The Spaniard's Defiant Virgin

His expression suddenly changed.

“You’re good,” he said, and his voice was an accusation.

She was good? As if she were the one who’d been seducing him?

He crossed to the door. A young woman waited outside with her arms full. “The clothes for the señorita, Patrón,” she said in Spanish, and left.

Turning back to Tamsin, he tossed a black dress and high-heeled shoes on the bed. “Here. Maria took off your kaftan so you’d be comfortable in bed.” His voice was almost a sneer. “These clothes should suit you.”

“Y-you’re leaving?” she stammered. Her defiance had been burned away in his searing kiss. She could hardly imagine standing, let alone walking, with her knees so weak.

He stared at her for a moment, his face angry and brooding. Then, without answer, he turned back towards the door.

“Wait,” she said in a low voice. The day had been a roller coaster of emotion and exhaustion. Tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill over her lashes. “Is that all you have to say to me? You’ve dragged me from my wedding, kidnapped me across the Mediterranean, kissed me, and now you’re going to leave without a single word of explanation?”

His dark eyes narrowed. Dislike emanated from his body like waves of heat in the desert.

“Very well. I will give you that much,” he said. “What did you ask? My name? Marcos Ramirez. What do I want with you? It’s simple, Miss Winter. I intend to destroy your fiancé and your family, and you’re going to help me do it.”

CHAPTER TWO

MAYBE he should have let Reyes kidnap the girl after all.

Marcos glanced at the girl sitting next to him in the Rolls-Royce as the chauffeur drove them three miles inland from the coast.

Silent at last. It was an improvement from the previous few hours, when she’d demanded for him to let her go so she could rush back and marry Aziz al-Maghrib. When her demands hadn’t worked, she’d tried insults and threats. Thinking about it now almost made him laugh. He was not one of her suitors. Her moods held no sway over him.

Or did they? An image of their kiss flooded his mind. He hadn’t meant to kiss her in the cabin of his yacht, but she’d just looked so damned desirable. And the kiss itself…

He pushed the disturbing memory from his mind. The woman was an experienced coquette. According to the tabloids, she’d slept with every male celebrity who set foot in the London boroughs; of course she knew how to kiss. It changed nothing. If anything, it only lowered his opinion of her. Her pretense of bewildered innocence, the way she’d blushed after pretending to drop the sheet—was there anything the woman wouldn’t do in order to return to Morocco and get her claws into the al-Maghrib fortune?

He’d actually told her the truth about his plan to destroy her family, but she hadn’t asked a word about it. Apparently, her whole family could starve, so long as she herself was slathered with diamonds and rubies as the honored wife of the Sheikh’s nephew.

Shallow-hearted and greedy, he thought contemptuously. As venal as her bridegroom, and probably as brainless as her half-brother into the bargain.

A pity she was also the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Her beauty wasn’t just in her porcelain skin, her pink lips or her wide blue eyes. It was more than that. Her charm was in the way she moved, like a flamenco dancer. It was in the way her long red hair swayed gracefully against her pale shoulders. It was in the sound of her voice, deep and melodic. It was in her slender, reed-like waist, long legs and full, high breasts. Put all of that together, and he could see why she’d been called the most desirable woman in Britain. A lesser man would instantly be a slave to her charm.

It would serve her right to seduce her, he thought suddenly, glancing at her. She was pressed against the opposite side of his car, glaring at the passing Spanish countryside. How he would love to break her will. To make her sigh and scream with pleasure. To overwhelm her rudeness and insults with an onslaught of desire. His whole body tightened as he thought of it. It would serve the spoiled girl right…

Damn it to hell. He clenched his jaw, realizing that his attraction to her was in danger of overriding his reason. Obviously he was just as susceptible to her charm as any other man. It infuriated him. He had no doubt that he could resist her, but that he’d even thought of taking her to bed proved how dangerous she was.

As the car pulled to the castle’s front steps, his gaze unwillingly followed the curves of her body in the low-cut black dress. The Andalusian summer night was sultry and fragrant with jasmine as, with a dismissive motion to the chauffeur, Marcos walked around to her door.

