In The Spaniard's Bed

‘Hell, Cassandra,’ he muttered. ‘Watch it!’

‘Tell that to the guy in front.’ Her voice held unaccustomed vehemence. Choosing silence for the remaining time it took to reach her apartment seemed a wise option. The last thing she coveted was an argument.

‘Park in the visitors’ bay,’ Cameron instructed as she swept the car into the bricked apron adjacent to the main entrance.

‘You’re coming up?’

‘It’s either that, or we talk in the car.’

He didn’t seem to be giving her a choice as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid out from the passenger seat.

She followed, inserted her personalised card into the security slot to gain entry into the foyer, and used it again to summon a lift.

‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she cautioned as she preceded him into her apartment, then she turned to face him. ‘OK, shoot.’

He closed his eyes, then opened them again and ran a hand through his hair. ‘This isn’t easy.’

The tension of the evening began to manifest itself into tiredness, and she rolled her shoulders. ‘Just spit it out.’

‘The firm is in trouble. Major financial trouble,’ he elaborated. ‘If Dad found out just how hopeless everything is, it would kill him.’

Ice crept towards the region of her heart. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

‘Preston-Villers is on a roller-coaster ride to insolvency.’

‘What?’ She found it difficult to comprehend. ‘How?’

He was ready to crumple, and it wasn’t a good look.

‘Bad management, bad deals, unfulfilled contracts. Staff problems. You name it, it happened.’

She adored her brother, but he wasn’t the son her father wanted. Cameron didn’t possess the steel backbone, the unflagging determination to take over directorship of Preston-Villers. Their father had thought it would be the making of his son. Now it appeared certain to be his ruination.

‘Just how bad is it?’

Cameron grimaced, and shot her a desperate look. ‘The worst.’ He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I’ve done the round of banks, financiers, sought independent advice.’ He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘It narrows down to two choices. Liquidate, or take a conditional offer.’

Hope was uppermost, and she ran with it. ‘The offer is legitimate?’

‘Yes.’ He rubbed a weary hand along his jaw. ‘An investor is prepared to inject the necessary funds, I get to retain an advisory position, he brings in his professional team, shares joint directorship, and takes a half-share of all profits.’

It sounded like salvation, but there was need for caution. ‘Presumably you’ve taken legal advice on all this?’

‘It’s the only deal in town,’ he assured soberly. ‘There’s just a matter of the remaining condition.’

‘Which is?’

He hesitated, then took a deep breath and expelled it. ‘You.’

Genuine puzzlement brought forth a frown. ‘The deal has nothing to do with me.’

‘Yes, it does.’

Like pieces of a puzzle, they began clicking into place, forming a picture she didn’t want to see. ‘Who made the offer?’ Dear God, no. It couldn’t be…

‘Diego del Santo.’

Cassandra felt the blood drain from her face. Shock, disbelief, anger followed in quick succession. ‘You can’t be serious?’ The words held a hushed quality, and for a few seconds she wondered if she’d actually uttered them.

Cameron drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘Deadly.’ To his credit, Cameron looked wretched.

‘Let me get this straight.’ Her eyes assumed an icy gleam. ‘Diego del Santo intends making this personal?’ His image conjured itself in front of her, filling her vision, blinding her with it.

‘Without your involvement, the deal won’t go ahead.’

She tried for calm, when inside she was a seething mass of anger. ‘My involvement being?’

‘He’ll discuss it with you over dinner tomorrow evening.’

‘The hell he will!’

‘Cassandra—’ Cameron’s features assumed a grey tinge. ‘You want Alexander to have another heart attack?’

The words stopped her cold. The medics had warned a further attack could be his last. ‘How can you even say that?’

She wanted to rail against him, demand why he’d let things progress beyond the point of no return. Yet recrimination wouldn’t solve a thing, except provide a vehicle to vent her feelings.

‘I want proof.’ The words were cool, controlled. ‘Facts,’ she elaborated, and glimpsed Cameron’s obvious discomfiture. ‘The how and why of it, and just how bad it is.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I need to be aware of all the angles,’ she elaborated. ‘Before I confront Diego del Santo.’

