Spaniard's Baby Of Revenge

What indeed? she thought to herself as he turned to face her.

‘Nice place.’

‘Thank you.’

He was quiet, watching her, and ingrained manners and a need to fill the silence had her offering, ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Thank you.’ He nodded.

‘What would you like? Tea? Coffee?’

He arched a brow. ‘At this hour?’

Heat suffused her cheeks at her own naivety. ‘Wine?’

‘Wine would be fine.’

‘Have a seat. I won’t be a minute.’

CHAPTER TWO

HER LOUNGE WAS even cosier—if that was possible—than the exterior of this country cottage had promised.

Delicate and pretty, and oh, so feminine, with soft cushions and blankets everywhere and pictures of flowers on the walls. It was cosy, homely and warm, but his mind was only half-focused on his surroundings. He was mulling over the proposition he’d come here to offer—and what he’d do if she refused.

Already he could see that Amelia diSalvo was different to what he’d expected.

Did that matter? Did it fundamentally change what he needed from her? And what she’d agree to?

His research showed that she’d been inactive in the business, not attending meetings of any kind. She was on the board but didn’t contribute; it was clear she had no interest in the day-to-day operations of diSalvo Industries.

But would she be easily convinced to sell her shares to him?

Would she recognise his name and recall the bitter rivalry that had engulfed their families? Would he then have to launch straight into his backup plan? The idea of revealing his machinations to this woman hadn’t bothered him an hour earlier but, standing in her living room, suddenly he wasn’t in a rush to reveal his reasons for coming to Bumblebee Cottage late in the evening.

Which was absurd given that he’d had an investigator searching for her for over a year. Absurd given that he’d jumped on a flight as soon as she’d been located, with scant regard for the timing of things. If he’d been patient, he could have spent the night in London and driven into the countryside first thing the following morning, catching her in the daytime rather than on a rainy summer evening.

But he was here, and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by the fact that she wasn’t the hard and cynical heiress he’d imagined. Nor by the fact she seemed kind of sweet and funny, and lived in a house that was like a tribute to quaint history.

He had spent his adult life setting things right, avenging this feud, and now he was within striking distance. All that stood between himself and success was this one tiny woman.

She was different to what he’d expected, but she was still a diSalvo and she still held the key to his ultimate revenge.

He had to remember that.

* * *

It was impossible to say why she felt as if she needed a moment to steady herself in the kitchen, but Amelia took several, sucking in a deep breath and then another and another as she reached for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. All the wines she’d been given as gifts had actual corks.

She lifted it out easily enough and poured a measure into two glasses—her plans for a cup of tea falling by the wayside as she thought it would give her some fortifying courage.

Wine glasses in hand, she moved back into the lounge. And froze.

He was simply standing, staring at one of the pictures of hydrangeas she’d painted in watercolours, and it was that image of him that did something completely unexpected to her insides.

He was so utterly masculine in the midst of her living space and yet there was something strangely perfect about seeing him there. She stared at him, at the harshness of his face in profile, the strength of his body, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, legs that looked strong and athletic, and her pulse began to speed and her heart was trembling.

Oh, God, what was happening to her? Her mouth was dry and when she lifted her reluctant gaze back to his face she saw he’d turned and a hint of sardonic amusement danced in the depths of his eyes, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks.

‘Here,’ she muttered, pushing the wine glass towards him.

He held her gaze as he took it, a smile playing about his lips. ‘Gracias.’

‘You’re Spanish?’ she heard herself say and then winced. Why was she making small talk with him?

‘Sí.’ The word resonated with something spicy and mysterious and, despite the fact it was now raining, she was reminded of the day’s sunshine and warmth.

She needed to focus. Why was he here?

‘What’s your name?’

‘Antonio Herrera,’ he said, and Amelia frowned, her eyes sweeping shut for a moment.

She felt his gaze, heavy and intent on her face, and her skin goosebumped once more. There was something in her mind, a memory, but it was distant and when she tried to grab it, to focus on it, the thing slipped away from her, like trying to catch a piece of soap that had been dropped into the bath.

