Spaniard's Seduction / Cole's Red-Hot Pursuit: Spaniard's Seduction

All the Saxon siblings looked to their father.

“Is that true?” It was Megan who asked the damning question that was in everyone’s eyes.

“I don’t remember—”

“Don’t compound your lie with another.” There was contempt in Rafaelo’s voice.

Phillip dropped his head in his hands. “Okay, it’s true. But later she knew I was married…and she didn’t break it off.”

“She loved you.” Rafaelo’s tone was thick with contempt. “She thought you were going to leave your wife and marry her.”

Phillip’s head reared back. “I never promised her that.”

The Spaniard shook his head in disgust. “Tell them how young she was.”

Phillip shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

The look Rafaelo gave him was loaded with disbelief. “She was eighteen. Eighteen. Little more than a child. And you took advantage of her inexperience.”

“What about Mother?” Megan nailed him. “Did she know of this affair?”

Phillip shook his head. “Not until yesterday. After Maria left she never returned.”

“But she tried to contact you.” Rafaelo’s mouth curled. “She came to New Zealand to visit the grave of her great-uncle Fernando, a monk who’d come from a Spanish monastery to follow his faith in Hawkes Bay. He’d died tragically in the earthquake of nineteen thirty-one. My mother was given the journals that he’d kept by a local historical society. She made the mistake of showing them to her lover—” he glared at Phillip “—who stole the methods Fernando had perfected.”

Journals? Caitlyn’s stomach tightened.

Phillip bent his head and stared blankly at the table in front of him. Then he murmured, “I do not have any such journals in my possession.”

Misgivings filled Caitlyn. She was acquainted with the journals that she suspected Rafaelo was ranting about. Three volumes. Bound in black leather. Penned in black ink in a stylish sloping hand. A learned man’s handwriting. Probably a monk’s writing. Possibly Rafaelo’s great-great-uncle’s handwriting.

She opened her mouth. Phillip lifted his head and caught her eye. She closed her mouth.

Right now those volumes lay in her possession. In her bedside drawer to be precise. Her stomach heaved. Why was Phillip obfuscating? Could it be true? Had Phillip Saxon stolen the works from a young, impressionable woman? Was it possible that Phillip had seduced Maria only for the diaries?

Caitlyn didn’t want to think about it. It was too awful. But Phillip’s life’s passion had been his fascination with creating a fortified wine that would win international awards and respect—it was a vision he’d ignited in Caitlyn when she’d started working at Saxon’s Folly as a raw student.

The sound of a snort of disgust roused her from her uneasy reflections.

“If this share that you claim belongs to you is based on the fortune we supposedly make from sherry, then you’re sadly misinformed,” Heath said. “With the increase in taxes on fortified wines, it’s hardly a prize worth pursuing. My father and I have had differences of opinion over his stubborn persistence in continuing down this road before.”

The sick feeling in Caitlyn’s stomach intensified. Along with guilt. Because she’d shared Phillip’s obsessive interest. They’d discussed…dreamed…of buying a tract of land in the Jerez region of Spain, of producing a blend that could be properly labelled and sold as sherry. It would be a winner.

“Or perhaps it’s nothing more than an opportunistic get-rich-quick scheme?” Heath’s voice was filled with derision.

The Spaniard drew himself up, his gaze turning to black ice. “I don’t need a get-rich-quick scheme. I am the Marques de Las Carreras.”

Megan gasped. “The Marques de Las Carreras? Then you spoke about manzanilla sherry at a show in Paris—”

Rafaelo switched his gaze to the youngest Saxon. “Yes, we met briefly.”

“I congratulated you on the silver medals your estate attained for the world-renowned fresh, light manzanilla sherry you produce.”

Rafaelo nodded. “Unfortunately not quite as magnificent as the Saxon’s Folly fino product.”

Joshua was frowning. “So if it’s not a question of money, what do you really want?”

“I want him—” Rafaelo nodded his head toward Phillip without sparing him a glance “—to make good the wrong he did me—and my mother.” He slid off the window seat and dusted off his hands. “I want a proportionate share of Saxon’s Folly—and, as the eldest son, I would expect an additional portion. And I want Fernando’s journals back.”

Four

“Have you no pity?” Caitlyn caught up to Rafaelo as he strode out into the blinding sunlight. She shuddered at the memory of the uproar that had erupted after Rafaelo’s demand. He’d simply looked down his nose and told the Saxons that his lawyers would be in touch. “The Saxons are grieving.”