Cameron went a paler shade of pale. ‘Confront?’

She fired him a look that quelled him into silence. ‘If he thinks I’ll meekly comply with whatever he has in mind, then he can think again!’

His mouth worked as he searched for the appropriate words. ‘Cass—’

‘Don’t Cass me.’ It was an endearing nickname that belonged to their childhood.

‘Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?’

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I think it’s about time Diego del Santo discovered who he is dealing with!’ She pressed fingers to her throbbing temples in order to ease the ache there.

‘Cassandra—’

‘Can we leave this until tomorrow?’ She needed to think. Most of all, she wanted to be alone. ‘I’ll organise lunch, and we’ll go through the paperwork together.’

‘It’s Sunday.’

‘What does that have to do with it?’

Cameron lifted both hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Midday?’

‘Fine.’

She saw him out the door, locked up, then she removed her make-up, undressed, then slid into bed to stare at the darkened ceiling for what seemed an age, sure hours later when she woke that she hadn’t slept at all.

A session in the gym, followed by several laps of the pool eased some of her tension, and she re-entered her apartment, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose top, then crossed into the kitchen to prepare lunch.

Cameron arrived at twelve, and presented her with a chilled bottle of champagne.

‘A little premature, don’t you think?’ she offered wryly as she prepared garlic bread and popped it into the oven to heat.

‘Something smells good,’ he complimented, and she wrinkled her nose at him.

‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’ Lunch was a seafood pasta dish she whipped up without any fuss, and accompanied by a fresh garden salad it was an adequate meal.

‘Let’s eat first, then we’ll deal with business. OK?’

He didn’t look much better than she felt, and she wondered if he’d slept any more than she had.

‘Dad is expecting us for dinner.’

It was a weekly family tradition, and one they observed almost without fail. Although the thought of presenting a false façade didn’t sit well. Her father might suffer ill-health, but he wasn’t an easy man to fool.

‘This pasta is superb,’ Cameron declared minutes later, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.

By tacit agreement they discussed everything except Preston-Villers, and it was only when the dishes were dealt with that Cassandra indicated Cameron’s briefcase.

‘Let’s begin, shall we?’

It was worse, much worse than she had envisaged as she perused the paperwork tabling Preston-Villers slide into irretrievable insolvency. The accountant’s overview of the current situation was damning, and equally indisputable.

She’d wanted proof. Now she had it.

‘I can think of several questions,’ she began, but only one stood out. ‘Why did you let things get this bad?’

Cameron raked fingers through his hair. ‘I kept hoping the contracts would come in and everything would improve.’

Instead, they’d gone from bad to worse.

Cassandra damned Diego del Santo to hell and back, and barely drew short of including Cameron with him.

‘Business doesn’t succeed on hope.’ It needed a hard, competent hand holding the reins, taking control, making the right decisions.

A man like Diego del Santo, a quiet voice insisted. Someone who could inject essential funds, and ensure everything ran like well-oiled clockwork.

There was sense in the amalgamation, and as Cameron rightly described, it was the only deal in town if Preston-Villers was to survive.

‘Shall I contact Diego and confirm you’ve reconsidered his dinner invitation?’

‘No.’

Disbelief and consternation were clearly evident.

‘No?’

‘My ball. My play.’ Something she intended to take care of tomorrow. She stood to her feet. ‘I need to put in an hour or two on the laptop before leaving to have dinner with Dad.’ She led the way to the door of her apartment. ‘I’ll see you there.’

‘OK.’ Cameron offered an awkward smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘For what?’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘Lunch?’

‘That, too.’

It was after five when Cassandra entered the electronic gates guarding Alexander Preston-Villers’ splendid home. Renovations accommodated wheelchair usage, and a lift had been installed for easy access between upper and lower floors. There was a resident housekeeper, as well as Sylvie, the live-in nurse.

Cassandra rang the bell, then used her key to enter the marble-tiled lobby.

It tore at Cassandra’s heart each time she visited, seeing the man who had once been strong reduced to frail health.

Tonight he appeared more frail than usual, his lack of motor-skills more pronounced than they had been a week ago, and his appetite seemed less.