‘I know that name.’

‘Do you?’ he murmured, the words throaty.

He held his wine glass to hers, a salute, and she completed it on autopilot. Only their fingertips brushed together and it was as though Amelia had been thrown from an aeroplane. Her stomach twisted in a billion knots and she was in freefall, everything shifting and pulling and nothing making sense. The world was over-bright and her senses jangling. His eyes were merciless, pinning her to the spot, and from grey to black they went once more. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

‘Why do I know your name?’ she asked when the answer hadn’t come to her. Then, like a bolt of lightning, she remembered. ‘Oh! Of course!’

Did his shoulders tighten? Or was she imagining it? ‘Yes?’

Hadn’t she realised he was a man used to being in command? A figure of dominance and assertiveness?

‘You’re that guy,’ she said, clicking her fingers together. ‘I read about you a while ago. You bought that airline and saved all those people from getting fired.’

‘Being made redundant,’ he clarified. ‘And that’s not why I bought the airline.’

‘No?’

‘It was going for a song.’ He shrugged.

‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully, wondering why he was downplaying the altruism of the purchase. He didn’t really care about twenty thousand people poised to be out of work if the airline went bust? Or did he want her to think he didn’t care?

Her eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘And you invest in schools in eastern Europe. And hospitals.’

He arched a brow. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about me.’

‘It was a long opinion piece,’ she explained, her cheeks heating. ‘And I like to read the paper. From cover to cover.’ She was babbling a little. When she’d moved to her father’s home, she’d been surrounded by men like this. Well, not precisely like this; he was somewhat unique. But men who were just a little too much of everything. Too handsome, too sharp, too rich.

And she’d never felt overawed by those qualities before. Having seen her mother fall under their spell time and time again, she’d always been determined to remain immune to those charms.

Then again, she supposed it was a little like the aquarium effect.

‘The aquarium effect?’ he prompted, and Amelia was mortified to realise she’d been speaking out loud.

She turned away from him, walking unsteadily towards an armchair and sitting in it, then immediately wishing she hadn’t when their height disadvantage became even more apparent.

‘Please, take a seat.’ She gestured towards the sofa.

‘Sure. If you’ll elaborate,’ he drawled. ‘I should like to see if you are comparing me to a shark or a seal.’

Her laugh was spontaneous. She watched covertly as he sat—not on the sofa but in the armchair across from hers, his long legs stretched out and dangerously close to her own legs.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she promised, sipping her wine. ‘It’s only that when you go to an aquarium you’re expecting to see myriad fish, so that even the most beautiful tropical fish or the fluffiest penguin fail to have much of an impact. But if I were walking along the Thames and a beautiful penguin happened to cross my path I’d be basically breathless.’

‘Speechless too, I should think, at finding a penguin in central London.’

She nodded, glad he hadn’t taken her metaphor the vital step further. Because he was that spectacular piece of wildlife which, when surrounded by men of his ilk, might have left her cold. But here, like this, in her tiny cottage on the outskirts of a small village, smiling at her as though he found her fascinating and unique, how could Amelia fail to be breathless, speechless and hopelessly attracted?

‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked and she relaxed further as the conversation moved onto far safer ground.

She looked around the lounge, her heart warming at the comfort and beauty of this little room.

‘I moved here straight out of University,’ she said with a small nod. ‘I thought I’d stay only a year or so, but then the cottage came on the market and, what can I say, it was love at first sight,’ she said, looking fondly around the small lounge, with its low ceiling and unevenly rendered walls.

‘I can see why,’ he drawled cynically and she laughed.

‘You sound just like my brother!’

Carlo had been just as scathing about the ‘relic’. ‘Why don’t you buy some land and build something bigger? You’re a diSalvo, cara, and this place isn’t fit for a mangy dog.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, only in so much as he didn’t really like Bumblebee Cottage. He’s far more into luxury and glamour.’