Rafaelo didn’t answer as she bowled along beside him, her long legs easily keeping up with him.

“If it’s revenge that you’re after, you’re making a massive mistake. The biggest loser will be you.”

He stopped and swivelled around to face her.

“How can I lose?” Thankfully the black void had gone. The fire was back snapping in his eyes. “And what if I do want revenge? After what that bastard did to my mother, I’m entitled to it.”

Caitlyn blinked at the virulence in his tone.

“It’s not about whether you’re entitled to the satisfaction it brings you, Rafaelo,” she said finally. “It’s about whether you can let it go.”

“I’m not listening to this mumbo jumbo. I will have my revenge. I will get my share in Saxon’s Folly—and then I will sell it.”

“Sell it?”

“Yes, sell it.”

Caitlyn stared at him aghast at the utter finality in his voice. This, then, was what he’d come for. And he’d ruthlessly honed in on the Achilles’ heel of the Saxon family. “The Saxons have always kept control of the business. They’ve fought off attempts by conglomerates to buy them out. You can’t do this.”

He gave her an evil smile. “Just watch me.”

His timing was perfect. There had never been a better time to destroy the Saxons. It would take time for the family to regroup after the shock of Roland’s death. Time that they didn’t have…if Rafaelo made good on his threat.

Couldn’t he see what he was doing—what he was destroying?

He couldn’t do this. A sense of calm settled over her. Caitlyn squared her shoulders, her spine stiff and straight and stared him down. “I won’t let you do this.”

His gaze was implacable, revealing no emotion. “I never expected you to say anything else, Ms. Ross. You’re on their side.”

Rafaelo could see that Caitlyn Ross was fighting not to argue with him. Her shoulders rose and fell under the ridiculous oversized sports shirt that served only to emphasise her slender femininity. The slim column of her throat framed by the crisp white collar, her wrists so narrow under the banded cuffs.

He watched in silence as she released her breath in a shaky sigh. So she’d seen the wisdom of refraining from arguing—but the effort to remain mute was costing her dearly.

“Nothing to say?” he raised an eyebrow and suppressed a triumphant smile when she gave him a searing look.

“Plenty,” she said from between tightly gritted teeth, “but I’m trying not to antagonise you.”

Her honesty surprised a shout of laughter from him. “Why hold back? You’ve been forthright until now. Say what you think.”

“But where has it gotten me?” she asked. “All I’ve done is make everything worse. Because of me Kay’s hurting—”

“She would’ve found out.” His mouth slanted. “The appearance of a bastard son is hard to hide.”

“Thanks for that.” But her expression remained tight.

Rafaelo wanted the sparkle back. “Come, heckle me, tell me what you were going to say.”

“You think I’m too outspoken, don’t you?”

“It’s refreshing.” He couldn’t tell her that few people—much less women—argued with him these days. That would sound conceited. It was clear she already considered him an arrogant, entitled bastard.

“Tell me what you wanted to say. Would it have antagonised me? Or did you want something from me?” He added the last with a certain degree of wearied resignation.

Most women wanted something from him—marriage, his title, his wealth. A life of indolent luxury as Marquesa de Las Carreras. Even those who gave up on the wedding ring and settled for a skirmish in his bed, expected to be lavishly showered with jewels and clothes and to be royally entertained during their tenure as his mistress.

When had it all grown so tedious?

When had he given up hope of finding a woman who loved him for who he, Rafaelo, was?

“What do I want from you?” Her gaze locked with his, scorching him with the impact. “I want you to reconsider what you intend to do.”

“You mean give up the share that’s rightfully mine?” he objected, disconcerted by the glow of those peculiarly translucent eyes.

“No, no. I can understand you wanting a share in all this—” she waved a hand to encompass their surroundings “—in the wealth, the family, the land, the beauty that is Saxon’s Folly. I don’t expect you to forfeit that. And I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out with the Saxons. But don’t sell it. Stay. Get to know your family—”

“I’m a busy man—I don’t have time to take off.”

“What’s a month? Or even a couple of weeks? You’ve got years ahead of you.” She looked like she was about to stamp her foot. “Darn it, they’re your flesh and blood, Rafaelo. Your family. And if you can’t do that, can’t forget about your thirst for revenge, then go catch that airplane this evening.”