She continued to ignore him. Without a word, he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the car. He dragged her up the wide steps, followed by Reyes, Maria and the others from the van.

She stumbled on the top step, looking up at the crenellated battlements of the fourteenth-century castle. “This is your home?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “And your home for the next few weeks.”

Her face shut down in that rebellious expression he knew so well. “I won’t stay here. You can’t make me.”

In spite of everything, he could feel himself starting to lose his patience. Between her beauty and her insolence, she seemed to know just how to get under his skin. “You’re here as long as I want you.”

She yanked away from him, folding her arms over her deliciously full breasts as she entered the castle. He let her go, confident that she could not escape with the tall, heavy doors closed behind them. The reluctant clack-clack-clack of her high heels echoed against the walls as she followed him, staring upward in amazement. Long ago, the magnificent foyer had been built to impress, with high ceilings carved in intricate designs of flowers, Arabic letters and geometric patterns.

He remembered she’d briefly majored in medieval studies before switching to economics. Hopefully the foyer was impressing her, he thought grimly. She wasn’t in London any more. It was time she realized who was in power here.

Holding her prisoner here would financially decimate both of his enemies. Without the wedding between the two families, Sheikh Mohamed ibn Battuta al-Maghrib would not sell the argan oil harvest on credit to Sheldon Winter, which he needed for the relaunch of his only profitable product. The board members of Winter International would sell the company off for parts, and Sheldon would be swamped beneath the weight of his personal debts.

Aziz would be hurt even worse. Without his uncle’s promised wedding gift, he would no longer be able to hide his gambling addiction. The Sheikh, an honorable but strict man, would likely disinherit him, and his creditors would break both his legs. A perfect end, in Marcos’s opinion.

The only thing that might be even more satisfying would be if Aziz came to Spain to start a war over Tamsin. After what the man had done to his father, nothing would give Marcos more pleasure than to rip him apart with his bare hands. He was sick of secrets. Sick of lies. And, most of all, sick of waiting. He wanted the men who’d destroyed his family punished.

In the meantime, he was stuck with Tamsin Winter as his prisoner.

His eyes traced the outline of her gorgeous figure and the red hair tumbling down her bare back. Her skin was as creamy-pale as winter and looked as soft as a summer breeze. His hands longed to stroke her back, to see if she was as soft as she looked, to see if the fire of her hair was reflected in the tumultuous passion of her embrace.

He shook himself in annoyance. She was his prisoner, he told himself, nothing more. Setting his jaw, he looked at her coldly. “You will join me for dinner tonight.”

Her full pink lip curled. “I’d rather starve.”

“As you wish.” With a flare of his nostril, he turned to his head of security standing discreetly behind them. “Reyes, lock Miss Winter in the tower.”

“No!” Her eyes went wide and she took a step towards him. “You can’t lock me up!”

“I can and I will.” The room he’d prepared for her was luxurious and comfortable, and far from the tower, but he had no intention of sharing that with her. Not after all she’d put him through today. “You’ve given me no reason to seek your company.”

Her hands clenched as she visibly struggled to contain her anger. Her cheeks were red with the effort.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said through gritted teeth. “I would love to have dinner with you.”

About time, he thought. Her constant insults were growing thin. He turned to his housekeeper, who’d just entered the foyer.

“We will take our supper in the sala, Nelida. It is late. Bring the whole meal at once.”

“Sí, Patrón,” she replied.

“I will keep you apprised,” he told Reyes. The man left with a nod, followed by the rest of the security team.

Marcos held out his arm. “This way.”

Tamsin stared at his arm distrustfully. Her blue eyes, emphasized by the dark fringe of kohl and thick lashes, seemed as wide and deep as the sea. Taking his arm was obviously the last thing she wanted to do.

But, to his surprise, she gave him a smile before tucking her small hand in the crook of his arm. The glow in her expression was so unexpected it nearly took his breath away.

“Thank you.” Her voice was a sultry purr, her eyes half-veiled by sweeping dark lashes, luring him on with the promise of some feminine mystery. Intrigued, he drew closer.

“Follow me, Miss Winter,” he said, feeling off-kilter again.