‘And you’re not?’ Antonio enquired.

‘What do you think?’ she asked with a lifted brow and a half-smile, gesturing around the room.

‘I think the house is charming,’ he supplied, leaning forward a little, and his ankle brushed hers, probably by accident, but the effect was the same as if it had been intentional. She sat up straighter, her eyes finding his, a plea and a question in them. ‘And so is the occupant,’ he added, and now the charge of electricity that flared between them was unmistakably mutual.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her eyes round like saucers. His foot brushed hers and now she knew it wasn’t an accident she told herself she should pull away. Remove her legs from his reach. Do something, anything, to show him she didn’t welcome his presumptuous advances.

But oh, how she welcomed them. How she welcomed him.

‘Thank you.’

It was hard to think straight in that moment. Her body was charged, her senses in complete disarray, and she was left wondering at the bizarre circumstances that had brought this billionaire tycoon to her door right at the moment when she’d been at risk of sinking into thoughts of loneliness and the pervasive emptiness that came with being alone.

‘Well, Antonio—’ his name made husky by her too-dry throat ‘—perhaps you should tell me why you’re here?’

* * *

He had come to Bumblebee Cottage expecting to hate her. She was a diSalvo; it was written in the stars that he would hate her. Only he didn’t.

And not only did he not hate her; he was actually enjoying himself. He was finding it hard to keep his mind to himself, to concentrate on business when she was smiling at him and joking with him, and when her huge blue eyes kept dropping to his chest, roaming over his breadth as though she were starving and he the only meal around for miles.

And what would she say when he told her the truth of their relationship? What would she say when he explained what he needed from her?

Would she understand? Or would she tell him to get the hell out? Then he’d have to enact plan B, and her smiles would disappear when she realised how close he’d brought her brother to breaking point. And how much he was enjoying that knowledge.

How long had it been since he’d been with a woman? Months. Many months. His father’s illness had been sudden and, between the company and Javier’s demise, Antonio had barely had time for the distraction of women.

Did that explain the undercurrent of desire that was swirling around them? Was that the reason he was reluctant to tell her why he’d come?

It was the last thing he’d planned for, but now that he sat opposite Amelia diSalvo he wanted to shelve business and his drive for revenge. Just for a moment. Just for a night.

A temporary delay, that was all, while he enjoyed her company. What was the harm in that?

‘Antonio?’ she prompted.

He sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘Our grandfathers were friends,’ he said slowly, testing her, interested to see what she knew of the feud.

‘Were they?’ Her nose wrinkled, and his gut kicked. Damn it, she was distracting.

‘A long time ago.’

‘And that’s why you’re here?’ she prompted.

‘In part.’

Her look was teasing. ‘Are we playing a guessing game?’

‘We can do,’ he murmured. ‘Let me guess what you’re doing in a village like this,’ he murmured.

‘You don’t like it here?’

‘It’s a far cry from the life you must have lived in Rome.’

‘Why do you say that?’

His eyes glittered and with effort he kept the disdain from his voice. ‘You’re a diSalvo,’ he said with the appearance of calm. ‘And this cottage is...not.’

She laughed again, a genuine sound of pleasure. ‘True.’

Then her eyes fixed on his and he let the silence surround them, aware it was affecting her as much as it was him.

‘I feel like I know you,’ she said finally, simply, with a sense of surrender that made his body tighten. ‘That’s crazy, isn’t it?’

Yes. It was. Everything about this was. She was a part of something he wanted, with all his being, to destroy, and yet in that moment all he could think about was her soft pillowy lips and how they’d feel beneath his. About the fact she was staring at him with huge eyes and her chest was heaving with the force of her breathing.

‘I must be losing my mind,’ she said, blinking her eyes as if waking from a dream. And then she sipped her wine before offering him a smile that was part self-deprecating and part the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. What the hell was he thinking, letting himself be so distracted by her, and the way the air around them seemed to crackle and hum? He’d come here with a purpose—a plan he’d set in motion long ago, and nothing was going to derail that.