Was she daring him? He stared at Caitlyn. No, she couldn’t be. She didn’t understand who, what, he was. She didn’t know about the huge estate, Torres Carreras, he owned in Spain. She didn’t know about the power he commanded. She only saw him as a threat to her beloved Saxons. Nothing more.

He’d never met anyone like her.

She didn’t seek engagement rings or glittering baubles. She wanted nothing monetary from him. He had a suspicion if he turned and vanished into the ether and never returned she would be relieved.

The realization came as a shock. It had been a very long time since he’d met someone who didn’t demand something material from him. All she asked was that he befriend his father—his half siblings—or, if he couldn’t do that, she expected him to leave.

What she wanted was selfless—for the Saxons.

But he couldn’t oblige. But she needn’t know that. Yet. “I’m no longer leaving this evening. I changed my flight booking.”

But she wasn’t fooled. Rafaelo read the disappointment that clouded her exquisite eyes. She knew that he was staying because he wanted his share of Saxon’s Folly with a driving lust. Not because he needed it. But because of what it represented, the chance to set right the wrong that had been done to his mother…to Fernando’s memory.

Rafaelo suspected she even understood that he wanted the satisfaction of watching Phillip’s face when he broke the news that he’d sold his share to the first bidder. Caitlyn Ross saw what others didn’t. She’d known he wanted revenge.

To his astonishment he found himself saying, “If I do as you want, if I extend my stay from a couple of days to a couple of weeks will you have dinner with me?”

A stillness came over her and a frostiness descended around her. “That’s not fair!”

“Why not? If I stay, I’ll be doing what you want—and I’ll be doing something I don’t want to do.”

Her eyes went from cloudy to utterly opaque, blanking out all emotion. “It’s not that I don’t want to have dinner with you….I don’t date.”

Rafaelo was puzzled by her response. Annoyed, too, his pride affronted. Women didn’t turn him down when he invited them out. Usually they leapt all over him. Yes, Rafaelo. Whatever you want, Rafaelo. Do you want it now or later, Rafaelo? Instead Caitlyn was edging away. So what in the devil’s name was this about?

“Don’t date?” He looked her up and down. “But why not? You’re an attractive, nubile young woman.”

She coloured and looked away, then said softly, “I don’t talk about it, either.”

Her closed expression warned him to tread carefully. It had to be about her romantic mooning over his dumb-ass half brother. Rafaelo’s annoyance grew. “Is it because of what you think you feel for Heath?”

The look she gave him was horrified. “What do you mean?”

Rafaelo waited.

At last she said, “It has nothing to do with Heath.” She gave a broken little laugh. “How can it? Your brother doesn’t even know I exist.”

“Half brother,” he corrected. “He’s a fool. And so are you for pining over one man. Madre de Dios—” he raked a hand through his hair “—how long has this been going on?”

She spread her hands helplessly. “It’s complicated. You don’t—can’t ever—understand.”

“So I’m a simpleton?”

“No…no. Please, I’m not insulting your intelligence. It’s my fault.”

Mouth twisting with wry humour, he murmured, “Ah, this is one of those circumstances where a modern woman would say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ hmm?” The consternation in her eyes made him regret the impulse to tease her. Almost. He made one of the lightning-fast decisions that he was famed for. “I’ll stay. Two weeks. I’ll extend my booking in town.”

“No!” At his look of surprise she tempered her tone. “You can’t possibly stay in a hotel. There are three guest cottages on the estate. I’m sure you can stay in one of them.”

“All right.”

Her face lit up, as if he’d promised her Christmas.

Rafaelo gazed into her pale eyes. They should have been cold and wintry. They ought to have frozen out this loco attraction. Instead they sparkled like clear, pure crystal, radiating enthusiasm and pleasure, drawing him deeper under her spell.

With a struggle he found his voice. “Don’t read too much into all this.”

“I understand,” she said at last. “You’re still going to sell your share in Saxon’s Folly.”

“And don’t think you’ll change my mind,” he growled.

Several days later Caitlyn let out a tired sigh. The path that led over the gentle hill from the winery to the stables, where she lived in a loft apartment, seemed longer and bumpier than usual. Her hot, tired feet dragged.

