Wed For The Spaniard's Redemption

He’ll give her five million reasons...

To marry him!

Infuriatingly, the only way Rafael Mendoza-Casillas can become CEO of the Casillas Group is if he marries. Yet this notorious Spanish playboy isn’t the commitment kind. Until penniless single mother Juliet Lacey confides she’s about to lose everything. Rafael offers to save her financially if she marries him. But as the intensity of their attraction deepens, can he keep their marriage purely for appearances...?

Walk down the aisle with the Spaniard’s bought bride...

CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast and thinks up her stories while walking on the beach. She has been married for over thirty years and has six children. Her love affair with reading and writing Mills & Boon stories began as a teenager, and her first book was published in 2006. She likes strong-willed, slightly unusual characters. Chantelle also loves gardening, walking and wine!

Also by Chantelle Shaw

Acquired by Her Greek Boss

Hired for Romano’s Pleasure

Wed for His Secret Heir

The Virgin’s Sicilian Protector

Reunited by a Shock Pregnancy

The Howard Sisters miniseries

Sheikh’s Forbidden Conquest

A Bride Worth Millions

Bought by the Brazilian miniseries

Mistress of His Revenge

Master of Her Innocence

The Saunderson Legacy miniseries

The Secret He Must Claim

The Throne He Must Take

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Wed for the Spaniard’s Redemption

Chantelle Shaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08794-0

WED FOR THE SPANIARD’S REDEMPTION

© 2019 Chantelle Shaw

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For Adrian.

being a writer’s husband is no easy job!

love you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Spanish Stud’s Sex Romp withCabinet Minister’s Wife!

RAFAEL MENDOZA-CASILLAS SCOWLED as he sifted through the pile of newspapers on his desk. All the tabloids bore similar headlines, and even the broadsheets had deemed that it was in the public interest to report his affair with Michelle Urquhart.

The story wasn’t only in the UK. All across Europe people were eating their breakfast while studying a front-page photograph of the heir to Spain’s biggest retail company entering a top London hotel late at night accompanied by the voluptuous Mrs Urquhart. A second photo showed him and Michelle leaving the hotel by a back door the next morning.

One can only speculate on how Europe’s most prolific playboy and the Minister’s wife spent the intervening hours!

That was one journalist, writing in a particularly tacky tabloid.

‘It is one scandal too many, Rafael.’

Hector Casillas’s strident voice shook with anger and Rafael held his phone away from his ear.

‘On the very day that the company’s top-selling Rozita fashion line launches a new bridal collection your affair with a married woman is headline news. You have made the Casillas Group a laughing stock.’

‘I was not aware that Michelle is married,’ Rafael said laconically when his grandfather paused to draw a breath.

Not that her marital status interested him particularly. He was not responsible for other people’s morals—especially as his own morality was questionable. But if he’d known that Michelle’s husband was a public figure he would not have slept with her. Even though she had made it clear that she was available within minutes of him meeting her in a nightclub. Rafael never had a problem finding women to occupy his bed and, frankly, Michelle had not been worth this fallout.

He leaned back in his chair and watched the rain lash the windows of his office at the Casillas Group’s UK headquarters in London’s Canary Wharf. The Casillas Group was one of the world’s largest clothing retailers, and as well as Rozita the company owned several other top fashion brands.

Rafael visualised his grandfather sitting behind his desk in the study of the opulent Casillas family mansion in Valencia. There had been many occasions in the past when he had been summoned to that study so that Hector could lecture him on his failings and remind him—as if Rafael needed to be reminded—that he was part gitano. The English word for gitano was gypsy, and in other areas of Europe the term was Roma. But the meaning was the same—Rafael was an outsider.

‘Yet again you have brought shame on the family and, even worse, on the company,’ Hector said coldly. ‘Your mother warned me that you had inherited many of your father’s faults. When I rescued you from the slums and brought you into the family I intended that you would succeed me as head of the Casillas Group. You are my grandson, after all. But sadly there is too much of your father’s blood in you, and tacking Casillas on to your name does not change who you are.’

Rafael’s jaw clenched and he told himself he should have expected this dig. His grandfather never missed an opportunity to remind him that he did not have the blue blood of Spanish nobility running through his veins. His father had been a low-life drug dealer, and his mother’s relationship with him, a rebellion against the Casillas family’s centuries-old aristocratic heritage, had ended when she’d fled from Ivan Mendoza, leaving behind Rafael and his baby sister in a notorious slum on the outskirts of Madrid.