‘My grandfather’s name was Enrique Herrera. Has your father ever mentioned him?’

She blinked, her huge blue eyes showing obvious confusion. Outside, the rain was falling heavier now but he was barely conscious of it. ‘No.’

That was strange. How could Amelia know nothing of a feud that had dominated both his and Carlo’s lives?

‘We weren’t big on tête-à-tête,’ she explained with a shrug of her slender shoulders that drew his attention to the fine, soft curve of her neck and the hint of cleavage revealed by her simple shirt. Then her eyes lifted to his and his body tightened, his arousal straining against his trousers.

Antonio had spent his adult life moving the pieces into place to destroy Carlo diSalvo, and this woman was a vital part of that. Only through her would he gain control of the one company he desperately wanted and finally avenge the feud that had destroyed his father. Only through appealing to her and then, if it came to it, blackmailing her, would he achieve his goal.

So why was he finding it impossible to sharpen his focus? Because he’d been celibate for months, he told himself. Because he’d been focused on easing his father’s last few months of life, and then mourning him appropriately. And now, on acquiring the company that would set all of this to rights.

‘My brother might know more about your grandfather,’ she said softly, her lips parted. They were beautiful lips—works of art. Pink and generous, and quick to smile. ‘Have you ever spoken to him about Enrique?’

Twice. But conversations with Carlo never ended well. Their hatred was mutual. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He frowned.

‘It must,’ she countered, leaning forward a little, and beneath the small coffee table her legs brushed his and his body throbbed with all the awareness that was taking over his mind and soul in that moment. ‘For you to have flown all the way here to ask me about him. Or was there something else you wanted to talk to me about?’

Madre de Dios. Antonio had built his company back from dust, he had single-handedly returned Herrera Incorporated to its position as a global powerhouse, and now this one woman was somehow threatening to bring him to his knees?

He stood abruptly and felt her gaze slide up his body. Hungrily. Needily. With the same kind of sensual curiosity that was powering the blood in his own veins.

He’d come to this quaint cottage in the middle of the countryside with one purpose in mind, but now that goal was at war with his body’s more immediate needs.

Desire rushed through him as he imagined, for a moment, what it would be like to possess her. Where he was tall and dark, she was fair, all peaches and cream and soft and gentle. Their contrasts fascinated him. What would it be like to lay claim to her body, to drive her wild with desire?

She was a diSalvo! How could he even be thinking like this?

He heard the rustle of clothes as she stood, and then her hand was on his shoulder, turning him to face her. ‘Antonio? Is something the matter?’

Everything was the matter! He was so close to bringing her family down, to destroying them as they’d sought to destroy his father, and this one woman was threatening his resolve.

‘What is it?’ she asked solicitously, her eyes running over his face.

Beautiful eyes in a face that was truly captivating, with long blonde hair he wanted to run his fingers through. He swallowed and then, finally, surrendered to this madness. She was so close, so enticing, and his body was screaming at him to act on his impulses—screw the consequences.

There would be time for revenge later. Afterwards.

With a fatalistic grimace, he lifted a hand and caught her cheek, holding her face steady beneath his. She gasped, her lips parting, a gentle sound of surrender.

And he took her surrender, and he surrendered alongside her.

Slowly, his voice husky, in his native Spanish tongue he murmured, ‘You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

CHAPTER THREE

HIS WORDS WERE heavy in the air, mesmerising, and she could only stare at him, and his beautiful body. She could only stare at him, lost to this and him and whatever was happening.

‘I...’ She frowned, unable to form anything more intelligible. And then her hand was lifting slowly, almost as though it were dragging upwards, pulled by the sheer magnetic force of his body.

She pressed her fingers to his chest, swallowing at the instant bolt of recognition that juddered through her system. Her eyes jerked to his, uncertainty laced with desire, and her fingertips moved across his chest then up to his shoulder.