In the distance the golden glow of the late-afternoon sunlight cast a creamy glaze over the whitewashed stables. To the left, a ray of sun glinted off the chrome trim of Joshua Saxon’s Range Rover, where he inspected the vines. At the end of the block a copse of native trees marked the start of rolling grass meadows dotted with horses, some grazing, others slumbering, heads low, tails whisking to keep the flies at bay.

It had been hellish in the winery. Surrounded by oak casks, Caitlyn had spent the day racking wine, transferring it from one cask to another to remove the lees. She’d worked quickly to lessen the exposure to air. Her back ached and her feet were hot and sore in the scuffed sneakers. She longed for the sharp needles of a cool, refreshing shower…followed by a good book and her own company for a while.

Except today was Thursday. Family night. The night the Saxons all made a point of having dinner together—and included regulars as part of the extended family. Caitlyn was one of those regulars. Even Amy, Roland’s grief-stricken fiancée, would be there. Since Kay had reluctantly agreed that Rafaelo could stay in one of the vineyard cottages, it was possible Rafaelo would have received an invitation to dinner, too.

If the Spaniard was there, the Saxons would need all the support they could muster, she couldn’t abandon them. Caitlyn glanced down, caught sight of her jeans and wrinkled her nose. Kicking a stone out of her path, she decided that solitude and the best seller she was reading would have to wait. But a shower was a necessity—along with a clean change of jeans—before she’d be respectable enough to grace anyone’s dinner table.

The sound of whistling gave her pause. Her head came up. She searched and located Rafaelo lounging on a tussock just inside a paddock near the stable block, his back propped up against the fence post, his harsh profile softened by lips pursed to whistle. Caitlyn couldn’t help noticing that his overlong hair gleamed blue-black like Tui feathers in the sun. She slowed, her heartbeat accelerating with the discomforting awareness that the sight of Rafaelo brought.

She looked away.

Lady Killer was standing a distance away, ears flickering back and forth, the muscles in his haunches bunched and his tail tucked between his legs, every line of his body screaming his protest at the human invading his space.

“Come, sit.” Voice low, Rafaelo patted the mound of grass beside him.

Her pulse went wild. She could no longer pretend she hadn’t spotted him and sneak past. “I thought you were sleeping.”

He cracked one eye open. “That’s what I wanted the stallion to think.”

“He hates people, that horse.” Caitlyn drew nearer and folded her arms across the top railing of the fence, propping her chin on her forearm. At the sound of her voice, the stallion’s ears flattened against his skull.

Rafaelo continued to whistle, a slow mesmerizing sound. Lady Killer stood, stiff-legged, not grazing, his tension showing his fury and his resentment.

Eyes half-closed, the Spaniard murmured, “Sit down. You’re threatening him by standing there.”

“Me? Threatening him?” Caitlyn gave a snort of disbelieving laughter and glanced nervously to the patch of grass Rafaelo was patting.

Taking in Rafaelo’s long, relaxed body reclining on the invitingly green grass, his lazy gaze focused on the horse, she decided that the man was no threat to her. Bent double, she stepped through between the railings and lowered her tired, aching body beside Rafaelo.

He didn’t react. A fantail twittered and fluttered crazily in a nearby bush. Gradually the tension leached from Caitlyn’s muscles. It was heaven to rest back on her elbows and inhale the fresh scent of crushed grass.

Rafaelo didn’t even open his eyes to spare her a glance. Caitlyn snatched up the opportunity to examine him. The hawkish profile, the sensually pursed lips, the olive skin stretched tight across his cheekbones, the small jagged scar beneath his mouth. He was too male to ever be called beautiful.

Then it came to her. The perfect word to describe him.

Macho.

“He’s not as tough as he’d have everyone believe.” At his words, she turned her attention back to the horse.

“Ha! Don’t believe that. There’s a reason he’s called Lady Killer—and it’s not because of his flirty ways with the mares,” she muttered darkly.

“He’s not a killer. He’s an Andalusian,” Rafaelo continued. “In my country we value such horses. We care for them and train them. We do not leave them to become wild and wary like this stallion.”

“He hasn’t been abandoned,” she protested. “Roland bought him about four months before his death. He had plans to turn him into a dressage horse. But the horse is difficult. And with all the work at the winery, Roland didn’t have enough time to put into him. Then he died.”

“Someone needs to take the horse in hand.”

“No one has the time.”

“Or the interest.” Rafaelo’s voice was flat. “I have two weeks. I will speak to my father. Someone needs to give that animal time.”

