Sins of the past must be paid!

On trembling legs, dress designer Rose Cavalliero stares up at the man she never thought she’d see again. Tall, dark and dangerous, Spaniard Nairo Moreno took Rose’s virginity before a misunderstanding led her to nearly destroy his life. But now he’s back and determined to collect the debt she owes him.

Designing his precious sister’s wedding gown will cement Rose’s career. But if she’d known that accepting Nairo’s offer would see her blackmailed into becoming a more-than-convenient fiancée to the man who broke her heart, Rose would have said no...wouldn’t she?

‘There is a price for my assistance.’

Of course there was. This was Nairo Moreno she was dealing with. A man who had somehow built himself up from the shabby, broken beginnings of their lives when they had first met and who was now this powerful, wealthy man. There had to be a price on anything he did.

‘A price?’ Rose queried.

‘Oh, don’t look so panicked,’ he mocked as she turned uncertain eyes on him. ‘I’m not going to demand your body in return for my favours in some odd modern version of droit du seigneur.’

He paused just long enough for her skin to smart under the bite of his mockery.

‘There wouldn’t be much point, would there? After all, we’ve already been there—haven’t we, querida?’

The pointed reminder that they had once been lovers, that he had been the one to take her virginity all those years before, drained the strength from her muscles, making her grab at a nearby chair for support. It was An innocence that then she had relinquished happily and unhesitatingly,because she had been so much under the sway of the heated hunger she had known for this man, blinded to anything but her need for him.

He might have stepped in to save her business earlier this evening, but what he had decided so surprisingly to give her he could take away in the space of a heartbeat. She must not forget that she was no longer dealing with the boy she’d met ten years before. This man was a very different sort of male.

KATE WALKER was born in Nottingham, in the UK, but grew up in West Yorkshire. She met her husband at university in Wales and originally worked as a children’s librarian. After the birth of her son she returned to her childhood love of writing. Her first book was published in 1984. She now lives in Lincolnshire with her husband—also a writer—and two cats who think they rule her life.

Books by Kate Walker

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Destined for the Desert King

Olivero’s Outrageous Proposal

A Question of Honour

Royal & Ruthless

A Throne for the Taking

Return of the Rebels

The Devil and Miss Jones

The Powerful and the Pure

The Return of the Stranger

Italian Temptation!

The Proud Wife

The Greek Tycoons

The Greek Tycoon’s Unwilling Wife

The Good Greek Wife?

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Indebted to Moreno

Kate Walker

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

THE ALMOST FULL moon was burning cold and high in the darkness of the sky as Rose slipped out of the door, shutting it cautiously behind her. She winced inwardly as the battered wood creaked on rusted hinges, the sound seeming appallingly loud in the stillness of the night, and froze in a panic, waiting for someone to stir upstairs, to come after her as her stepfather had done on that day almost three months ago. But the house remained silent and still, apparently empty, though she knew that there were half a dozen or so figures hidden behind the filthy, cracked windows on the upper floors.

She had to be grateful for the moonlight that illuminated her way down the weed-clogged path towards the street. It helped make sure that she didn’t stumble over the beer cans or plastic bags of rubbish that littered her way. But for the few minutes it took her to reach the road and scurry out of sight, panic screamed a need to run along her nerves fighting a vicious battle with the need to move carefully and avoid making a sound. At any moment she expected to hear movement behind her, the sound of a shout waking and alerting everyone in the squat.

And one dangerous person in particular.

Rose’s heart clenched as she tried to pull her thoughts away from the man she was leaving behind. A man she had once seen as her rescuer, coming to her aid when she needed help most. The man she now had to leave behind or lose herself once and for all.

It was a bitter irony that she had once seen this squat in the abandoned shell of a once elegant town house as a sanctuary as she’d fled the unwanted attentions of her hated stepfather, only to find that she had well and truly jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

‘Oh, Jett...’

The name slipped past her lips, and, despite everything she did to push them away, images slid into her mind. The picture of his long, powerful body lying on the dusty floor of the bedroom they had claimed as their own, his head with the overlong jet-black mess of hair pillowed on the olive-skinned arms in which he hid his face. He had always slept like that, even after they had made burning, passionate love, tumbling deep into sleep as if at the press of a button. But she knew that the appearance of deep slumber was a false impression. One awkward move, the faintest sound and he would jolt awake in a moment, coming upright and alert in the space of a heartbeat, every wary sense on high alert.

He’d stirred in his sleep as she’d left his side and only by murmuring something about needing to use the toilet had she persuaded him to let his head drop back onto his arms.

‘Don’t be long’ had been the curt, brief command and although she’d known he couldn’t see her she had shaken her head, letting the long fall of her bright red hair conceal her face.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ she’d managed, knowing that he wouldn’t take that the way she meant it. She was not going to be absent from his side for just a minute but for ever. This would be her one and only chance to get out of here before all hell broke out and she was going to snatch at that chance and run with it.

Yet even as she ran down the road there was a terrible tearing sensation inside her, in the region of her heart. A sense of loss and yearning for what she had thought she had, for what she’d dreamed of, that now, with a bitter realisation, she knew to have been a fake all the time.

If only... But there was no room, no time for ‘if only’. There was no future for her with this man, the man she had been foolish enough to fall head over heels for, to give herself body and soul to until she had realised the truth about the sort of person he was.

She should have known he was no knight on a white charger when he’d, literally, picked her up off the street. But then she’d been so lost and alone that she’d been grateful for any help, caught up in the dark spell he had woven around her from the start. Now she could no longer ignore the evidence that told her that Jett was involved in the abominable trade of dealing illegal drugs. A trade that had resulted in the horror of the death of one of the other squatters. She shuddered fearfully just thinking of it.

Which was why she had to get out of here right now. She had to go as far and as fast as she could and never once look back.

The sound of cars coming down the road caught her ears. She knew why they were there. The police had acted on her information, and their approach meant that time really had run out for her.

Speeding up, she dashed away from the house that had been the only thing she could call home for the last few months, breath catching in her lungs as, skidding slightly, she whirled around the corner. Behind her, the convoy of police cars came into the street and pulled up sharply outside the door to the squat.

It was over. But the real truth was that it had never truly begun and her naïve foolishness had blinded her to the reality until it was almost too late.

