A Spanish Vengeance

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Taking the champagne glass from her fingers he said, ‘You are needed in the study.’

‘Me?’ Lisa noted the impatient tightening of his thin mouth at what he would see as her idiotic questioning of his perfectly plain statement and to deflect the sarcastic comeback she knew from experience was in store for her she hurriedly asked, ‘How did it go? Ben told me there were problems.’

What could the big-shot want with her? An assurance that she had a pile of must-read, breathtakingly fascinating articles in her in-tray? The sort of stuff that would guarantee a huge upsurge in readership? As if! Anything remotely startling or contentious would be immediately scotched at editorial meetings by the partners.

Skirting her question, Gerald Pennington remarked coolly, ‘As I said, you seem to be needed. As far as I can tell, all you can do is try not to make matters worse. It shouldn’t take long and then you can enjoy the rest of your evening.’

Yeah, right, Lisa thought resignedly as she went to answer the summons. Her hand on the study door, she paused for a moment, psyching herself up to deliver the spiel of her life. If she could make the future editorial input sound really cutting edge maybe she could swing the balance in their favour. Though ‘cutting edge’ didn’t gel with anodyne accounts of boring society gatherings or fashion articles aimed solely at the seriously wealthy.

If she messed up her father would never forgive her. Not for the first time she wondered why she bothered to try to please him, why she wanted what she had never had—the warmth of his approval.

Wrinkling her neat nose, pushing her relationship with her father to the back of her mind, she straightened her spine, plastered a smile on her face and walked into the study.

And he was there, leaning against the edge of Arthur Clayton’s desk, his long, immaculately trousered legs crossed at the ankles, black eyes cold and hard, narrowed on her face.

Her stomach jumped in shock. ‘There has to be a mistake.’ Her voice sounded echoey through the buzzing in her ears. She took a step backwards, one hand outstretched as she felt for the door. Coming face to face with Diego Raffacani last night had been bad enough, stirring painful memories back to life. But here—posing as a major advertiser—

‘No mistake, I assure you. Sit down, Miss Pennington.’

He edged fully upright, feet apart, long-fingered hands resting on narrow hips, the jacket of his suit parting to reveal a matching waistcoat smoothly clinging to his powerful torso. The picture of sartorial elegance—no sign of the slightly shabby, casually dressed and ultra laid-back Spanish lover who had broken her heart.

The formality of his address helped her to pull herself together. It had been a long time. Too long to allow memories to live, festering away in the dark, rarely visited regions of her mind. If he had changed—and she only had to look into that hard, classically handsome face to know that he had—then so had she.

She watched him take Arthur’s swivel chair behind the desk, her heart thumping at the base of her throat. He still moved with the same inborn grace and she couldn’t help remembering how she had adored watching him.

Lisa took the chair opposite and sat, her hands loosely clasped together in her lap. Seeking the defence of outward composure, her voice commendably calm, she asked, ‘So you now work for Trading International?’ reining back the snide comment that it was a big step up for a humble waiter. For everyone’s sake she couldn’t afford to rub him up the wrong way, even though she still longed to wring his neck for what he had done to her!

‘Since my father’s retirement, I am Trading International.’ He placed his elbows on the arm rests of the chair he was using, steepling his fingers, the tips lightly touching his wide, sensual mouth, narrowed eyes watching the disbelief and then the obvious shock flicker across her face.

The face of an angel. The smile of a siren. And the sensitivity and morals of an alley cat!

She was more beautiful than he remembered, the delicate perfectly formed body still unbelievably sexy.

Five years ago he could have taken that body, it had been his for the asking. He narrowed his eyes, black gleaming through the enigmatic, heavy sweep of his lashes. Five years ago he had denied himself the sensual pleasure of the ultimate possession of the bewitching temptation of her. Now, one way or another, he was going to have her. Take what he wanted for as long as he wanted it, learn the secrets of her delectable body then toss her back where she belonged.

Dropping his hands, he leaned further back in the chair, idly pondering the pleasure of removing the clasp that maintained the sophisticated upsweep of her hair and seeing the silvery silky mass tumble down to the creamy skin of her naked shoulders and the gentle, inviting curve of her breasts.

His accent was slightly more pronounced than was usual, his tone smooth as cream, he imparted, ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Miss Pennington…’

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU can’t mean that!’

It was appalling, utterly crazy! As propositions went it was totally unbelievable—she must have misheard. Either that or Diego Raffacani had gone stark staring mad!

Her wildly churning emotions swept away the last fragile pretence of composure and Lisa pushed herself to her feet, then wholeheartedly wished she hadn’t. Her body was trembling so badly she was swaying on her kitten heels. Her breath shortened and her inky-blue eyes widened, darkening to black as she watched him get to his own feet and move around the desk to stand beside her.

