In The Spaniard's Bed

‘Six-thirty, Wednesday evening,’ he reminded as the electronic doors slid open.

It nearly killed her to act with apparent unconcern, when inside she was a quivering mess. ‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure,’ Cassandra managed coolly as she depressed the appropriate button to take her down to ground level.

As a parting shot it lacked the impact she would have liked, but she took a degree of satisfaction in having the last word.

Two weeks from now she would have fulfilled Diego del Santo’s condition.

Three, no, four nights in his bed. She could do it…couldn’t she, and emerge emotionally unscathed?

CHAPTER THREE

TWO evenings later Cassandra stood sipping excellent champagne in the lounge of a stunning Rose Bay mansion.

Guests mingled, some of whom she knew, and the conversation flowed. However, the evening, the venue, the fellow guests…none had as much impact on her as the man at her side.

Diego del Santo exuded practised charm, solicitous interest, and far too much sexual chemistry for any woman’s peace of mind. Especially hers.

Worse, she was all too aware of the way her nervous tension escalated by the minute.

She didn’t want to be here. More particularly, she didn’t want to be linked to Diego del Santo in any way.

Yet she was bound to him, caught in an invisible trap, and the clock was ticking down towards the moment they were alone.

Even the thought of that large, lithe frame, naked, was enough to send her heartbeat into overdrive.

‘More champagne?’

His voice was an inflected drawl as he indicated her empty flute, and he was close, too close for comfort, for she was supremely conscious of him, his fine tailoring, the exclusive cologne, and the man beneath the sophisticated exterior.

‘No,’ she managed politely. ‘Thank you.’ There was some merit in having one drink too many in order to endure the night. However, the evening was young, dinner would soon be served, and she valued her social reputation too much as well as her self-esteem to pass the next few hours in an alcoholic haze.

Choosing what to wear had seen her selecting one outfit after another and discarding most. In the end she’d opted for a bias-cut red silk dress with a soft, draped neckline and ribbon straps. Subtle make-up with emphasis on her eyes, and she’d swept her hair into a careless knot atop her head. Jewellery was an intricately linked neck chain with matching ear-studs.

Packing an overnight bag had been simple…she’d simply tossed in a change of clothes and a few necessities. A bag Diego had retrieved from her hand as she emerged from the foyer and deposited in the trunk of his car.

Quite what she expected she wasn’t sure. There had been nothing overt in his greeting, and he made no attempt to touch her as he saw her seated in his stylish Aston Martin.

During the brief drive to their hosts’ home he’d kept conversation to a minimum…presumably influenced by her monosyllabic replies.

What did he expect? For her to smile and laugh? Act as if this was a date, for heaven’s sake?

He’d made her part of a deal, and she hated him for it. Almost as much as she hated being thrust among a coterie of guests for several hours.

Guests who were undoubtedly curious at Diego’s choice of partner for the evening. Or should that be curiosity at her choice of partner?

Had whispers of Preston-Villers’ financial straits begun to circulate? And if they had, what context was placed on Cassandra Preston-Villers appearing at Diego’s side? Would gossip allude the amalgamation had moved from the boardroom to the bedroom?

Cassandra told herself she didn’t care…and knew she lied.

Dinner. Dear heaven, how could she eat? Her stomach felt as if it were tied in knots, and primed to reject any food she sent its way.

‘Relax.’

Diego’s voice was a quiet drawl as they took their seats at the elegantly set table, and she offered a stunning smile. ‘I’m perfectly relaxed.’

There were numerous courses, each a perfect complement served with the artistry and flair of a professional chef.

Compliments were accorded, and Cassandra added her own, painfully aware her tastebuds had gone on strike.

She conversed with fellow guests, almost on autopilot, playing the social game with the ease of long practice. Although afterwards she held little recollection of any discussion.

Diego was there, a constant entity, and the buildup of tension accelerated as the evening progressed. The light brush of his hand on hers succeeded in sending her pulse into overdrive, and she almost forgot to breathe when he leaned close to refill her water glass.

She began to pray for the evening to end, to be free from the constraints of polite society. At least when they were alone she could discard the façade and fence verbal swords with him!

Somehow she made it through the seemingly endless meal, and it was a relief to retreat to the lounge to linger over coffee.

Diego seemed in no hurry to leave, and it was almost eleven when he indicated they bid their hosts goodnight.

The short drive to nearby suburban Point Piper was achieved in silence, and Cassandra felt her body stiffen as he activated the electronic gates guarding the entrance to a curved driveway illuminated by strategically placed lights leading to a large home whose architecturally designed exterior and interior had featured in one of the glossy magazines soon after its completion.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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