CHAPTER ONE

NAIRO ROJA MORENO stepped out of the door of his private jet and frowned savagely as the icy blast of air and rain crashed into his face, making him blink hard against the cold.

‘Perdición!’ he swore, pulling up the collar of his jacket, the wind whipping the word from his lips and whirling it up into the steel-grey sky. ‘It’s raining!’

Of course it was raining. This was England, and it seemed that the weather had conspired to remind him just how much he loathed the place.

London, where he’d once thought his life might start afresh only to find that what was left of his heart had been taken and carelessly discarded without a second thought.

‘No.’

He made his way down the steps, tossing back his hair in defiance at the weather. The memories that swirled in his thoughts had nothing to do with the temperatures, except for the fact that it had always been cold in that damn house. Cold and miserable except for the times that he had been able to persuade Red to join him in the tatty, inadequate sleeping bag.

Be honest. It wasn’t the weather or the house that had got to him. It was the coldness of betrayal. The coldness of a heart he had once thought was warm and giving. Until she had left him with nothing when she had vanished out of his life and into the night.

Well, good riddance to her, he told himself, shaking off his memories in the same moment as he slid into the car that was waiting for him. He had had no inclination to go after her, and there had been no time to even consider it. He had been so occupied turning his life around and making his way back to his family—a reconciliation that she had almost destroyed by her actions—that she had been the last thing on his mind. He’d managed a second chance and he wasn’t going to stuff it up. This trip to London would be the final part of the task he had set himself.

‘Dacre Street,’ he told the driver in response to the man’s request for a destination. He could only hope the driver knew where the damn place was; it was in no part of the London he usually frequented.

Nairo settled back on the seat, frowning darkly as he raked his wet hair back from his face. He had to get into the city, do the job he’d come to do, keep his promise to Esmeralda. He had so much to make up to his sister and this one last thing to make her happy was what mattered. After this, his duty was done.

* * *

If there ever was a day when it was the worst possible moment for Louise to need to go home sick, then it had to be today, Rose told herself, sighing as she pushed back a floating strand of bright auburn hair that had escaped from the neat braid for the nth time. Obviously her normally efficient and organised assistant had been feeling worse than she had let on the previous day, if the state of the reception area was anything to go by. Everything needed tidying, and the diary that detailed today’s appointments had been splashed with coffee, blurring the details.

Not that Rose needed any reminders. The appointment had been made a week ago, the first contact being with a heavily accented voice on the other end of the phone. Nairo Roja Moreno’s PA as she declared herself to be.

‘Nairo Roja Moreno...’ Rose murmured to herself as she considered the blurred words in the diary. The eldest son of an aristocratic Spanish family, his PA had informed her. And he wanted to talk to her about a wedding dress?

She’d meant to look up this Spaniard on the Internet last night, but her mother had been so unwell that it had taken all of her time and attention to get them both through the evening.

When she’d got the confirmation email she’d been overjoyed. It had seemed like a rescue mission arriving just in time. Caring for her mother through her illness had drained her resources, taken all her energy, mental and physical. She’d had no new commissions in an age. The mess of her marriage that had never been and the scandal that had followed it had seen to that. She was behind with the rent on the boutique, had barely been able to meet the costs of her flat. But if this Nairo Moreno really did want her to design his sister’s wedding dress together with the bridesmaids’ outfits, the flower girls and pageboys of which there seemed to be dozens, well, it might just save her from going under. Save her reputation publicly, save her life financially and perhaps even save her mother’s life in reality.

Joy had endured a long and difficult battle with the cancer that had assailed her. She was weak and drained by chemotherapy, the operation, and was only just starting to recover. Any new shock, any extra stress might be dangerous, and, after all the time it had taken to rebuild their relationship from a perilously rocky point ten years before, Rose hated to think that everything could be destroyed now.

Her aristocratic visitor would be here any moment. Tapping her pen in a restless tattoo on the appointment book, Rose frowned as she looked out at the lashing rain that was splattering the plate-glass window of her design rooms. Not the best day to imagine a summer wedding.

Jett had hated the rain, particularly in the unheated squat. As a result, so many rainy days had been spent cuddled up together...

A rush of dark memories swamped her mind, loosening her grip so that the pen dropped from her hand, falling to the floor and rolling away under a display cabinet.

‘Darn it!’

Getting down on her hands and knees, she groped in the darkness, fumbling for the pen just out of reach. It was then that she heard the door open behind her, the rush of cold damp air telling her that someone had come into the building from the street.

‘Sorry! Just a moment.’

‘De nada.’

It was the sexiest voice, deep and dark and so beautifully accented.

Of course! The Spanish aristocrat—what was his name? Nairo something. Suddenly becoming aware of the way she must look, bottom in the air, narrow skirt stretched tight, she made one final lurch, banging her head on the shelf before grabbing the pen, then turning to push herself upwards.

It was no problem to wait, Nairo reflected. He was perfectly happy to stay here and enjoy the spectacle of a deliciously rounded bottom stuck up in the air as its owner groped for something under the shelving. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back against the door feeling his pulse kick up and thud hard and heavy in his veins as he enjoyed the view before him.

If there was one thing he hadn’t anticipated on this unwanted trip to England, then it was the possibility of indulging in a little sensual pleasure. There was so much to be planned and organised back in Spain, with the demands of his sister’s soon-to-be in-laws to take into consideration, that he had allowed himself only the freedom of a couple of days away from the chaos and uproar that The Wedding of the Century had created.

Now, with this tantalising display of female charms on display before him, he allowed himself to reconsider.

It had been a long time—too long—since he had had the pleasures of a woman in his bed. His father’s final illness, the need for ferocious commitment to work on the family estates, restoring the Moreno fallen fortunes, and now, of course, Esmeralda’s engagement and upcoming wedding had ensured that he had had little time to breathe.

Suddenly the prospect of a few days’ relaxation, even in the grey, rainy city of London, had infinitely more appeal.

‘Got it!’

The triumph in the woman’s voice made him smile, but it was a smile that leached from his lips as he saw her lift her head.

Red hair. His personal curse. A bronze, auburn red it was true, not the bright red that had been one of the glories that he had so loved in the woman who had once filled his days, haunted his dreams.

Red...