She laughed, and it was as crystalline and pure as a melody. She touched him softly on the shoulder. “If I’m really going to be here for weeks, I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? Call me Tamsin. Marcos.”

Watching her lush, full lips speak his name, he suddenly was hungry for more than dinner. In the space of a moment, the ice princess had become a fiery temptress and, in spite of his better judgment all he could think was that he wanted to throw himself into her flames.

But why the change in her behavior? Surely she wasn’t that terrified of being locked in the tower?

Then it all became clear. She had changed her strategy. Rather than insulting him, she thought she could charm him into letting her go.

It wouldn’t work, of course. She took him for a halfwit if she thought he’d fall for such an obvious ploy. But, as she moved closer to him, her body swaying like music, he thought that after all her abuse of the past few hours it might be enjoyable for him to let her try.

He wouldn’t be tempted by her, he told himself.

He was just curious to see how far she’d go.

Tamsin realized now that she’d been a fool to waste time with insults.

Unlike her pompous, rather oblivious half-brother, Marcos Ramirez wouldn’t be baited so easily. He was smart, organized and ruthless. He’d gone all the way to Morocco to kidnap her. He’d obviously spent a great deal of time and money to set up his revenge against Aziz and her family. And she’d thought he’d let her go for being rude?

It was time for a new plan.

Marcos gave her a quick glance as they ascended the sweeping stone staircase towards the sala. His desire was plain in his eyes, though he quickly veiled his expression with a smile. He obviously believed her to be a shallow, promiscuous socialite. And, judging by the clothes he’d provided for her—a black Gucci halter dress with a plunging neckline and Christian Louboutin pumps—he’d been watching her for some time. The outfit was a duplicate of the one she’d famously worn to a party. It had caused the tabloids to proclaim her London’s new ‘it’ girl—for that month, at least.

But now she wished with all her heart for a tracksuit and trainers instead. The peep-toe heels in crêpe chiffon mesh, beautiful as they were, weren’t exactly made to scale down stone walls or sneak past guards.

A sexy dress had other benefits, though. She glanced at him beneath her lashes. She could flirt with him. Lull him into complacency. Make him believe she might actually sleep with him.

Yes. She would deal with this arrogant Spaniard.

All she had to do was make sure Marcos continued to think she was everything the tabloids said—a shallow flirt who cared only for fashion and the admiration of men. She’d convince him that she was content to remain here in luxury while he prevented her marriage and ruined her family. Then, when his guard was lowered and he least expected it, she would escape to Morocco and stop him.

She smiled to herself, imagining the look on his face when his plans were destroyed by the woman he’d underestimated.

“Here we are,” he said as they reached a wide dining hall. His hand lingered possessively on the small of her back.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, smiling up at him until her cheeks hurt.

It wasn’t a lie. The architecture was medieval in appearance, though the plasterwork on the walls was covered with expensive modern art. She recognized a Picasso. The ceilings were high and the long darkwood table was decorated with a vase of exotic fresh flowers. The outside doors were open, overlooking a wide balcony and stone balustrade. She took a deep breath of night-blooming jasmine.

He escorted her to a seat near the end of the table facing the open windows. He was still wearing the same white shirt and fitted black trousers he’d had on the yacht, and she caught his scent on the breeze. He smelled of warm sun and Mediterranean sea and something else—something indefinable but totally male. Very different from Aziz, who wore enough cologne to make her gasp for air.

Marcos’s scent, his body, his voice, all made her body hum with delicious tension. It was…confusing. How could she be attracted to him when she longed to crack him over the head with a heavy vase?

“Care for a drink?” he asked shortly.

She hesitated. “Yes. Thank you.”

He went to the bar at the end of the dining room and her eyes followed his every step. Tall and broad-shouldered, he walked with lazy, sinuous movements, like a lion prowling the savannah. His crisp white shirt and finely cut trousers silhouetted the muscular shape of his body.

He turned back to face her. His strong jawline was dark with late-day shadow and his hair was black and full of curl. With his aquiline profile and full lips, his face was as perfectly chiseled and as cold in expression as a statue by Michelangelo.

Marcos Ramirez was a dark angel, she thought with a shiver. Beautiful, cruel and utterly without remorse.

