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‘No, I’m just tweaking my mental picture of you. I had you down as a party girl, not a back-warmer.’
She took a step towards him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is that right? Then maybe what you need isn’t a toolkit but a little imagination. Or perhaps a little less prejudice. Women ride motorbikes on their own these days, and guess what? They don’t even do it side saddle.’
Meeting her gaze, Luis felt something soft and dark stir inside in his blood as she took another step closer and touched the fuel tank between his legs.
He sighed. ‘You’re enjoying this.’
She nodded. ‘A little. You were pretty mean to me.’
Watching her fingers stroke the warm gleaming metal, he felt his stomach tense.
‘Is this some kind of hands-on healing?’
Her fingers stilled and she cleared her throat. ‘Your bike is really clean. In comparison to your boots, I mean.’
They both looked down at his scuffed and dust-covered boots.
Despite himself, he was interested now. ‘Okay, Nancy Drew, I got my bike washed this evening. And, no, it’s not something I do very often but I have done it historically and I’ve never had a problem. And besides, it worked fine when I rode over here tonight.’
‘Was it washed by hand?’
He frowned. ‘No—pressure-wash.’
She nodded. ‘Okay...well, I could be wrong, but water might have got into the ignition switch. It probably just needs a spritz of some kind of water-displacer.’
He stared at her, his pulse jumping with excitement, his hands tightening in a gesture of pure possession. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman. Only the fact that, however deserted it appeared to be, they were still in a public place stopped him from reaching out and—
Stomach clenching with desire, he pushed aside an image of her splayed against the gas tank and said dryly, ‘That’s good to know. But as I don’t have any—’
He broke off in disbelief as she opened up her handbag and pulled out a small spray can.
‘I know how this must look, but I don’t normally carry this stuff around with me,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that the window in my hotel room is so squeaky that I can’t sleep. Anyway, I complained, and when I was going out this evening the guy in reception gave me this.’ She held out the can. ‘It’s worth a try.’
Luis wanted to ask her to rewind and repeat everything she’d just said, but instead he took the can and sprayed the ignition switch. He waited a moment, and then turned the key. He grinned as the snarl of the engine punctured the silence in the square.
Cristina blinked, and then smiled too. It was impossible not to. For, even though it was a dark and starless night, his smile made her feel as though the sun was rising and it was a new dawn.
She felt her heart skip a beat.
No wonder she’d tripped earlier.
Since finding Dominic, her on-off boyfriend of several months, in bed with her flatmate, she’d sworn off men. But there were men and then there was fate.
And surely that was why she had spilt his drink over him. Why his bike had failed to start. And why she’d ended up booking the worst hotel in Segovia, possibly in Spain.
‘Thank you.’
He was holding out the can to her.
‘It’s okay. You can keep it.’
‘But your window—’
‘It’s fine. I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway. My mattress is really hard, and I think it’s going to storm later. It’s so hot and humid now.’
Luis felt his body tense. Hard. Hot. Humid. Why did every word she said make him think of sex?
Gritting his teeth, he ignored the blood pounding through his veins and forced himself to speak. ‘So how did you know what was wrong?’
Cristina hesitated. Good question. However, the completely truthful answer was not one she was about to share with a perfect stranger—no matter how tall, dark and handsome.
It would take too long, and—her skin tightened over her cheekbones—it would be too humiliating to reveal the mend-and-make-do life she and her mother had been forced to live for so many years. But, just as she always did, she would tell him one truth.
Her eyes met his. ‘My dad had a motorbike. Not like this one, but I took it over for a bit and I got to hang out with bikers—and they can’t shut up about ignitions and sparks.’
She winced inside. What was she doing, rambling on about bikers as if she was some kind of Hell’s Angel?
‘Anyway...’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘I should probably be going. It’s late, and I want to get back to my hotel before it starts to rain.’
That wasn’t true. The thought of her bedroom, dark and quiet, filled her with dread. She didn’t want to be alone. But tonight was not the night to mess up, and how could taking this handsome stranger back to her room be anything but a risk not worth taking?
She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye,’ she said woodenly.
He took it, and at the touch of his fingers heat flared inside of her—and something bittersweet. A sense of what might have been if they’d met at some other time.
‘Let me give you a lift. Please. It’s the least I can do.’
His voice jolted her back to reality and, swallowing down the ache in her throat, she shook her head.
‘No, really—it’s fine.’ She pointed at one of the side streets off the square. ‘My hotel is literally down there.’
He looked at her for the longest time, then frowned.
‘I don’t even know your name.’ He sounded surprised.
‘It’s Cristina.’
He nodded. ‘Lucho.’
There was a low rumble of thunder overhead, and as they both looked up at the sky she took a deep breath. ‘You should go or you’ll get soaked.’
He nodded and dropped her hand, and quickly, before she could change her mind, she turned and began to walk away as the rain started to fall.
At first it was soft and light like tears but then almost immediately it changed. Heavy, fat droplets hammered her head and shoulders so that in seconds she was soaked and the pavement was awash with water.
Don’t look back, she told herself. This wasn’t meant to be. Just keep walking.
But she couldn’t just walk away. And, really, what difference would it make if she took one last look?
She turned, and suddenly her heart was hammering louder than the rain.
He was still sitting there, watching her, rain running down his face.
Cristina shivered.
He was waiting.
For her.
For a moment she hesitated.
Don’t—don’t go back. It’s just because you’re nervous about tomorrow, and when you get nervous you make stupid decisions.