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the scent of him, the heat of his body. Her mouth ran dry and her heart began to pound as she stared up into the lean powerful face, watched the sinfully sensual line of his mouth as he asserted, ‘I meant every word,’ and dropped back into the chair she had vacated as her knees finally buckled beneath her.

‘Why?’ Her voice croaked as her mind skittered back and forth over everything he’d said. It was impossible to keep a sensible or decisive thought in her head for more than a nanosecond.

‘Because you owe me.’ His teeth glinted white. ‘Five years ago you were more than willing. But out of respect for your youth and what I then believed to be your inexperience I held back. You proved yourself unworthy of any man’s respect.’ His hard, beautiful face was rigid with contempt. ‘I loved you but you threw it back in my face—that was my reward for my unselfish consideration. It is now time to pay your debt to me. Six months, or maybe even three, should be enough to get you out of my system.’ There was a glint in his eyes, a twist to his mouth that sent a waterfall of ice skittering down her backbone as he drawled, ‘If you prick a Spaniard’s pride then you sit back and wait for the inevitable vengeance.’

Lisa shuddered as a knot of something tight and hot claimed her stomach. She raised her shaky hands to cover her mouth, fighting to come to terms with what he was demanding of her. Grappling to make some sense of the situation, she seized on one solid fact and accused, ‘You said you were just a waiter. And all the time you were rotten rich! You lied!’

His mouth flat he turned away from her. ‘I didn’t lie to you. You simply made your own interpretation. You were happy to amuse yourself with what you saw as a no-account stud. You were at a loose end and looking for a cheap holiday romance. You wanted sex. I didn’t oblige so you eased your frustration by sleeping with the man I now know to be Ben Clayton.’

‘For pity’s sake!’ Hot colour swept her face. ‘I was only dancing—how dare you?’

Resuming his seat on the opposite side of the desk, he slashed his hand imperiously, cutting off any further words of self-justification. ‘You were crawling all over him, kissing him. And if you don’t recall what you said to me, I do.’

Lisa cringed away from the savage glitter of his midnight eyes. Of course she remembered. She remembered every word they had ever said to each other. And, as for the last vile words she had ever spoken to him… Well, she had no defence, certainly none that he would listen to. Prick a Spaniard’s pride…

‘The offer’s on the table,’ he said with a snap in his voice that made Lisa feel as if she’d just been pronounced terminally ill. ‘You live with me, lie with me, pleasure me until you bore me. In return I will not cancel my company’s advertising and use one of your competitors. I will even buy in, bring in new blood to gloss up Lifestyle’s dull image, bring it back to success. If you refuse, as is your right, of course, then—’ With a slight shrug of those impressive shoulders he allowed the threat to hang in the air—air that now seemed to be suffocatingly thick and heavy.

Lisa couldn’t breathe. Her brain wasn’t functioning as it should. She could only hear the words that had burned themselves into her mind—‘lie with me, pleasure me’—and only wonder with helpless self-loathing at the way the responsive heat pooled between her thighs and a piercing awareness made her whole body tremble. After all this time he could still reach her. How many times had she told herself that he wasn’t worth wasting a single thought on? Millions! And yet she only had to be near him—

‘I’ve only just got engaged,’ she pushed out between suddenly unbearably sensitised lips, knowing that he would regard the statement as irrelevant.

‘Break it.’

He got to his feet, large, lean and intimidating. But so utterly gorgeous her mouth went dry as she looked at him, searching for the man he had been, the man she had fallen so helplessly in love with.

‘I’ll call on you tomorrow morning. Early. For your decision.’

Diego strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with an emphatic snap. Lisa shuddered, wrapping her arms around a frame that seemed about to shake itself to pieces. Bereft of his presence, the room felt cold and hollow. But then, she thought shakily, he had always generated an atmosphere so vital the air around him was charged with stinging sexual energy. Unfortunately nothing had changed in that respect.

She felt sick with nervous tension. What Diego had asked—demanded—of her was impossible! Quelling the uncomfortable knowledge that he need only have used a kind word, confessed, with regret, that he had been two-timing her all those years ago, then the impossible would have turned into the opposite, she gave herself a savage mental shake.

Like the arrogant swine he obviously was he was accusing her of being in the wrong. True, she had behaved atrociously. But she had been too young to cope with his betrayal with any dignity at all. She’d had too much to drink, been borderline hysterical…

‘So, how did it go?’

Lisa nearly leapt out of her skin. She’d been drowning in her own tortured thoughts and hadn’t heard Ben enter. He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I saw Señor Raffacani leave—now, why does that name ring a bell?’ He hunched his shoulders, dismissing it as unimportant. ‘Don’t suppose you talked him out of withdrawing his advertising account with us?’ he queried defeatedly. ‘The Dads couldn’t get anywhere with him, apparently.’