“The brandy is from my own vineyards.” He put her snifter on the table and sat next to her. She jumped when she felt his knee brush against her bare leg.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Did I startle you?”

She blushed in embarrassment, furious at herself for acting like the virgin she was. She tried to recover. “No. Your legs are just very…big.”

“Gracias.”

So far, so good. She leaned forward to lightly brush her hand on his knee. “I admire strong legs on a man. Big hands. Big feet.” She gave them a conspicuous glance. “So good for heavy lifting.”

“I don’t just have strength, but stamina,” he observed, looking at her over his glass with an amused expression. “I can lift anything you want. All night.”

Oh, my God.

Flirting with Marcos was very different from dancing with a pallid young earl or drinking with a bull-headed celebrity at a London club. Marcos was a full-grown man, and a dangerous one at that. She was his prisoner, in his castle. He could do anything he wanted with her.

Playing with him was playing with fire.

You can do this, she told herself. Make him think you want him. Act like the promiscuous woman he believes you to be. Lean forward and kiss him now.

But she couldn’t do it. He was too powerful, too masculine, too in control of himself. It made her lose her nerve.

Grabbing her snifter, she lifted the brandy to her lips and drank deeply until the potency of the liquor caused her to choke and cough.

“Careful.” He pounded on her back with his left hand. “Inexperienced with brandy?”

She felt inexperienced, and not just with brandy, either.

“I was thirsty,” she responded lamely.

“Yes, I can see that.” His gray eyes gleamed. “Are you hungry as well?”

“Very.” She took another sip of brandy, more carefully this time. “By the way, I owe you my thanks.”

He regarded her with some suspicion. “For what?”

“For kidnapping me,” she said, keeping her eyes wide with admiration. “For saving me from Aziz.”

“Saving you? You were so desperate to marry him that you wanted to jump in the sea and swim back to Morocco.”

“That was just because I was frightened. I didn’t know what you meant to do to me. But I never wanted to marry Aziz—never. He would have stuck me away in the desert, a million miles away from shops, clubs, Harrods, everything.” She shivered prettily. “What kind of life is that for a girl to lead?”

His lip curled. “Qué lástima, you are right. It would be a tragedy.”

The only tragedy is how easily you’re buying this, she thought. She leaned forward to put her hand over his. “I’m not your enemy, Marcos. I have no love for my brother or Aziz. Perhaps we can…help each other.”

He glanced down at her hand. “What did you have in mind?”

His eyes had fallen to her mouth, and she licked her lips. Again, she had the feeling of being out of her league, out of her depth, and out of her mind. She couldn’t manipulate a man like this. Could she?

She swallowed the last of the brandy with a gulp and held up the snifter, looking at him with her best smile. “Would you get me some more brandy?” She gave a little giggle. “My head is starting to spin in such a wonderful way.”

Without a word, he took the glass and strode across the old stone floor to the wet bar. She watched him with narrowed eyes, but the moment he turned back to face her she simpered at him, dimpling.

“Tell me your plans, and I’ll tell you how I can help.” She stretched her arms above her head with a dainty yawn, well aware that it would cause her breasts to rise against the low-cut halter dress. “I still don’t understand why you think kidnapping me will hurt Aziz and my brother.”

His eyes followed the swell of her breasts against the plunging black neckline. “It’s enough that it will.”

“But why do you want to hurt us?”

“Not you, querida. Them.”

“Why do you want to hurt them?”

He shrugged. “They’ve got it coming.”

Selfish bastard, she thought, irritated that he wouldn’t explain further. I won’t let Nicole’s life be ruined because of your stupid desire for revenge.

Tamsin had already seen enough in her life, thank you, especially from her father’s example. When he’d finally died of apoplexy, he’d been friendless and un-mourned, and all Tamsin had felt was relief that he couldn’t hurt them ever again.

“Here’s your brandy.” Marcos placed it on the table next to her.

“Thank you.” She crossed her legs, trying to show them to their best advantage, then pretended to accidentally drop one of her high-heeled shoes to the floor. She leaned forward to pick it up, just to give him a nice view down her neckline.

When she sat up, he was looking at her like a hungry wolf waiting to devour a lamb.