She looked at him, and wanted to weep. Cameron seemed similarly affected, and attempting to maintain a normal façade took considerable effort.

There was no way she’d allow anyone to upset Alexander. Not Cameron, nor Diego del Santo.

She made the silent vow as she drove back to her apartment. The determined bid haunted her sleep, providing dreams that assumed nightmarish proportions, ensuring she woke late and had to scramble in order to get to work on time.

Confronting Diego del Santo was a priority, and given a choice she’d prefer to beard him in his office than meet socially over a shared meal.

Which meant she’d need to work through her lunch hour in order to leave an hour early.

Cassandra found it difficult to focus on the intricate attention to detail involved with the creative-design project for an influential client.

Diego del Santo’s image intruded, wreaking havoc with her concentration, and consequently it was something of a relief to pack up her work and consign it to the security safe before freshening her make-up prior to leaving for the day.

Del Santo Corporation was situated on a high floor of an inner-city office tower, and Cassandra felt a sense of angry determination as she vacated the lift and walked through automatic sliding glass doors to Reception.

‘Diego del Santo.’ Her voice was firm, clipped and, she hoped, authoritative.

‘Mr del Santo is in conference, and has no appointments available this afternoon.’

She made a point of checking her watch. ‘Put a call through and tell him Cassandra Preston-Villers is waiting to see him.’

‘I have instructions to hold all calls.’

Efficiency. She could only admire it. ‘Call his secretary.’

A minute…Cassandra counted off the seconds…a woman who could easily win secretary-of-the-year award appeared in Reception. ‘Is there a problem?’

You betcha, Cassandra accorded silently, and I’m it. ‘Please inform Diego del Santo I need to see him.’

A flicker of doubt. That’s all she needed. Yet none appeared. Was his secretary so familiar with Diego’s paramours, she knew categorically that Cassandra wasn’t one of them?

‘I have instructions to serve drinks and canapés at five,’ his secretary informed. ‘I’ll mention your presence to him then.’

It was a small victory, but a victory none the less. ‘Thank you.’

Half an hour spent leafing through a variety of glossy magazines did little to help her nervous tension.

Staff began their end-of-day exodus, and she felt her stomach execute a painful somersault as Diego’s secretary moved purposely into Reception.

‘Please come with me.’

Minutes later she was shown into a luxurious suite. ‘Take a seat. Mr del Santo will be with you soon.’

How soon was soon?

Five, ten, thirty minutes passed. Was he playing a diabolical game with her?

Nervous tension combined with anger, and she was almost on the point of walking out. The only thing that stopped her was the sure knowledge she’d only have to go through this again tomorrow.

Five more minutes, she vowed, then she’d go in search of him…conference be damned!

The door swung open and Diego walked into the room with one minute to spare.

‘Cassandra.’

She rose to her feet, unwilling to appear at a disadvantage by having him loom over her.

‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’ He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, turned his back on the magnificent harbour view, and thrust one hand into his trouser pocket.

Her expression was coolly aloof, although her eyes held the darkness of anger. ‘Really? I imagine keeping me waiting is part of the game-play.’

Sassy, he mused, and mad. It made a change from simpering companions who held a diploma in superficial artificiality.

‘If you had telephoned, my secretary could have arranged a suitable time,’ Diego inferred mildly.

‘Next week?’ she parried with deliberate facetiousness, and incurred a cynical smile.

‘The very reason I suggested we share dinner.’

‘I have no desire to share anything with you.’ She paused, then drew in a deep breath. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ She indicated the sheaf of papers tabled together in a thick folder. ‘I have the requisite proof, and a copy of your offer. Everything appears to be in order.’

‘You sound surprised.’

Cassandra swept him a dark glance. ‘I doubt there’s anything you could do that would surprise me.’

‘I imagine Cameron has relayed the deal is subject to a condition?’

Her eyes glittered with barely repressed anger. ‘He said it was personal. How personal?’

‘Two separate nights and one weekend with you.’

She felt as if some elusive force had picked her up and flung her against the nearest wall. ‘That’s barbaric,’ she managed at last.

‘Call it what you will.’

