your grandmother take it?’

Sophie bit her lip. Would it sound unfeeling and uncaring if she told him that, although the news had saddened her grandmother, it had come as no great surprise. What had she said? Miranda had flown far too close to the sun… But if she told Luis that then surely it would do a disservice to her cousin’s memory.

‘What happened, Luis? How did Miranda die?’

He pulled in a breath, choosing his words carefully, remembering that he must respect both her position and her grief.

How much of the truth did she want? he wondered. Or need?

‘No one knows exactly what happened,’ he said.

She knew evasion when she heard it. And faint distaste, too. She wondered what had caused it.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

He didn’t answer, just kept his dark eyes straight on the road ahead, so that all she could see was his hard, shadowed profile, and Sophie said the first thing which came into her head. ‘Had the driver been drinking?’

There was a short, bald silence. But what would be the point in keeping it from her? It would soon be a matter of public record.

‘Sì. El habia estrado bebiendo.’ He was thinking in his native language and the words just slipped out of their own accord.

She spoke hardly any Spanish, but Sophie could tell what his answer was from the flat, heavy tone of his voice. She closed her eyes in despair. ‘Oh, God! Drinking very much? Do you know?’

‘The tests have not yet been completed.’

A sense of outrage and of anger burned deep within her—and for the first time it was directed at Miranda instead of the man beside her. Her cousin had been a mother, for heaven’s sake, with all the responsibility which went with that. She’d had a young child to look after—so how could she have been so stupid to have gone off in a car where the driver had been drinking?

Unless she hadn’t known.

But Miranda hadn’t been stupid. She’d been head-strong and impetuous sometimes, but she definitely hadn’t been stupid.

Unless this man beside her, who drove the car so expertly through the darkened Spanish countryside— unless he had made her life such a misery that she hadn’t cared about common sense and personal safety.

She shook her head. There was absolutely no justification for Miranda going off with a drink-driver. Whatever the state of her marriage, she had always been free to walk away from it.

She shot a side-glance at the darkly angled profile. Or had she? What if Miranda had tried to walk away, taking Teodoro with her? Couldn’t and wouldn’t Luis have used his power and his influence to try to stop her?

She turned her head and pressed her cheek against the coolness of the window and looked out, only half taking in the wild beauty of the silhouetted landscape beyond.

The air was violet-dark and huge stars spotted the sky with splodges of silver. They looked so much bigger and brighter than the stars back in England, and her home seemed suddenly a long way away. And then she remembered. She had responsibilities, too.

Through sheer effort of will she reached down in her briefcase to retrieve her mobile phone.

‘Will this work out here?’ she questioned.

His eyes narrowed as they briefly glanced over at the little technological toy. ‘That depends on what type it is.’ He shrugged. ‘But I have another you can use, if yours can’t get a signal.’

‘You have a mobile phone? Here? In the car?’

His mouth twisted into a grim smile. ‘Did you imagine that I communicate by bush telegraph? You will find every modern comfort, even here in La Rioja, Sophie.’

And yet his words seemed to mock the reality of his presence. ‘Modern comfort,’ he had said, when with his dark and brooding looks he seemed to represent the very opposite of all that was modern.

He watched as she punched out a string of numbers. ‘Is your call so very important that it cannot wait until we reach the hacienda?’ he questioned softly.

‘I have to let someone know that I arrived safely.’

‘A man, I suppose?’

‘Actually, yes. It is a man.’ Not that it was any of his business, but let him draw his own conclusions, which he very probably would. And obviously if it was a man then she must be sleeping with him!

The connection was made. ‘Liam? Hi, it’s me!’

Beside her, Luis stared into the abyss of the road ahead, wondering if she shared the same sexual freedom as her cousin. His gaze wandered unseen to her legs, and he was unprepared for the sudden buck of jealousy at the thought of those slender, pale limbs wrapped around the body of another.

He reminded himself that he knew women like these—with their blonde hair and their big blue eyes and their gym-toned bodies. The bodies of women but with the minds of men. They acted as men had been acting for years…they saw something they wanted and they went all out to get it.

And she had wanted him once, before she had discovered that he was to marry her cousin, just as he had wanted her—a wanting like no other. A thunderbolt which had struck him and left him aching and dazed in its wake. And it had taken her as well, he had seen that for himself, as unmistakable as the long shadows cast by the sun.

He listened in unashamedly to her conversation as the car ate up the lonely miles.

‘No, I’m in the car now. With Luis.’ A pause. ‘Not really, no.’ Another pause and then she glanced at her watch. ‘It’s just gone nine. No, that’s OK. Yeah, I know, but I can’t really talk now. Yes. OK. Thanks, Liam. I hope so, too. OK, I’ll do that. I’ll call you on Saturday.’

She cut the connection and put the phone back in the glove box.

‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

There was a soft, dangerous pause as he saw her cross one slim, pale leg over the other. ‘Does he hunger for you already, Sophie?’ he asked silkily, and the blood began to pound in his head.

She couldn’t believe her ears. It was such an outrageous thing to say that for a moment Sophie was left speechless.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He gave a half-smile in the darkness. So beautiful and so unintentionally sensual, and yet she could turn her voice to frost when it suited her.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Liam is my business partner.’