Perhaps it had worked too well, she thought as he slowly walked around her. She could feel his hot stare move up and down her body and nearly jumped when his hands touched her bare shoulders. She hadn’t expected her own senses to have such a strong reaction. Her voice trembled. “What are you doing?”

He smiled down at her, softly brushing her hair aside, causing shivers of awareness to spread from her scalp down her body. “You’ve had a difficult day, but we have the whole night ahead of us. To eat. To drink. To…enjoy.”

Her heart gave a strange little thump as he massaged her shoulders. She felt his hands move lower on the bare skin of her upper back, rubbing the tense muscles around her shoulder blades. She closed her eyes, unable to resist leaning back.

“Qué belleza,” he whispered. His fingers lightly traced the edge of her shoulder, the crook of her neck, the curl of her hair. “You are so beautiful.”

“It’s not me,” she gasped. “It’s just the dress.”

“It’s the woman in the dress.” He bent forward to wrap his arms around her, pulling her against his chest.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

“Tell me your plans,” she said, hardly able to believe that he was falling for her act, “and I will tell you how I can help you.”

Running his hands down her arms, he gave her an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps. We shall see.”

It was working! He thought he could trust her! But, just as triumph was coursing through her, the housekeeper and two waiters entered the sala with trays of dinner, interrupting them. To her chagrin, Marcos moved away to his own chair.

“I’m serving dinner all at once, as you wanted,” the housekeeper said in Spanish, throwing a hard glare toward Tamsin. It bewildered her. Why would the housekeeper dislike her? “For your romantic night,” the woman added sourly.

“Thank you, Nelida,” Marcos replied in the same language, taking the tray from her. “I would be helpless without you.”

The plump middle-aged woman looked mollified. “You’d starve, that’s for sure. You’d live off coffee and tapas, or else forget to eat entirely. You always lose weight in Madrid.”

“But I always come back so you can fatten me up. Good night, Nelida.”

“I don’t think your housekeeper likes me,” Tamsin said after the woman and her assistants left.

“It’s nothing personal,” he said, buttering a thick slice of bread. “Nelida was my nanny when I was a child. She’s old-fashioned and possessive. She doesn’t approve of loose women.”

Loose women! Tamsin thought indignantly. She looked down at her meal. “What’s this?”

“The soup is salmorejo. Tomato soup, thickened with breadcrumbs, topped with chopped eggs and ham.”

She hesitantly took a mouthful of soup. It was cold, but delicious. “It tastes like gazpacho.”

“Yes.”

“And this?”

“Pato a la Sevillana. Roast duck with onion, leeks and carrots, cooked in sherry. And bread, of course. That’s Nelida’s specialty.”

Tamsin took several bites and realized two things: first, that she was starving, and second, that if she were prisoner here for long she would soon be putting on weight too.

That was, if Nelida didn’t decide to poison her for being loose.

She scowled.

“Do you like it?” Marcos’s slate-gray eyes looked into hers, as if he were asking another question entirely. For a moment, his dark gaze drew her, pulling her into a trance.

She shook herself out of it. Maybe I really am as stupid and shallow as he thinks, she considered grimly. Why else would she be attracted to such a cold, cruel, heartless man?

She forced herself to turn her attention back to the food.

“It’s delicious,” she replied and quickly ate more.

“Your housekeeper is a treasure.”

Over the next hour, she fluttered her eyelashes and smiled, trying her hardest to get him to reveal why he’d kidnapped her, what his plans were, what her brother and Aziz had done to make him desire revenge. But, in spite of his hint earlier that he’d share his plans, he spoke little and revealed nothing. It was like talking to a brick wall. She continued to try, skimming her mind desperately for any topic that might make him open up—travel, business, even football. Finally, she gave up.

She’d never met such a brooding, unhelpful man in her life. Either that or she was losing her touch.

Fine, she thought resentfully. If that’s how you want to be, let’s see how you like it. She ate the rest of her meal in determined silence.

It seemed not to bother him a whit.

“You were hungry,” Marcos observed when her plate was empty.

“Being kidnapped will do that to a person,” she muttered, then gave a little laugh, as if it were a joke.