Caitlyn glanced at him in shock. He was no longer pretending to sleep; all his attention was fixed on the stallion. Caitlyn had been furious with him for pursuing his plan for revenge, to wrest a piece of Saxon’s Folly away from the Saxons. But perhaps it had cooled his anger. It was certainly the first time she’d heard him refer to Phillip as “my father.” She suspected Phillip would be relieved to have Rafaelo’s time occupied, preventing him from skulking around the winery, poking around the fortified wines that they produced. But contrarily she said, “It will be a waste of time. No one can catch that horse, he leads them a fine dance. Jim simply opens his door in the morning and shoos him into the paddock, leaving him a hay net for the day. In the evening, we open his stable door and he comes in for his evening meal.”

The eyes that connected with hers were frighteningly direct. “Who is Jim?”

“One of the cellar hands. He helps Megan feed the horses and muck out the stalls in the morning. Although some students from the local polytechnic who do their practical coursework here also help. And so do I when Megan’s overseas at a wine show.”

“You can ride?”

“Yep, I usually exercise Breeze when Megan’s away.” She pointed to a pretty chestnut mare in the next field. Under his intent gaze the tingling returned, and she moved restlessly. “What can you do with the stallion in two weeks?”

He shrugged. “Teach him to trust me.”

“No chance. That horse doesn’t trust anyone.”

“He already knows I won’t hurt him.”

“Hurt him?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “If anyone is going to do hurting, it’s that mad creature.”

“He’s not mad, he’s scared.”

She stared at him. “Scared? How do you work that out?”

He didn’t turn his head. His profile was harsh and jagged against the verdant grass and the foliage of the surrounding trees. “The first time I raised my arm, he squealed and kicked and tried to bite me. Now, when I raise it, he flinches and puts his ears flat. Someone has hit this horse around the head.” There was cold fury in Rafaelo’s voice.

“It wasn’t any of the Saxons.” Caitlyn sprang to their defence. “He was already difficult when Roland bought him.”

“Stop worrying. I don’t suspect your precious Saxons. But it angers me that a good animal has been ruined by someone’s uncontrollable anger.”

Caitlyn fell silent. She perused him, a new respect filling her. His strength and power was clearly visible in his long, whipcord body and inflexible will, yet he was gentle, too. She didn’t want to examine why that moved her so profoundly.

“Does anyone groom the stallion?” he asked.

Caitlyn focused on the horse with relief. “Not since he trapped Jim between those powerful hindquarters and the wall and aimed a vicious kick at his head. Jim was lucky to clamber up the wall out of the way.”

Rafaelo fell silent.

The fantail was still twittering and over near the stables Caitlyn saw that a pair of swallows had appeared in the evening sky—the first she’d seen this season.

Rafaelo spoke suddenly, “I’ll make you a deal. Dinner in town says that within a week I’ll have that horse caught, groomed and eating out my hand.”

“Loser pays?” Caitlyn started to laugh. There was no chance that Rafaelo was even going to get near the horse. “You better bring your wallet.”

“I don’t intend to lose.” He threw her a narrow-eyed look that stirred the flutter of butterflies in her stomach and caused her laughter to die. Then he smiled, a wide white grin that sparkled with victory, causing adrenaline to jolt through her.

“I’ll do that,” he said softly, “we’ve got a date.”

Too late she saw the trap. Caitlyn stared at him. Win or lose, she was committed to an evening out with him.

Great going for a woman who didn’t date.

Five

An hour later, scrubbed and clean, Caitlyn pushed back the heavy drapes and stepped through the French doors into the formal salon of the Saxon homestead. She stopped at the sight of Phillip and Rafaelo eyeing each other across the wide expanse of a magnificent Persian rug like a pair of wary wolves.

Both men turned to her, relief in two sets of dark eyes. The tension eased a little when Caitlyn started prattling about Lady Killer. A first. Normally the mere mention of the stallion’s name was enough to cause dissent, but for once Phillip appeared to welcome the topic and soon the men were debating whether the stallion could be turned into a dressage horse.

Caitlyn fell silent, watching Rafaelo warily. She hadn’t forgotten how easily he had lulled her into a sense of false security earlier. Her wariness increased when she caught Rafaelo’s hooded eyes scanning the room as he examined the paintings, the furniture, the jewelled hues of the acres of Persian carpet underfoot that contrasted with the polished kauri floorboards.