At the wry resignation in his tone Lisa scrambled to her feet. His brows peaked in enquiry. He carried no sizzling sexual aura around with him. Just stolid, quietly comfortable normality. For the first time ever she wanted to fling herself into his arms and beg him to save her from the old treacherous longings Diego had woken within her. But they didn’t have the kind of passionate relationship that would make that possible. For years now she’d tried her best to appear coolly sophisticated, in control. He would hate it if she went to pieces.

Her eyes stung with tears and she bent to adjust a strap on one of her shoes to hide them. Dear practical, sensible Ben would be mortified if he thought she was even considering—for one split second—prostituting herself to save the magazine.

But she wasn’t, was she? she adjured herself silently. No way! Not ever! She straightened, willing herself to appear normal. ‘We can’t talk about it now. Later. We can stay another half an hour then you can take me home and we’ll discuss it.’

A look of incredulity spread across his pleasant features. ‘The Dads will want to know what he said to you, you know they will. We can’t just walk out of our own party. People will think it’s odd, to say the least!’

‘No, they won’t.’ Lisa sighed resignedly, pointing out, ‘They’ll think we’re like all newly engaged couples—panting to be alone together.’

‘Don’t be crude, Lise—it doesn’t suit you.’ His frown deepened. ‘And why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? Either the guy’s going to finish with us, or he isn’t. A straight yes or no will do.’

Ignoring his reprimand—there had been no driven eagerness in their desire to be alone together so he wouldn’t understand what she’d been getting at—she tucked her hand beneath his arm and explained heavily, ‘It’s not as simple as that. Raffacani made a proposition. With strings attached. I need to tell you about them, in private, before everything comes crashing down round our heads.’

That earned her a puzzled glance but stopped him arguing and they rejoined the party. And for the entire fifteen minutes or so while they mingled and chatted Lisa’s head felt as though her brains had been scrambled, the hopelessness of the situation making her stomach cramp and her heart bang against her ribs.

She had it in her power to save her colleagues’ jobs, ensure them a brighter, more secure future. One word from her would prevent Arthur Clayton and her father from looking into the bleak face of failure. She owed them something, didn’t she?

A light hand on her shoulder had her tensing her spine but it was only Maggie Devonshire, the Picture Editor. ‘Caught you at last!’ Her kindly face beamed with pleasure. ‘I’m so happy for both of you—two young things starting out together, that’s so beautiful!’ Ready tears misted her tired hazel eyes. ‘Show me the ring.’

As Lisa put her hand into the older woman’s her own eyes stung. Maggie was one of the best; she bore her troubles with fortitude and grace. Her son had suffered brain damage at birth; Billy had the mind of a four-year-old in a young man’s body. Because Maggie’s husband had walked out on her many years ago she coped on her own, delivering Billy to the day care centre on her way to work, collecting him on her way home. And never one self-pitying word. If she lost her job she would never find another. In her mid-fifties all she could hope for would be something low paid and menial—cleaning offices, maybe.

A clammy chill spread over every inch of her body as Maggie, her admiration of the diamond hoop voluble, released her hand and confided, ‘It was lovely of you to invite me but I really must be off. Billy’s spending the evening with a neighbour. I don’t want to impose on her good nature. You never know, I might need her again. A handsome millionaire might ask me out to dinner!’

As she turned away with a light self-mocking laugh Lisa put an unsteady hand on Ben’s arm. ‘Let’s go,’ she murmured thickly.

Could she barter her body for the sake of the magazine and the jobs it provided? And why did thinking about exactly what that would entail send dark heat surging through her veins?

She would have to return Ben’s ring. How hurt would he be?

Could a short affair—how long would it be before Diego decided she bored him?—leave her anything other than deeply humiliated?

Even more deeply humiliated than she felt right now, she decided, angry with herself as her skin began to flutter and her heartbeat quicken at the mere thought of making love with Diego Raffacani.

‘You will do as he asks?’

Slumped on the sofa, the coffee she’d made cold on the table in front of him, Ben had listened to all she’d had to say in heavy silence. Now he waited for an answer to his question.

Lisa, pacing back and forth, driven by a gripping inner tension, couldn’t find one and only came to an abrupt, shocked standstill when Ben stated flatly, ‘You want to. You still want him. Five years ago you swore you were madly in love with him. Sophie and I thought it was teenage infatuation. None of us knew who he really was and I put the worst possible interpretation on the whole thing. I thought he was stringing you along for what he could wheedle out of you.’ His shoulders hunched in a wry shrug. ‘When he didn’t turn up that night I assumed that was the end of it, but it obviously wasn’t.’