He made a throaty, groaning sound and then his head dropped forward, or perhaps she pushed up onto the tips of her toes. Whatever it was, on autopilot their lips were meshing, bodies fused together, his broad and hard, his strength emanating from him. His lips moved over hers and she made a gasp of surrender, opening her mouth so that he could deepen the kiss. His hand lifted to the back of her head, his fingers curving around her, holding her where she was so that he could explore her until she was incandescent with pleasure.

‘Antonio...’ She kissed his name into his mouth, deep into his soul, and felt him answer. Her world was being blasted apart by a simple kiss.

No, there was nothing simple about this—it was crazy and mad and she knew nothing about him, only his name and that their grandfathers had once been friends. And yet she was his for a song in that moment.

She didn’t care what had brought him to her door; she cared only that he was there, and that he wanted her as she did him. Desire—something she had never known nor understood, was rampant in her system now.

As if the heavens were ratifying her surrender to something as elemental as passion, a loud clap of thunder rumbled around the small cottage and a moment later a blade of lightning sliced the sky apart and the house was plunged into darkness. Not complete darkness—Amelia had strung fairy lights generously throughout and, powered by batteries, they offered a golden glow, faint but enough to see by.

He didn’t react to the power outage. But his hands roamed her body, running over her sides, finding the hem of her shirt and pushing it, so achingly slowly, up her body so that her skin was covered in goosebumps, her nipples tight against the simple cotton of her bra. He broke the kiss, pulling away from her just long enough to rip her shirt over her head and she pushed her arms skywards at the same time, as fevered as he. In that brief moment of separation their eyes met and something passed between them—an understanding, a commitment to this, come what may—and then he was kissing her again, this time dragging his mouth from her lips to her throat, flicking her with his tongue so that she whimpered with the strength of sensations he was stirring.

He pushed at his own shirt as his mouth claimed hers, dispensing with the fabric confines so his chest was bare.

Her fingers ran over his body without meaning or intent, certainly without forethought, and then her hands found his trousers and, of their own accord, her fingers were loosening his belt buckle then moving to the button and zip, pushing at them while his kiss held her body utterly captive. He stood out of his trousers as she pushed at them, and then her hands were curving around his naked buttocks, feeling his warmth in a way that was elemental and ancient.

He made a growling noise of awareness and dropped his hands to her back, pulling her hard against him so she could feel the strength of his arousal for herself. Surprise made her eyes flare wide and she swallowed, but then he was kissing her again, and now he lifted her as though she weighed nothing and she wrapped her legs around his waist and he rolled his hips so that his erection found her feminine heart, the pressure through the fabric of her jeans enough to make her cry out at what was to come.

He whispered words in Spanish and then he eased her to the ground, just for a moment, so he could retrieve his wallet from his trousers. He pulled out a condom. No, condoms, she corrected with pink cheeks, and she opened her mouth, knowing she needed to say something, to tell him that she was a virgin, because she was sure he wouldn’t enjoy discovering that fact for himself. But then his hands came to her jeans and he was unfastening them, pushing them down her legs, and he crouched in front of her and brought his mouth to her inner thigh and she was lost again. She tangled her fingers in his hair, throwing her head back as he kissed her legs.

And then he dragged her simple cotton briefs down her body and she was complicit, stepping out of them. In the back of her mind, in the small part of her brain that was still capable of rational thought, she was surprised by how unselfconscious she was. She was almost naked in front of him and she didn’t care.

He brought his mouth to the apex of her thighs and flicked his tongue against her womanhood and now Amelia cried out louder, harder, as pleasure licked through her like wild flames. She said his name over and over again, and her fingers ran faster through his hair before dropping to his shoulders and holding on tight. Pleasure was a rollercoaster and she was buckled in, riding it harder and faster, unable to stop the rush of momentum—not wanting to either.

His mouth drove her over the edge and she cried out as an explosion of delight, unlike anything she’d ever imagined, much less known, blew away the last vestiges of any idea that she might not be a sexual being. If this was sex, she could easily become an addict.