The echo of his own voice sounded inside his head as memories threatened to surface. He had fought against those memories, pushing them behind him as he set about restoring his life to some degree of order and rebuilding it from the mess it had become. The last thing he wanted was the resurfacing of anything that connected him to the time when he had lived in London in such very different circumstances.

Scarlett. It was the name of this shop—the designer that Esmeralda had sent him to find—that had put these thoughts in his mind.

‘I’m sorry— I— Ouch!’ The sharp cry of pain broke into his thoughts.

She had lifted her head rather too quickly in her triumph at having found whatever it was she was looking for and so had caught her face on the side of the shelf. Immediately he moved forward, holding out his hand to her.

‘Allow me...’

That voice was designed to turn any woman to mush, Rose told herself. And the firm, warm grip of his hand was like touching a live wire, sizzling reaction sparking all along her arm.

‘Th-thank you.’

The sharp bang on her forehead had brought tears to her eyes so that she was blinking hard to clear them as he swung her to her feet, the strength of the movement bringing her up and close to him. So close that she almost fell against him as she rocked on her toes before she managed to snatch back her balance and settle her feet on the floor.

She was assailed by a rush of heat from the closeness of a powerful male body, her senses tantalised by the heady combination of the musky scent of clean male skin, a sensual tang of some citrusy aftershave, all topped off with the fresh, wild trace of rain and wind that he had brought in from the street outside.

Suddenly, shockingly, all she could think of was one word, one man, one memory.

Jett... The word slammed into her mind without thought, without control.

No!

Why was she thinking of him? It was almost ten years since the night she had fled from the squat. A decade in which she had picked herself up, dusted herself off and built her life back up again. To the stage where this Spanish aristocrat was here today to discuss a commission to design a wedding dress for his sister.

A commission that she desperately needed. It would be the first time ever she had been asked to design a dress outside the small spread of the local area, unless you counted the dress that her friend Marina Marriot had worn just last month at her wedding to an up-and-coming actor.

‘I’m fine now...’

She wished she didn’t sound quite so breathless. Wished she had let go of his hand before this so that it didn’t look quite so embarrassing as she had to ease her fingers from his.

‘De nada.’

Again the sound of that sexy accent coiled around her, bringing memories of another man who had spoken with just that hint of an exotic pronunciation.

But there was no way that Jett would wear a suit like this one that made this man look so sleek and powerful and magnificent. That had to have been custom-made to flatter the powerful straight shoulders, the width of his chest and the lean length of his legs down to where his feet in polished handmade shoes were firmly planted on the tiled floor. Jett had never owned a suit. Like her, he had barely had a change of clothes. The tee shirt and jeans she wore as she fled from the house where the unwanted attentions of her stepfather had made sure it had never felt like a home being the only items that she’d had to drape over the door to what was laughingly called their bedroom.

Her eyes had cleared now and she was looking up into the carved, hard features of the most stunning man she had ever seen. Amber eyes framed with impossibly lush, black lashes burned down into hers. Hard bones shaped the lean cheeks, touched with a darkness of stubble even this early in the day. That mouth was an invitation to sin, warm, sensual, full lips slightly parted over sharp white teeth.

And she knew how that mouth felt, how it tasted...

She felt the world tilt on its axis, the room swinging round her.

‘Jett...’

There was no holding it back this time. She didn’t even try. It escaped on a breath that was all she could manage as she realised just who this man was.

A man who had once filled her days and haunted her nights. Even when she had run from him she had still taken him with her in her thoughts, her nights filled with memories that jolted her awake, left her drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. A man she had had to hand over to the police when she had learned the source of the money he had suddenly come into, then left to face the repercussions of his actions.

‘Jett?’ She heard him echo her response sharply, a frown snapping the black, straight brows together, cold eyes looking down into her upturned face.

Those amazing eyes narrowed, the beautiful mouth tightening as his head came up and he took a step back, away from her.

‘Red... I didn’t know you worked here.’

Worked here. Perhaps that was a score one to the fact that he really was here by accident. That he hadn’t sought her out—because why would he do that after all this time? The thought didn’t help with the thumping of her heart, the feeling like the beating of a thousand butterfly wings in the pit of her stomach. He hadn’t come looking for her and it was all just a terrible misstep of fate.

But that dark emphasis on the word you twisted something in her guts, bringing home an awareness of the fact that she was all alone, not even Louise in the office, within call. Tension stiffened her back, tightened her shoulders.

‘And I didn’t know you worked for Nairo Moreno.’

That brought an unexpected twist to his mouth, the sensual lips twitching into something that could have been described as a smile but was totally without any warmth in it. His eyes seemed to impale her where she stood.

‘Not worked... I am Nairo Moreno. I came here to see Ms Cavalliero. Oh—what, my darling Red...?’

The smile grew wider, darker.

‘Did you think I was here to see you? That I would have hunted you down after all this time, determined to find you?’

She had actually considered that fact, Nairo told himself. It was written all over her beautiful face. The young girl he had once known as ‘Red’ had always held the promise of being a looker, but he had never anticipated her growing into the sleek, sexy vision who stood before him.

That pert bottom that had caught his attention from the start was only a small part of a slim, shapely figure displayed to full advantage in the cream lace blouse and navy blue, clinging skirt. The hair that had once been the vivid, vibrant colour that gave her her nickname was now a more subtle auburn shade, still with the glint of red blending in with the glossy darker tones. Those almond-shaped, slightly slanting hazel eyes were even more feline than before when accentuated with the subtle use of cosmetics that she would never have been able to afford back then.

A swift, sharp inward shake of his head broke the train of his thoughts, dragging them back from the path down which they had wandered.

She was the last thing he wanted in his world right now. Hadn’t she come close to ruining his life all those years before? Ten years younger, and a lifetime more naïve, he had risked losing everything for the sake of a few short nights of heedless passion. He had even, foolishly, blindly, come close to giving her a piece of his heart. Only to discover that he had been nothing to her when the promise of a reward for information had more appeal instead.

‘It’s taken me rather a long time—don’t you think? Ten years. So why should I suddenly turn round and want to see you again? You can relax about that, Red—I am not looking for you but for your boss.’

‘My boss?’

‘Sí. Ms Rose Cavalliero. The owner of this business, and the designer of...’