‘The situation cannot continue. I have decided that you must marry—and quickly.’

For a moment Rafael assumed that he had misheard Hector. ‘Abuelo...’ he said in a placating tone.

‘The board want me to name Francisco as my successor.’

A lead weight dropped into the pit of Rafael’s stomach. ‘You would put a boy in charge? The Casillas Group is a global company with a multi-billion-dollar annual turnover. Frankie would be out of his depth.’

‘Your half-brother is twenty and in a year he will finish studying at university. More importantly he keeps his pants on.’

Bile burned a bitter path down Rafael’s throat. ‘Has my mother put you up to this? She has never made it a secret that she thinks her second son is a true Casillas and should be the heir to the company.’

‘No one has put me up to anything. I make my own decisions,’ Hector snapped. ‘But I share the concerns of the board members and the shareholders that your notoriety and frequent appearances in the gutter press do not reflect well on the company. Our CEO should be a man of high principles and an advocate of family values. I am prepared to give you one more chance, Rafael. Bring your wife to my eightieth birthday celebrations at the beginning of May and I will retire from my position as Chairman and CEO and appoint you as my successor.’

‘I have no desire to marry,’ Rafael gritted, barely able to control his anger.

‘In that case I will appoint your half-brother as my heir on my eightieth birthday.’

‘Dios! Your birthday is six weeks from now. It will be impossible for me to find a bride and marry her in such a short time.’

‘Nothing is impossible,’ Hector said smoothly. ‘Over the last eighteen months you have been introduced to several high-born Spanish women and any one of them would be a suitable wife for you. If you want to be my heir badly enough you will present your bride to me and we will have a double celebration to mark my landmark birthday and your marriage.’

Hector ended the call and Rafael swore as he threw his phone down on the desk. The old man was crazy. It was tempting to think his grandfather had lost his marbles, but Rafael knew that Hector Casillas was a shrewd businessman. The CEO-ship had been passed down to the next generation’s firstborn male since Rafael’s great-great-great-grandfather had established the company, one hundred and fifty years ago.

Hector Casillas’s only offspring had been a daughter so Rafael, the oldest grandson, was next in line. But he knew that many on the board of directors and many of his relatives were not in favour of an outsider—which was how they regarded him—being handed the reins of power.

Hector’s words taunted him. ‘If you want to be my heir badly enough...’ Rafael bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. Becoming CEO of the company was the only thing he wanted. Being named as his grandfather’s successor had been his dream, his obsession, since he was a skinny twelve-year-old kid who had been taken from poverty into the unimaginably wealthy lifestyle of his aristocratic family.

He was determined to prove that he was worthy of the role to his detractors, of whom there were many—including his mother and her second husband. Alberto Casillas was his mother Delfina’s second cousin, which meant that their son Francisco was a Casillas to his core. Like that of many aristocratic families, the Casillas gene pool was very exclusive, and the majority of Rafael’s relatives wanted it to stay that way.

But the retail industry was going through big changes, with increasing focus on internet sales, and Rafael understood better than most of the board members that the Casillas Group must use innovation and new technology so that it could continue to be a market leader. His grandfather had been a great CEO but now new blood was needed.

But not a gitano’s blood, taunted a voice inside him. Once he had begged for food like a stray dog on the filthy streets of a slum. And, like a dog, he had learned to run fast to avoid his father’s fists.

Rafael shut off the dark memories of his childhood and turned his thoughts to the potential brides his grandfather had mentioned. He’d guessed there must be an ulterior motive when his mother had invited the daughters of various elite Spanish families to dinner parties and insisted that Rafael should attend. But he hadn’t taken the bait which had been dangled in front of him and he had no intention of doing so—despite Hector’s ultimatum.

He would have to marry, but he would choose his own bride. And it would not be a love match, he thought cynically.

A psychologist would probably suggest that Rafael’s trust issues and avoidance of commitment stemmed from his being abandoned by his mother when he was seven. The truth was that he could forgive her for deserting him, but not for leaving his sister, who had been a baby of not even two years old. Sofia’s distress had been harder for him to bear than his father’s indifference, or the sting of Ivan Mendoza’s belt across the back of Rafael’s legs.