It took her a few seconds to find her voice. ‘Why?’

‘Because it amuses me?’

Was this payback? For all the invitations he’d offered and she’d refused…because she could. Now, her refusal would have far-reaching implications. Did she have the strength of will to ruin her father, the firm he’d spent his life taking from strength to strength?

‘An investment of twenty-three million dollars against all sage advice, allows for—’ he paused deliberately ‘—a bonus, wouldn’t you say?’

She didn’t think, or pause to consider the consequences of her actions. She simply picked up the nearest thing to hand and threw it at him. The fact he fielded it neatly and replaced it down onto his desk merely infuriated her further.

‘Who do you think you are?’ Her voice was low, and held a quality even she didn’t recognise.

Stupid question, she dismissed. He knew precisely who he was, what he wanted, and how to get it.

‘I’d advise you to think carefully before you consider another foolish move,’ Diego cautioned silkily.

Her eyes sparked brilliant blue fire. ‘What did you expect?’ Her voice rose a fraction. ‘For me to fall into your arms expressing my undying gratitude?’

She didn’t see the humour lurking in those dark depths. If she had, she’d probably throw something else at him.

‘I imagined a token resistance.’

Oh, he did, did he? ‘You realise I could lay charges against you for coercion?’

‘You could try.’

‘Only to have your team of lawyers counter with misinterpretation, whereupon you withdraw your financial rescue package?’

‘Yes.’

‘Emotional blackmail is a detestable ploy.’

‘It’s a negotiable tool,’ Diego corrected, and in that moment she hated him more than she thought it possible to hate anyone.

‘No.’ Dear God, had she actually said the verbal negation?

‘No, you don’t agree it’s a negotiable tool?’

‘I won’t have sex with you.’

‘You’re not in any position to bargain.’

‘I’m not for sale,’ Cassandra evinced with dignity.

‘Everything has its price.’

‘That’s your credo in life?’

He waited a beat. ‘Do you doubt it?’

She’d had enough. ‘We’re about done, don’t you think?’ She tried for calm, and didn’t quite make it as she hitched the strap of her shoulder bag as she turned towards the door.

Damn Cameron. Damn the whole sorry mess.

‘There’s just one more thing.’

She registered Diego’s silky drawl, recognised the underlying threat, and paused, turning to look at him.

‘Cameron’s homosexuality.’

Two words. Yet they had the power to stop the breath in her throat.

Diego del Santo couldn’t possibly know. No one knew. At least, only Cameron, his partner, and herself.

Anxiety meshed with panic at the thought her father might catch so much as a whisper…

Dear God, no.

Alexander Preston-Villers might find it difficult to accept Cameron had steadily sent Preston-Villers to the financial wall. But he’d never condone or forgive his son’s sexual proclivity.

An appalling sense of anguish permeated her bones, her soul. Who had Diego del Santo employed to discover something she imagined so well-hidden, it was virtually impossible to uncover?

How deep had he dug?

No stone unturned. The axiom echoed and reechoed inside her brain.

It said much of the man standing before her, the lengths he was prepared to go to to achieve his objective.

‘I hate you.’ The words fell from her lips in a voice shaky with anger. She felt cold, so cold she was willing to swear her blood had turned to ice in her veins.

Diego inclined his head, his eyes darkly still as he observed her pale features, the starkness of defeat clearly evident in her expression. ‘At this moment, I believe you do.’

He’d won. They both knew it. There was only one thing she could hope for…his silence.

‘Yes.’ His voice was quiet. ‘You have my word.’

‘For which I should be grateful?’ she queried bitterly.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he indicated the chair she’d previously occupied. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

He crossed to the credenza, extracted a glass, filled it with iced water from the bar fridge, then placed the glass in her hand.

Cassandra didn’t want to sit. She preferred to be on her feet, poised for flight.

Diego moved towards his desk and leaned one hip against its edge. ‘Shall we begin again?’

Dear heaven, how did she get through this? With as much dignity as possible, an inner voice prompted.

‘The ball’s in your court.’

Did she have any idea how vulnerable she looked? The slightly haunted quality evident in those stunning blue eyes, the translucence of her skin.