An autocratic wave of his hand indicated the two beautiful dresses displayed on mannequins in the corner of the room. Of course, Rose realised, he was here to discuss the design of his sister’s wedding dress. But the realisation that he still thought she was only the receptionist, that he hadn’t put two and two together to recognise that the ‘Scarlett’ in her business name was in fact her, was in no way eased by the thought of that commission he’d come to discuss.

Oh, no, no! She couldn’t work for him. She wouldn’t do it. OK, so it might mean a real coup for her business. A boost to her reputation that would be of immeasurable value. But would it be worth it?

All the money in the world couldn’t compensate for spending time with Jett—with this Nairo Moreno as he now called himself. Even if he hadn’t come looking for revenge, it was obvious that he could barely bring himself to be polite to her.

But how could she get out of it?

‘So where is she?’

The question came coldly, curtly, and seeing the hard set of his face Rose was swamped by a rush of cold unease.

To see the smoulder of dark anger in his eyes made her feet feel unsafe on the floor, her mouth drying sharply. If only she had known who this Nairo Moreno really was, then she would never have agreed to meet him today.

But of course he didn’t realise exactly who she was. He still believed that she was only the receptionist. For a second the desire to put him in his place by pointing out that she owned the whole establishment and was the designer he had said he so wanted to meet warred with a sense of self-preservation. What she really wanted was to get rid of him before he brought his malign influence back into her present as he had done to her past.

‘She couldn’t be here. Her mother isn’t well.’

Well, that was true enough. And the closer she could get to the truth with this man, the less likely she was to give herself away.

‘She didn’t think to send a message to let me know?’ The anger was there now, in a frigid form. ‘That’s hardly good business practice.’

‘It—it was an emergency. She got called away unexpectedly.’

‘I see.’

His tone said the exact opposite as he pushed back the immaculate white cuff of his shirt and checked the time. On the sort of platinum watch that the man she had once known could never have afforded.

Unless of course... The coldness at her spine turned into a slow, icy creeping sensation that made her remember just why she had had to run out on him, the darkness of the world that she had discovered she had fallen into.

‘I’m sure she’ll be in touch...’

When she had some excuse ready. Some reason why she couldn’t take on his commission. She’d think of something when she wasn’t faced with telling it to him in person. Right now, all she wanted was for him to get out of her life and stay out. For good this time.

‘I’ll be waiting for her message.’

The dark thread of anger that laced the statement turned it into an unspoken threat, making her heart clench painfully so that she had to struggle to draw her next breath.

‘I’ll tell her.’ Embarrassingly it was a revealing squeak.

Unable to meet those coldly assessing eyes, Rose hurried to the door, deliberately moving so as not to risk touching him, or come within reach of one of those long-fingered hands that now rested lightly on the smooth leather belt that encircled his narrow waist. She didn’t want to remember anything about the touch of those hands, and the thought of them coming anywhere near her again set the butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach all over again.

‘You do that.’

This was not at all how he had expected the day to go, Nairo reflected as he watched this new Red march to the door and yank it open, standing there stiff and taut, rejection in every inch of her slender body. The meeting with some society designer he had anticipated had not happened and instead he had found himself confronted by memories from his past stirring the silt in which he’d believed they were buried.

Forcing him to remember how this one slip of a girl had turned his life upside down, blackening his name just when he was fighting to win back his father’s respect, and then walked out on him.

To remember how soft her skin had felt, the warmth of her body as she had curled up to him on the rough and ready ‘bed’ that had been all the furniture their room had possessed. He could still catch her unique, individual scent even if now it was hidden under some crisp fresh perfume and it awoke a hunger he had thought he’d forgotten. A hunger that he had spent the last ten years trying to obliterate. He’d indulged his masculine needs indiscriminately but never, it seemed, managed to wipe it out. Not if it could be woken again so fast and so easily.

‘As soon as I see her,’ Red came back at him with what was clearly a pointed reminder that she wanted him to leave. And it was because she so obviously wanted him gone that, perversely, he found himself lingering.

She felt it too, this disturbing hot flood of memories and awareness. It was there in her face, in the wide darkness of her eyes, the pupils distended until they almost obliterated the mossy softness of her irises. Her breathing was tight and unnatural and he could see the faint blue tinge under the pale skin at the base of her neck where a pulse beat, rapid and uneven. A kick of reaction hit him in the gut, keeping him where he was instead of leaving as she clearly intended he should.

‘Is she always this unprofessional?’ he asked icily, watching as her mouth quivered, then tightened again.

How was it possible that after all this time he could remember how that soft mouth had tasted, the warm yielding of those pink lips against his own?

‘She...has so many demands on her time. More than she can cope with sometimes.’

‘She’s so busy she can risk losing an important commission?’

Rose flinched inside at the sharp stab of the challenge. Just moments ago she had thought of the Moreno commission as the chance of a lifetime, a rescue package that had landed on her desk wrapped in beautiful paper and tied with golden ribbon. But now it was as if she had opened that magical parcel only to find it filled with black, stinking ashes, with a deadly poisonous snake lurking at the bottom just waiting to strike.

She had to get out of this contract somehow, but for now she would settle for having Jett—or Nairo as it seemed she must call him—out of the shop, out of her space, to give her time to think about the way she could possibly deal with this without ruining her professional reputation once and for all.

‘I can’t tell you about that.’ The fact that it was actually the most honest thing she had said gave a new strength to her voice. ‘So, if you don’t mind...I’d like you to leave now.’

His smile was dark, devilish enough to send shivers down her spine.

‘But we’ve only just found each other again.’ The mockery that lifted his tone had the sting of poison.

‘Well, you obviously haven’t missed me in the past ten years.’

No, that sounded too much as if she regretted it. The last thing she wanted was for him to think that she had missed him, even if it was true. But all her courage had seeped away, leaving her feeling weak and empty, genuinely afraid of what she might spark off if she challenged him too strongly.

‘I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure to see you again, but I’m afraid that just wouldn’t be true. And I really must ask you to leave now. We have this event—a bridal fashion show—tonight. I have to get ready for that.’

That she wanted him to go wriggled under his skin and stayed there, irritating him furiously. She’d got under his skin in a very different way in the past. He had let her do things to his heart that he had never allowed any other woman—any other human being except perhaps Esmeralda—to do to him before or since. But now that they had met up again, all that she wanted was to be rid of him as soon as possible.