His determination to gain acceptance by the Casillas family was as much for his sister as for himsef. He would be CEO and he was prepared to offer a financial incentive to any woman who would agree to be his temporary wife.

Once he had achieved his goal there would be no reason to continue with his unwanted marriage, Rafael brooded as he grabbed his briefcase and car keys and strode out of his office.

His PA looked up when he stopped by her desk. ‘I’m going to my ten o’clock meeting and I should be back around lunchtime,’ he told her. ‘If my grandfather calls again tell him that I am unavailable for the rest of the day.’ He paused on his way out of the door. ‘Oh, and, Philippa—get rid of those damned newspapers from my office.’

* * *

The day couldn’t get any worse, surely?

Juliet chucked her phone onto the passenger seat of the van and slid the key into the ignition. She wouldn’t cry, she told herself. After she had lost her parents in the car accident which had also ended her dancing career she’d decided that nothing could ever be so terrible that it would warrant her tears.

But today had started disastrously, when she’d read a letter from an Australian law firm informing her that Bryan intended to seek custody of Poppy. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach. She couldn’t lose her daughter. Poppy was her reason for living, and even though her life as a single mum was a struggle she would fight with the last breath in her body to keep her little girl rather than hand her over to her father, who had never shown any interest in her until now.

A phone conversation with her business partner Mel a few minutes ago had been the final straw on this day from hell. Her life was falling apart!

Juliet watched the rain streaming down the windscreen and blinked back her tears. There was no point sitting here in the car park behind the Casillas Group’s plush offices in Canary Wharf. She still had sandwich deliveries to make to other offices in the area. Her business, Lunch To Go, might be facing ruin, but her customers had paid for their sandwiches and wraps and they were expecting her to turn up.

She sniffed as she started the engine and pulled her seat belt across her lap before putting the van into gear and pressing her foot down on the accelerator pedal. But instead of moving forward the van lurched backwards, and there was a loud bang followed by the tinkling sound of broken glass.

For a split second Juliet couldn’t think what had happened. But when she looked in her rear-view mirror it was obvious that she had reversed into the car which had swung into the parking bay behind her.

And not just any car, she realised with mounting horror. The sleek gunmetal-grey Lamborghini was one of the most expensive cars in production—so Danny, the parking attendant who allowed her to park her van in this car park, which was reserved exclusively for Casillas Group executives, had told her.

The day had just got a whole lot worse.

She watched the owner of the Lamborghini climb out of his car and stoop down to inspect the front bumper. Rafael Mendoza-Casillas: managing director of the Casillas Group UK, international playboy and sex god—if the stories about his love-life which regularly appeared in a certain type of newspaper were to be believed.

Juliet’s heart collided with her ribs when he straightened up and strode towards her van. The thunderous expression on his handsome face galvanised her into action and she released her seat belt and opened the driver’s door. God, she hoped the damage to his car wasn’t too bad or too expensive to repair. A claim on her vehicle insurance would bump up her premium next year.

‘Idiota! Why did you try to reverse out of your parking space? If you’d had the sense to use your mirror you would have seen that I had parked behind you.’

His gravelly voice with its distinct Mediterranean accent was clipped with anger. But it was the sexiest voice Juliet had ever heard and her skin prickled with awareness of the man who towered over her.

She was five feet four—the minimum height for dancers in the corps de ballet—and she had to tilt her head so that she could look at him. His eyes were an unusual olive-green, glinting furiously in his tanned face. And what a face. Juliet had caught sight of him occasionally at the Casillas Group offices, when she’d been delivering sandwiches, but he hadn’t so much as glanced at her whenever she’d walked past him in a corridor. One time she’d entered the lift as he had stepped out of it and the sleeve of his jacket had brushed against her arm. The spicy scent of his aftershave had stayed with her for the rest of the day, and now her stomach muscles contracted when she inhaled his exotic fragrance.

‘I’m not an idiot,’ she muttered, stung by his superior tone and dismayed by her unbidden reaction to his potent masculinity.

The torrential rain was flattening his thick black hair to his skull, but nothing could detract from his film star looks. With chiselled features, razor-edged cheekbones and a square jaw shaded with dark stubble, he was utterly gorgeous. Beneath her apron, which was part of her uniform, Juliet felt her nipples tighten.