‘Ah.’

Something dark and sensual conveyed danger in that simple word, and Sophie felt her heart race with something more than fear. ‘Is—is there going to be anyone else staying at the hacienda?’

He heard the tremor in her voice and it amused him, even while it frustrated and tempted him. Was it him she wasn’t sure she trusted? Or herself? Did she want him still?

‘You mean apart from Teodoro?’ he questioned casually.

‘You know I do.’

‘One of the women from the village comes in to help with meals. And Pirro, who is my cook and gardener, lives in the hacienda with Salvadora, his wife. She is Teodoro’s ninera—as she was mine before, when I was a child.’

‘Since…when?’ asked Sophie, thinking that Salvadora must be getting on a bit if she used to look after Luis. ‘Since before Miranda died?’

‘Oh, long before that,’ he murmured evasively. ‘My son is devoted to her. You will see that for yourself.’

A wave of indignation washed over her, and something far more primitive followed on its heels. Had Miranda effectively been elbowed out of the way? she wondered. The Englishwoman pushed aside for the mummy-substitute—a fellow Spaniard who could teach Teodoro the language and traditions of his father?

Well, not for much longer, vowed Sophie. Somehow she would teach him something of his mother’s heritage. She scrabbled around again in her handbag, this time for a hairbrush.

His mouth curved. ‘There is no one here to impress with your beauty, mia querida,’ he drawled. Apart from him. Because when she lifted her head like that he could see the long, pure line of her neck and the perfect curve of her breasts.

‘That was not my intention.’ She carefully brushed out the fine, honey-coloured hair, which felt all sticky through the many hours of travelling. ‘I merely wanted to make myself presentable on my arrival.’ She could see distant lights. ‘Are we almost there?’

‘Yes, we are just about to pass through the vineyards.’

She looked out of the window again. The famous La Camara vineyards. The largest and most impressive in the region, with grapes yielding a rich harvest which was turned into exquisite wines exported the world over.

She had once drunk La Camara Rioja herself, at a very smart dinner party in London where the host had brought the fine wine out with a reverent air and everyone had sipped it with avid and awed appreciation.

All except for Sophie. She had managed no more than a couple of mouthfuls, feeling that the stuff might choke her as she remembered the proud, arrogant face and the mocking black eyes.

‘You aren’t drinking, Sophie?’ the host had commented.

It would have been a real party-stopper if she had explained that she was related by marriage to the owner of the vineyard, a man who made her blood sing and her temper flare in equal measure whenever she thought about him.

And she didn’t want to think about him.

Muffling a little gulp, she sat back in the seat and closed her eyes.

Luis glanced over at her, frowning a little as he saw the tension which tightened her shoulders, wondering if she was about to cry, and instinctively his voice gentled. ‘Did you eat on the plane?’

‘No. It was horrible little bits of unrecognisable food in plastic trays. And I wasn’t hungry.’

‘We will have dinner when we arrive.’

‘Surely it’s too late for dinner?’

‘But we eat very late in Spain, Sophie, did you not know that? Did you not know that the Spanish are more awake than anyone in Europe—and not only because they regard going to bed before three a.m. as a kind of personal dishonour?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve only ever been to Spain once, and that was for the weekend when Teodoro was baptised.’

‘Then you have missed very much.’ His voice had deepened now, was made almost kind with something which sounded like compassion. ‘I wish this time it could be under happier circumstances, querida. It is a pity that you will see little of my country before you return home.’

There was an expectant silence and Sophie ignored it.

But Luis did not. ‘By the way, you didn’t tell me how long you were going to be staying?’

‘No. No, I didn’t.’

‘And?’

She was glad of the darkness because the way he framed that single syllable was nothing short of intimidating.

‘I’m not sure.’ Until she had reached a position of trust which ensured that she would be able to fly Teo back to England for a short holiday to see his great-grandmother. But now was definitely not the time to tell him that.

And then she reminded herself that as his guest he was owed certain courtesies. ‘That is, I would like to stay for at least a few days, maybe longer, if that’s OK with you. I’d like to see a bit of Teo.’

Unseen, his eyes narrowed. No, it was not ‘OK with him.’ He did not want this woman in his home for a minute longer than necessary—for reasons which were both simple and highly complex. He wanted her, but he could never have her. Not now. Not ever.

‘Spaniards are famous for their hospitality, Sophie,’ he said softly. ‘And therefore my home is yours for as long as you wish it.’

Sophie nodded. Unless he made it impossible for her to remain, of course. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘De nada,’ he answered.

The car swept up a gravelled drive, and through the broad canopy of strange trees Sophie saw the welcoming lights of the large hacienda.

He opened the door of the car and she thought that she caught the drift of oranges and lemons, the soft night air thick with the scent of exotic blooms. She gazed at the imposing building which looked as if it had been there for ever. There was a sense of beauty, and of history, which she found impossible to ignore, despite the heartbreaking circumstances which had brought her here.

And then she was caught in the ebony glitter of those beautiful, mocking eyes.

‘Welcome to my home, Sophie,’ he said softly.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.