The temptation to dig his heels in and refuse to move at all almost overwhelmed him. But a moment’s thought left him realising that he didn’t have to tackle this right now. Not yet. He knew where Red was; she wasn’t going anywhere. He could afford the time to wait and discover rather more about her, and then he would act in the way that would give him the best satisfaction possible.

Shaking her life right to the roots just as she had done to his when she’d walked out on him, leaving behind a mess it had taken years to sort out.

A curt nod was his only response to her pointed remark. It amused him to see the way her shoulders dropped slightly in relief, the easing of the tension about her mouth as she believed that she had got rid of him.

‘You’ll tell Ms Cavalliero that I kept our appointment? And I expect to meet up with her at her earliest convenience.’

Left to himself he’d dispense with the designer and her frills and fancies and go straight to the result he most wanted—the settling of the score he had with the woman he’d only ever known as Red. But he’d promised Esmeralda and he wasn’t prepared to take any risks with his sister’s health that not keeping that promise might result in.

So he’d see to this damn dress—the dress of his sister’s dreams—first. And then he’d deal with Red. He’d waited nearly ten long years already. He reckoned he could wait a little while longer.

The burn of his memories suddenly flamed up again, hot and hard, as he saw the way that she stood at the door, stiff-shouldered, taut-backed, her chin lifted in a sign of defiance. There was a flare of awareness in those mossy-golden eyes that pushed him just too close to the edge of the restraint he was holding so tight.

His feet came to a sudden halt, not letting him move forward. He caught her swiftly indrawn breath, noted the extra tension in every muscle that held her slim frame tight, drew in her stomach and lifted the swell of her pert breasts above the embroidered belt that circled her waist.

‘Red...’

If only he knew how much she hated that once affectionate nickname! That focussed stare held her transfixed, unable to look away in spite of the fact that she felt as if his gaze were searing through her skin, burning her eyes to dust. Slowly he lifted a hand, touched her face, the blunt tips of his long fingers resting so lightly on the cheekbone under her right eye.

‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s been...interesting...meeting up like this.’

‘Interesting—that isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.’

Devastating, earth-shaking, came closer. So many times in the past she’d dreamed of just this meeting happening—and dreaded it in the same moment.

‘But I need to tell you. I am not the man that I was.’

‘I can see that. That is, if Moreno is really your name,’ she challenged.

‘Jett was only ever a nickname. Moreno is my family name, though I didn’t use it then—before.’

Abruptly his mood changed, his eyes becoming darker.

‘They let me go, you know,’ he said. ‘There was no evidence against me.’

The conversational tone of his voice was at odds with what she read in the taut muscles of his face. Just how had Jett become this Nairo Moreno?

The man who stood before her was light years away from the wild, rough-haired youth she had once known. The one who had stolen her heart only to break it just a few weeks later, crushing it brutally under his booted foot. Was he the member of a Spanish aristocratic family he claimed to be or—that nasty slimy feeling slithered down her spine again, making her shiver—had his obvious wealth and position been bought with the proceeds of other activities in the years since they had known each other? There might have been no evidence of the crime she’d suspected him of, but he had clearly come a long way in ten years and that spoke of a ruthlessness and focus that few men possessed.

Something she didn’t want to dig into too deeply. And a very good reason to get out of the contract to design a dress for anyone in his family if she possibly could.

‘You will not tell anyone about the time we knew each other.’

It was a cold-blooded command, laced through with a powerful seam of threat, a warning as to what would happen if she was fool enough to reveal anything he wanted kept hidden.

‘Not even Ms Cavalliero.’

‘I doubt if she’d need to know.’ Not when she already knew every dark detail about Nairo Roja Moreno. And wished she didn’t. ‘I certainly won’t be telling.’

‘Make sure you don’t.’

The finger that rested on her cheek traced a slow, gentle path down the line of her jaw, to rest against the corner of her mouth, hooded eyes watching every flicker of expression across her face.

It was all that Rose could do not to turn her head sharply, pull away from that small, lingering touch. She wanted to move, desperately longed to back away, and yet at the same time that simple touch was so familiar, bringing back memories of the feel of his hands on her skin, the taste of his mouth...

She couldn’t go there. She mustn’t go there!

‘Take your hand off my face.’ She hissed the words out as much against the feelings that were stinging her as at him. ‘I didn’t give you permission to touch me and I...’

She couldn’t continue in the face of his unexpected soft laugh and the way that he deliberately twisted his hand so that the backs of his fingers were now against her skin. Deliberately he stroked his fingers down her cheek again.

‘I said don’t do that!’ This time she couldn’t hold back and jerked her head away in angry rejection.

His laughter scoured her spine, but he lifted his hand slowly, bronze eyes gleaming with wicked mockery.

‘My, you do have a tendency to overreact, querida. It didn’t use to be that way. I can recall a time when you would beg for my touch.’

‘Then you must have an amazing memory. It was a very long time ago.’

‘Not long enough,’ Nairo drawled, the smile evaporating fast. ‘Some things you just don’t forget.’

‘Really? Well, I’m afraid my recollection isn’t as good as yours—and it’s certainly not something I want to revive.’

Making the movement look as if she were only wanting to ease his departure, she slipped away from him, holding open the door again.

‘I’ll pass on your messages.’

The words showed every trace of the effort she was making to get them out, fighting against giving in to the burning response even that most gentle of touches was sparking off all over her skin. One flick of a glance up at him was more than she could cope with. She could see herself reflected in those burnished eyes, small and diminished in a way that made her legs feel weak as cotton wool.

‘I’ll tell her—everything you said.’

‘Except that you knew me before.’

How did he manage to inject such deadly poison into six simple words? The stepfather she had run from in a flight that had ended up with her living in the squat might have ranted and roared, bellowing threats, but he had never managed to make her quail inside in the way that this quietly spoken command could do.

‘Except for that,’ she managed jerkily.

For another dangerous moment his fingers still lingered too close to her face, but then, just as she thought that she couldn’t keep control any longer, he lifted his hand away and let it drop to his side. The smile that he flashed on and off was like burning ice, no emotion at all in it.

‘See you around, Red.’

‘Not if I see you first.’

The words were muttered to an empty space. He’d gone, striding out into the darkness and the rain without a single glance back. It was as if defiance of his presence was all that had been holding her upright as she sagged back against the wall and let the door slam back into place.