Heavy black brows winged upwards, as if he was surprised that she had answered him back. ‘The evidence suggests otherwise,’ he drawled. ‘I hope your vehicle insurance will cover you for an accident on private land. This car park has a notice which clearly states that it is for the Casillas Group’s senior staff’s use only. You are trespassing, and if your insurance is not valid you can look forward to receiving a hefty repair bill for the damage you have caused to my car.’

Of course she would be covered by her insurance—wouldn’t she? Doubt crept into Juliet’s mind and her shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry. It was an accident, as you said. I didn’t mean to reverse into your car.’ Panic swept through her. ‘I don’t have the money to pay for your repairs.’

The rain had soaked through her shirt and was dripping off her peaked cap. She remembered how excited she and Mel had been when they had ordered the red caps and aprons with their company logo on. They’d had such high hopes for their sandwich business when they’d started up a year ago, but the two bombshells Juliet had received today made it likely that now Lunch To Go would fold.

To make matters even worse, the most handsome man she’d ever set eyes on was now glaring at her as if she was something unpleasant that he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

Misery welled up inside her and the tears that she’d managed to hold back until now ran down her cheeks, mingling with the rain. ‘The truth is that I don’t even have enough money to buy my daughter a new pair of shoes,’ she said in a choked voice.

She’d felt so guilty when Poppy had said yesterday that her shoes made her toes hurt. And now there was a pain in Juliet’s chest as if the oxygen was being squeezed out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. She felt as if a dam inside her had burst, releasing the emotions she had held back for so long.

‘I certainly can’t afford to pay for work on your fancy car. What will happen if my insurance company refuses to pay for the damage? I can’t take out a bank loan because I already have debts...’

Her logical thought processes had given way to near hysteria. Ever since her parents had been killed in that horrific accident she had subconsciously been waiting for another disaster.

‘Could I be sent to prison? Who would look after my daughter? If I’m deemed to be a bad mother Bryan will be allowed to take Poppy to Australia and I’ll hardly ever see her.’

It was Juliet’s worst fear and she covered her face with her hands and wept.

‘Calm yourself,’ Rafael Mendoza-Casillas commanded. ‘Of course you won’t go to prison,’ he said impatiently as her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. ‘I am sure your insurance will cover the cost of the repairs to my car, and if it doesn’t I will not demand money from you.’

Juliet’s relief at his assurance was temporary. Her other problems still seemed insurmountable and she couldn’t stop crying.

Rafael swore. ‘We need to get out of this rain before we drown,’ he muttered as he took hold of her arm and led her towards his car. He opened the passenger door. ‘Get in and take a few minutes to bring yourself under control.’ Moments later he slid into the driver’s seat and raked a hand through his wet hair. He opened the glove box and thrust some tissues into her lap. ‘Here. Dry your tears.’

‘Thank you.’ She mopped her eyes and took a deep breath. In the confines of the car she was conscious of his closeness. She smelled rain, and the cologne he wore. Another indefinable scent which was uniquely male teased her senses.

‘I’m making your car wet,’ she mumbled when she was able to speak. She was conscious that her rain-soaked clothes were dripping onto the car’s cream leather upholstery. ‘I really am sorry about damaging your car, Mr Mendoza-Casillas.’

‘You can call me Rafael. My surname is a mouthful, don’t you think?’ There was an oddly bitter note in his voice. ‘What is your name?’

‘Juliet Lacey.’ She supposed he needed to know her name and other details for the insurance claim.

Her eyes were drawn to his hard-boned profile and a sizzle of heat ran through her, counteracting the cold that was seeping into her skin from her wet clothes. He glanced at her and she quickly looked away from him. She could not bear to think what she must look like, wet and bedraggled, with her face blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

‘I apologise for losing my temper. I did not mean to frighten or upset you,’ he said curtly. ‘You said that you have a child?’

‘Yes, a three-year-old daughter.’

‘Dios, you can only be—what?—nineteen?—and you have a three-year-old?’ He sounded faintly appalled. ‘I assume that as you are not wearing a wedding ring you’re not married.’

‘I’m twenty-four,’ she corrected him stiffly, ‘and, no, I’m not married. Poppy’s father didn’t want anything to do with either of us when she was born.’