He remembered the taste of her, her fragrance, the soft, tentative response… He’d sought to imprint her with his touch, unclear of his motivation. A desire to shock, to punish? A lesson to be wary of men whose prime need was sex?

Instead, it had been she who’d left a lingering memory, unexpectedly stirring his soul…as well as another pertinent part of his anatomy. A pubescent temptress, unaware of her feminine power, he mused, wondering at the time how she’d react if he took advantage of her youth.

Sixteen-year-old girls were out of bounds. Especially when this particular sixteen-year-old was the cherished daughter of one of the city’s industrial scions. Her brother, the elder by two years, should have known better than to bring her to a party where drinks were spiked and drugs were in plentiful supply. A fact he’d cursorily relayed before bundling brother and sister out of the host’s house, then following in their wake.

Relationships, he’d had a few. Women he’d enjoyed, taking what was so willingly offered without much thought to permanence. As to commitment…there hadn’t been any woman he’d wanted to make his own, exclusively. Happy-ever-after was a fallacy. Undying love, a myth.

For the past year one woman had teased his senses, yet she’d held herself aloof from every attempt he made to date her, and he’d had to content himself with a polite greeting whenever their social paths crossed.

Until now.

‘As soon as our personal arrangement has satisfactorily concluded,’ Diego drawled, ‘I’ll attach my signature to the relevant paperwork and organise for funds to be released.’

Cassandra registered his words, and felt her stomach contract in tangible pain. ‘And when do you envisage our personal arrangement will begin?’

‘Anyone would think you view sex with me as a penance.’

‘Your ego must be enormous if you imagine I could possibly regard it as a pleasure.’

‘Brave words,’ Diego drawled, ‘when you have no knowledge what manner of lover I am.’

The mere thought of that tall, muscular body engaged intimately with hers was enough to send heat spiralling from deep inside.

Instinct warned he was a practised lover, aware of all the pleasure pulses in a woman’s body, and how to coax each and every one of them to vibrant life with the skilled touch of his mouth, his hands.

It was there, in the darkness of his gaze…the sensual confidence of a man well-versed in the desires of women.

A tiny shiver started at the base of her spine, and feathered its way to her nape, settled there, so she had to make a conscious effort to prevent it from appearing visible.

‘Wednesday evening I’m attending a dinner party. I’ll collect you at six-thirty. Pack whatever you need for the night.’

The day after tomorrow?

An hysterical laugh rose and died in her throat. So soon? Oh, God, why not? At least then the first night would be over. One down, one and a weekend to go.

‘The remaining nights?’ Dear heaven, how could she sound so calm?

‘Saturday.’

She felt as if she were dying. ‘And the last?’

‘The following weekend.’ His gaze never left hers. ‘One million dollars will be deposited into the Preston-Villers business account following each of the three occasions you spend with me. Monday week, Preston-Villers’ creditors will be paid off.’

‘A condition, tenuously alluded to in the documentation as “being met to Diego del Santo’s satisfaction”, doesn’t even begin to offer me any protection. What guarantee do I have you won’t declare the offer documented as null and void on the grounds the condition hasn’t been met to your satisfaction?’

‘My word.’

She had to force her voice to remain steady, otherwise it would betray her by shattering into a hundred pieces. ‘Sorry, but that won’t cut it.’

‘Do you know how close you walk to the edge of my tolerance?’

‘Don’t insult my intelligence by detailing a condition that has so many holes in it, even Blind Freddie could see through them!’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘No.’

He could walk away from the deal. It was what he should do. Twenty-three million dollars was no small amount of money, even if in the scheme of things it represented only a very small percentage of his investments.

He enjoyed the adrenalin charge in taking a worn-down company, injecting the necessary funds and making it work again.

‘What is it you want?’

It was no time to lose her bravado. ‘Something in writing detailing those nights, each comprising no more than twelve hours spent in your company, represents my sexual obligation to you, as covered by the term condition, and said obligation shall not be judged by my sexual performance.’ She took a deep breath, and released it slowly. ‘The original copy will be destroyed when you release funds in full into the Preston-Villers business account.’