He was gone. And she was free, safe—for now.

But it was only a temporary reprieve. There was no way she could hold off having Jett—in the form of Nairo Moreno—back in her life while he still wanted to see Rose Cavalliero. Right now he had no idea that she was the Rose he’d come to talk to, but she couldn’t hope to let that last for very much longer. He would put two and two together, and when he did, then he would be back.

She had to get rid of him; she couldn’t cope with him intruding into her life. Not just because of the past but because of the shocking effect he still had on her today.

Slowly her hand crept up to her face, covering the spot where Nairo’s fingertip had touched her. She almost expected it to have etched a brand into her skin, marking her as his. He had done that long ago, hadn’t he? He had touched her life and encircled her with bands of emotional and sexual steel so that she had never been able to break free. Even now, all these years later, he could still invade her life and if she wasn’t careful he would leave it in ruins all over again.

CHAPTER TWO

HE SHOULD NEVER have let himself touch her.

Nairo slid his car into the nearest empty parking space, stamped on the brakes with uncharacteristic lack of care and switched off the engine. His concentration had been shot all afternoon, in a way so untypical of him that it felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a form of madness. The tips of his fingers still seemed to burn with the imprint of that touch, the connection of skin on skin, even though it was hours since he had walked out of the shop and left Red behind. He was sure that if he brought his hand close to his face he would still inhale the perfume of her skin, the fresh, unique combination that was this woman mixed with the light floral scent she had worn.

Or perhaps that was because the cloud of her personal body perfume seemed to enclose him ever since he had realised just who she was. It had been like that after they had first become lovers. In the squat she had always washed every day, even in the freezing water that was all they had available, and the scent of her skin had been the only thing that was fresh or clean in the grubby little room that they had called ‘home’.

Waking up each morning to find her curled against him, the soft hair, longer and redder than she wore it now, falling over her face, had made him feel as if life was worth living at a time when he had had serious doubts on that matter.

She’d had her own problems too. Running from an aggressive and abusive stepfather, a mother who had been too weak to protect her, she had still given him a reason to wake up—if only because waking up usually meant another opportunity to take her in his arms, and give in to the heated passion that burned into his soul every time he touched her.

He had even thought about changing his life for her.

‘Change—for her—hah!’

The words punched into the air as he pushed open the door to the hall where the wedding fayre was being held, the violence of the movement expressing the way the memories burned like acid.

He had thought about change—had even taken the first steps towards it—and she...she had just walked out on him, never looking back. She’d also added an extra little sting to her departure that had come close to ruining every chance he had had of rebuilding what was left of his relationship with his family.

The burn of that memory almost had him turning and marching right back out again. He wanted nothing to do with Red—and yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Her betrayal, her desertion, demanded some sort of retribution and yet he had no wish to tangle himself up with her all over again. He had just about found peace after ten years’ hard work. Did he really want to stick his head right back in the lion’s mouth and risk it all over again?

But the promise he had made to Esmeralda held him prisoner. He had sworn he would bring her this designer she had set her heart on, and he was not going back on his word. Only with that contract secured and his sister happy would he consider just how he would deal with Red.

The sound of the buzz of many voices from the end of the corridor told him just where the event was being held and had him heading towards the glass-paned door.

The noise of conversation hit him along with a strong wave of perfume—a heady mixture of so many different fragrances. The room was full of women of all ages, shapes and sizes. There were flowers everywhere too, and a small runway set up in the centre of the hall with a white floor, leading to a fall of heavy velvet curtains in rich red. The colours of the flowers, the curtains, the women’s dresses and suits whirled and blurred into a kaleidoscopic haze.

‘And now, ladies, we have a special treat for you...’

The voice was immediately familiar and Nairo cursed under his breath. Because there she was again. The woman he had known as Red.

If he had felt that she had grown into a beautiful woman when he had first seen her in the boutique, then this was even worse. Now she was groomed, and sleek, elegant in a silky peacock-blue shift dress, simple and sleeveless, that clung lovingly all the way from the softly scooped neck, over the curves of breasts and hips to end just above her knees and reveal a heart-jolting slender length of leg. The ridiculously high-heeled shoes were exactly the same colour as the dress, except for a perky little white bow at the toe. The whole effect had him clenching his hands into tight fists and pushing them deep into the pockets of his trousers as he fought with his immediate and primitive response.

He’d thought he’d put her out of his mind. He’d tried his damnedest to do just that, but it had taken only one look, one touch, and it had become obvious just why he’d been hooked in that way. She’d had the power to entrance him as a skinny girl and now she’d grown up, matured, he was swamped by a hunger he hadn’t felt before or since. Then he’d been naïve enough to label it with a softer emotion because then he’d been fool enough to believe that emotion existed. He’d soon learned his lesson.

Now was not the time he wanted to remember how he had once been able to hold one slender foot in his hand, lift it to his mouth and kiss it from the long, delicate toes all the way up to where her legs disappeared under her skirt...

...and beyond.

Infierno! He could feel an unwanted heat flooding his body, hardening him and making his heart pulse in a hungry response to the erotic memory that had him in its grip. Violently he shook his head to drive it away and only succeeded in drawing the attention of the women closest to him. Their expressions of surprise and the widening of their eyes a sure giveaway of how unexpected his presence was, here in this ultra-feminine environment.

Nairo ruthlessly determined to ignore them—he had no interest in any woman here except for Red—and the important designer, wherever she was. He pointedly directed his gaze towards the runway, and the woman on it, her auburn hair gleaming glossily under the spotlight.

He watched Red lift the microphone again and announce, ‘As I said—a real treat—for the first time ever an exclusive preview of my brand-new designs for spring.’

My.

The word exploded inside Nairo’s head, battering at his thoughts. My brand-new designs...

Of course—he’d been a complete fool. How could he have not realised? It had all been there in front of him, but he had been so set on his mission for Esmeralda—and so stunned to find himself face-to-face with Red after all these years—that his intelligence had failed him and he hadn’t made the connections that he should have done.

Red. Scarlett. The name written above the window of the small boutique. And the designer’s name was Rose Cavalliero.

Rose red. Scarlett.

The velvet curtains had opened and a model had emerged from behind them, walking up the runway, her progress marked by gasps of delight and admiration. She was a willow-slim beauty, and the dress she was wearing was a masterpiece of lace and silk, a fairy-tale wedding gown.