Her heart kicked against her ribs, and then she walking, running back across the square, and what she was feeling wasn’t nervousness but relief. And then he was pulling her against him, his mouth seeking hers, his hands sliding beneath the soaking fabric of her top.
They left the bike where it was, and ran to her hotel. Ignoring the startled glance of the receptionist, they stumbled up the stairs and into her bedroom.
He kicked the door shut and, bending his head, he took her mouth again. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him back, her fingers tugging at his T-shirt, her mouth meeting his with urgent, frantic hunger.
‘No—’ Her eyes darkened with frustration as he broke away from her mouth and yanked his T-shirt over his head.
He was so gorgeous—all sleek, hard muscle and smooth skin, and a line of soft dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.
Reaching out, she ran her fingers lightly over the hair, watching his muscles tremble, and then she breathed in sharply as he took hold of the zip on the front of her jacket and slowly pulled it down.
Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against hers, the dark grey of his eyes almost black. For an endless moment he stared at her, his breathing ragged, and then, lowering his mouth, he began to kiss her again—lips, neck, throat—each kiss leading on to the next one and the next.
As he buried his face against her neck she moaned softly, sliding her fingers up through his hair. Her head was spinning...heat was slipping over her skin as his hands slid under her top, under the bandeau she was wearing underneath and over her damp breasts, his thumbs caressing the hard peaks of her nipples.
For the second time that night her legs crumpled beneath her, and her fingers tightened in his hair.
She heard a hiss as he breathed in sharply, and then he was tugging down her shorts, lifting her up, his hands curving beneath her as he pinned her against the door with his body. She shifted against him, panting, seeking relief for the ache building inside her, until suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer and her fingers clawed at his belt and zip, pushing his jeans down.
‘Wait...’ he muttered, and she felt her breath catch as he fumbled in his pocket and slid a condom on.
For a moment he held her gaze, and then, groaning, he forced her mouth back to his. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, he thrust inside her. She arched against him, her nails biting into his arms, and then her muscles clenched and she cried out with pleasure as his body shuddered and slammed into her.
CHAPTER TWO (#u7d072618-f290-5f55-afbe-4c7ef150cbc1)
EVEN BEFORE SHE opened her eyes Cristina knew that Lucho was gone.
Shifting down beneath the duvet, she gazed up at the ceiling. From the sharpness of the light creeping beneath the curtains, and the buzz of traffic in the street, she guessed that it was probably time to get up.
And she would get up—only not just yet. For getting up would mean having to accept that what had happened last night was over, and she wasn’t quite ready to do that.
Closing her eyes, she rolled on to her side.
Her body felt pleasurably blurred at the edges, and her lips were still tingling. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she touched it lightly, feeling her lips curve into a smile as she remembered everything.
A wild, breathless happiness was swirling inside her. She could hardly believe that any of it was real. Meeting him in the club, spilling his drink, following him outside and his bike refusing to start—
Groaning, her cheeks suddenly burning, she buried her face in the pillow, remembering how she’d pulled that can from her handbag...
Her pulse stumbled.
And then the storm had started. Thunder—and rain like a monsoon.
He’d been soaked to the skin.
But he had waited for her.
The heat on her cheeks spread as another memory came to her. Of her body anchored to his...and of his dark, steady gaze watching her until the moment he’d buried his beautiful face in her neck and shuddered deep inside her.
She shivered, remembering, her thighs pressing together, pressing against the warmth and the tenderness there.
That had been the first time...
Later, after she’d lost count of the number of times and ways they’d made love, he’d pulled her against him, his eyes still dark, but soft with sleep, and kissed her gently.
She bit her lip. His intensity, his stamina, his skill hadn’t surprised her. But that kiss had. Or maybe her response to it was what was so surprising.
She’d never felt like that with any man before. She had wanted him so badly. Her need for him had been fierce and absolute and unstoppable—like a river breaking its banks. And he had needed her too. She had never felt so wanted, so desired.
Opening her eyes, she bit her lip. Or so certain.
Normally, even the thought of intimacy with a man triggered a loop of self-doubt and distrust inside her head, so that she was already questioning her behaviour and possible responses before anything had even happened.
Her mouth twisted. And for good reason.
She’d only had a handful of relationships, but they’d all ended the same way—with whatever boyfriend it had been telling her that she was too difficult, too demanding. In other words nothing like the carefree young woman they had fallen for.
After what had happened with Dominic she’d given up. It was easier that way. Easier and less exhausting than caring about someone only to be inevitably let down.
And she’d stuck to her pledge.
Until last night.
But she didn’t regret it. Lucho had been a great lover. He had made her feel desirable and sexy. Okay, he hadn’t said much, but she was glad about that for last night she hadn’t wanted to talk.
And if they had talked she would have been busy now picking over his words.
Rolling over, she pulled one of the pillows towards her and hugged it against her stomach, the faint lingering scent of his cologne making her think of night and heat and rain about to fall.
Lucho hadn’t needed to talk. To big himself up. Why would he?
He was gorgeous. All lustrous golden skin and lean muscle, and those dark eyes that had seemed to swallow her whole.
And she liked the fact that he had been happy to communicate through touch, his fingers writing poems on her body, his warm breath against her throat a wordless promise of infinite pleasure. His silence had nothing to do with laziness or shyness, but contentment. He was one of those rare people who was happy living in the moment, without expectations or regrets and with nothing to prove.