But he spared it only one brief glance. There was no space in his mind to focus on anything but the woman who stood on the side of the runway, microphone in hand, talking about trains, beading, boned bodices...

All he could think was that she—Red—was also Rose Cavalliero—

Scarlett’s talented designer—the one his sister dreamed of having to create a dress for her upcoming wedding.

The woman he had once known as Red was the woman he had come to London to meet—and to persuade her to come back to Spain with him.

Suddenly the room that had already felt so alien to him in its total focus on femininity, the overwhelming reek of clashing perfumes, seemed to constrict around him, the lights dimming. It couldn’t be any further from the rooms in his father’s home where he had lived as a boy. The old-fashioned high-walled castle so wrongly named Castillo Corazón—the castle of the heart! But the feeling of being trapped was just the same.

As an adolescent, he had felt this sensation of being cornered when his new stepmother had insisted that he meet all her female friends—the wives or daughters of acquaintances, some of whom had once been or still were his father’s mistresses. They had almost mobbed him, circling round him like brightly painted predators. He had learned fast and young to recognise when someone was genuine and when they were fake.

Or he’d thought he had.

He hadn’t recognised the secrets behind Red’s green eyes. And he had known the slash of betrayal when he had found out the truth.

‘And perhaps for an older bride, this elegant look...’

The clear, confident voice carried perfectly, no real need for the microphone, but it was not the woman on the runway whom Nairo was seeing. Instead it was the woman he had met in the boutique that morning.

Hell, she’d still deceived him even then. She had known who he was, known that he had come to see her, and yet she had let him linger in his belief that she was just the receptionist and that Rose Cavalliero was someone else entirely.

She had had the opportunity to tell him the truth then, but she hadn’t taken it. Instead she had dodged the issue, kept it to herself, and then she’d dismissed him once again in a brief and curt email.

Scowling, Nairo remembered the message that had reached him in his suite just an hour and a half ago. Rose Cavalliero was sorry, but she was afraid that she couldn’t manage to fit in a meeting with him after all. She apologised for the inconvenience, but the truth was that she wasn’t taking on any more commissions at the moment. She was sorry that he had been inconvenienced in coming to London for nothing, but she needed to take time to care for her mother...

Coldly polite but dismissive. All of which could only mean that she had something to hide.

‘And this is the highlight of the Spring Collection. I’ve named it the Princess Bride.’

Perhaps it was the name, perhaps it was the sound of the murmurs of appreciation that flowed around the room, but something made Nairo look up to see yet another model emerging from behind the scarlet curtains.

In that instant he knew just why Esmeralda had been so insistent that this particular designer should create her dress. If she could make these women—every one of them—look so stunning, then what would she do for his sister? She would turn his shy, uncertain sibling into a glorious beauty—the princess she was meant to be—and surely that would give Esmeralda the confidence to face up to Duke Oscar’s critical and demanding family without making herself ill again. And that was what he owed to his sister.

A memory stirred in his mind. The image of Esmeralda when he had come back from Argentina, where his father had sent him as penance for his adolescent rebellion. His sister had always been slim, but then she had been frail and delicate as a tiny bird. He’d even been afraid to hug her in case she might break. It had torn at his conscience to realise that the truth was that she was suffering from anorexia. It had taken him months to encourage her to let go her hold on her appetite and eat.

There and then he’d vowed that he would never let her down again. That he would do whatever it took to make her happy—keep her healthy and strong. To do that he now had to bring Rose Cavalliero back with him. Even if she had turned out to be the woman he had known all those years ago.

And when he had Red—or Rose or whatever her name was—in the castle in Andalusia, then he could tie up all the loose ends that were left hanging from when they had been together before. He would get rid of this unwelcome desire that still made him burn for her and he would teach her how it had felt to be the one cast aside when something better presented itself.

Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms and prepared to wait and watch until it was time to talk to her.

Rose had been so focussed on the fashion show and making sure that everything ran smoothly that she had had no time at any point to actually look up and take notice of the crowd. But now, with the last dress displayed and the final parade of models down the runway, she could relax and look up, take a breath, glance out across the room...

And that was when she saw him.

Apart from the fact that Nairo Moreno was the only male in the room, it was impossible to miss him. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, dressed all in black, with his shirt open loose at the neck. Like a big dark bird of prey amongst a flock of gaudy, chattering parrots. The burn of his golden-eyed stare was like a laser beam coming across the room.

He must have read the email she’d sent trying to get out of the commission he wanted. She’d asked for a receipt, so she knew he’d opened it. But he had determined to ignore it. She’d tried to avoid telling him who she was—who the designer Rose Cavalliero really was—but it seemed she’d failed miserably. Because now he was here—waiting, watching like some dark sentinel at the door.

‘Rose!’

‘Ms Cavalliero!’

Belatedly becoming aware of the way that she had been standing, silent and stunned, while her audience grew restless, Rose blinked hard, clearing her eyes of the haze of panic that had blurred her vision and forced herself to focus. At the front of the audience were the special guests, the reporters who had been invited specially in the hope of giving the new collection a great opening. That even more hopefully would lead to the sort of sales that would save her business, pay the rent for another twelve months. Give her mother a place to live and rest as she recovered from the draining bouts of chemotherapy. They’d only just found each other again properly; she couldn’t bear it if their time together was so short.

Dragging her gaze away from the dark figure at the door, she switched on what she hoped was a convincing smile as she turned her attention to the first reporter to get to her feet—a well-known fashion writer for a luxury magazine.

‘Do you have a question?’ she managed. ‘I’m happy to answer...’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

It wasn’t the fashion reporter who spoke but another woman, a blonde she hadn’t spotted before. Rose’s heart sank. She knew this woman and so what was coming.

‘Don’t you think it’s something of an irony, the fact that you are publicising your new collection now—with images of love and happy-ever-afters—when your own story is so very different?’

The bite in her voice was unmistakeable, sharp as acid. Rose recognised her as Geraldine Somerset, a person she had seen at one of Andrew’s parties. The woman everyone had expected to be his fiancée before he’d met Rose.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you do.’

Geraldine lifted a newspaper that had been lying on her chair. Rose had no need to see it to know that it was a notorious scandal rag. She also knew just what headline the woman wanted everyone to see. Geraldine unfolded the sheet to its full length, waved it above her head, turning so that everyone could read the banner headline: ‘Dream-maker or dream-breaker?’

Rose even knew what pictures went with that story. How could she not when a copy of just that paper had been pushed through her letter box less than a week ago? On one side of the text was a picture of Andrew, head down, frowning and glum. The other was a picture of Rose herself, striding into her boutique—the name Scarlett perfectly clear and in focus. It had been taken shortly after the news of the broken engagement, the cancelled wedding, had hit the fan.

‘Would you want to buy your wedding dress from a woman who only cancelled her own marriage just three days before the ceremony?’ Geraldine was demanding now. ‘Would you entrust the most important day of your life—or your daughter’s—to someone who had so little care about her fiancé that she left him broken-hearted practically at the altar?’

‘That isn’t the way it was...’ Rose protested, only to have the newspaper waved even more violently in rejection of her words.

‘“Dream-maker or dream-breaker?”’ Geraldine declared, clearly very proud of the headline it was obvious she had created.

It was equally apparent that she was having the effect she wanted. The whole mood of the evening had changed. The murmurs of appreciation and approval that had marked the end of the fashion show had now changed to darker, more critical comments. Already people were pushing back their chairs, getting to their feet.

‘This has nothing to do with my work!’ Rose tried, but it was like Canute asking the sea to go back. Everything had changed and Geraldine, with her emotive headline, the carefully slanted photographs, had turned the tide of opinion.

Rose had forgotten that Nairo Moreno was here. That he was watching all this.

The moment the thought had crossed her mind she lost her concentration as she flicked a hasty, nervous glance to where Nairo leaned against the wall by the door. Or rather, where Nairo had been leaning. Even as she watched she saw his eyes narrow sharply, the beautiful, sensual mouth tighten until it was just a thin, hard line. The frown that snapped his black brows frankly terrified her.

Not meeting her eyes, his gaze fixed on the scene before him, he levered himself up from his position and stood tall and dark and powerful as he surveyed the room.

‘The woman’s bad luck—she taints everything she touches.’ Geraldine was getting into full flow again, her voice rising to almost a screech, the newspaper flapping wildly as she waved it high. ‘I mean—who would want her to design a dress...?’

‘I would.’

Cold and clear, the response cut through the buzz of outrage and comment that had filled the room. The silence that fell was as if a huge blanket had been dropped over everyone, stifling any sound. The audience stilled too, as Nairo moved forward, his movements the dangerous prowl of a predatory wild cat. A path opened up to let him through and even Geraldine froze to the spot, her words deserting her as he came closer.

Rose couldn’t blame her. Seen like this, Nairo Moreno was the sort of man who could suck all the air out of a room simply by existing. She found herself struggling to breathe, waiting and watching...

‘I said I would.’

Nairo had reached Geraldine’s side now and he snatched the newspaper away from her, sparing it only the briefest, iciest glance before he crushed it brutally in one hand and tossed it aside, contempt in every inch of his powerful body.

‘I would have Miss Cavalliero design a dress for someone I loved. Anyone with eyes to see would do the same—wouldn’t you?’ he challenged, his fierce gaze raking over the rest of the audience. ‘Anyone but a fool could see that as a designer Miss Cavalliero is hugely skilled. As a man, I’m no expert in fashion...’

Rose watched in amazement as he actually shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of assumed self-deprecation.

It had to be assumed, didn’t it? Even as the Jett she’d known he wouldn’t willingly admit to any sort of weakness in his own make-up. But the gesture had worked. The women surrounding him had actually smiled. Some of them were nodding.

‘But even I can see that these dresses are works of art.’

He had the room in the palm of his hand, Rose realised. He was turning the tide of disapproval that Geraldine had threatened to direct against her.

‘Miss Cavalliero...’

Nairo had moved closer, was holding out a hand to her. For the space of a dazed heartbeat she stared at it, only realising after a moment that he meant to help her down from the runway, onto the floor of the main ballroom.

She needed that help. Needed the support of his strength and the warm power of that hand. But even as his grip closed over her fingers, she knew a sudden stunning change, felt the sting of burning electricity fizz through her so that the hold she took on him was more than to get down the steps to the floor. It was like being taken back in years, to the days when she had been just a stupid, crazy, hormone-ridden teenager and she had first met Jett. Back to the days when she had given him her heart, her soul, her virginity. And he had only to touch her to send her up in flames.

From being cold with shock, she was now burning with response and could feel the colour heating her cheeks.

‘Now can we talk about the dress you will create for my sister?’

Rose knew that everyone was watching, that she was the focus of all eyes, and she knew there was only one answer she could give. He had saved her reputation, her business, and the slam of the door told its own story: that Geraldine had conceded defeat and was on her way out of the room, out of the building—please heaven, out of her life.

She had caught that firm and deliberate emphasis on the word now even if no one else had. He knew she had tried so hard to get out of the commission he had proposed. The commission that would mean she would have to work with him, for him, all the time she was planning the dress for his sister. At least it was not for his bride.

But she’d been here once before, when Nairo had seemed to be her saviour and turned out to be a threat of danger she had barely escaped. So now had she been rescued or entrapped? Was he offering her freedom and a new security or had he actually caught her tight in some carefully planned and deliberately achieved spider’s web? Did he really just want her to design a dress for his sister or was there more to his intervention than that?

Right now it seemed that he was her saviour—at least that was what everyone else would think. And because of everyone else, all those eyes on her, she knew she had no option but to give him the response he wanted.

‘Miss Cavalliero?’

The prompt sounded easy, almost gentle, but she had regained enough composure to look into his eyes and easy and gentle were not what she saw there.

What she saw was ice, resolve and the sort of ruthless determination that warned her that if she didn’t do as he wanted, then he was more than capable of turning this apparent rescue mission into one of total, devastating destruction.

She had been offered a lifeline as long as she went along with what Nairo Moreno wanted. Her life had been full of problems before, but now it seemed that by escaping one set of difficulties she had landed herself with a whole new adversary. One who she suspected was much more formidable than anyone she’d come up against before.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. But what else could she do?

‘Of course, Señor Moreno...’ She forced her stiff lips into what must have looked like the most wooden and unbelievable of smiles. ‘I’d be happy to discuss your commission with you.’

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