Читать книгу In The Spaniard's Bed - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 6

‘I’M ON my way.’ Cassandra released the intercom, caught up her evening purse, keys, exited her apartment and took the lift down to the foyer where her brother was waiting.

At twenty-nine he was two years her senior, and he shared her blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes. Average height in comparison to her petite frame.

‘Wow,’ Cameron complimented with genuine admiration, and she responded with an affectionate smile.

‘Brotherly love, huh?’

The ice-pink gown moulded her slender curves, its spaghetti straps showing silky skin to an advantage, and the diagonal ruffled split to mid-thigh showcased beautifully proportioned legs. A gossamer wrap in matching ice-pink completed the outfit, and her jewellery was understated.

‘Seriously cool.’

She tilted her head to one side as she tucked a hand through his arm. ‘Let’s go slay the masses.’

Tonight’s fundraiser was a prestigious event whose guests numbered among Sydney’s social élite. Held in the ballroom of a prominent city hotel, it was one of several annual soirées Cassandra and her brother attended on their father’s behalf after a heart attack and stroke two years ago forced him into early retirement.

Guests were mingling in the large foyer when they arrived, and she summoned a practised smile as she acknowledged a few acquaintances, pausing to exchange a greeting with one friend or another as she selected iced water from a hovering drinks waiter.

Observing the social niceties was something she did well. Private schooling and a finishing year in France had added polish and panache. The Preston-Villers family held a certain social standing of which her father was justly proud.

While Cameron had been groomed to enter the Preston-Villers conglomerate from an early age, Cassandra chose to pursue gemmology and jewellery design, added the necessary degree, studied with a well-known jeweller and she was now beginning to gain a reputation for her work.

Mixing and mingling was part of the social game, and she did it well.

Committee members conferred and worked the room in a bid to ensure the evening’s success. The hotel ballroom was geared to seat a thousand guests, and it was rumoured there had been a waiting list for last-minute ticket cancellations.

‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

Cassandra met Cameron’s gaze, examined his expression, and restrained a faint frown as she glimpsed the slight edginess apparent.

‘Here, now?’ she queried lightly, and waited for his usual carefree smile.

‘Later.’

It couldn’t be anything serious, she dismissed, otherwise he would have mentioned it during the drive in to the city.

‘Darling, how are you?’

The soft feminine purr evoked a warm smile as she turned to greet the tall, slender model. ‘Siobhan.’ Her eyes sparkled. They’d attended the same school, shared much, and were firm friends. ‘I’m fine, and you?’

‘Flying out to Rome tomorrow, then it’s Milan followed by Paris.’

Cassandra uttered a subdued chuckle in amusement. ‘It’s a hard life.’

Siobhan grinned. ‘But an interesting one,’ she conceded. ‘I have a date with an Italian count in Rome.’

‘Ah.’

‘Old money, and divine.’

The musing twinkle in those gorgeous green eyes brought forth a husky laugh as Cassandra shook her head. ‘You’re wicked.’

‘This time it’s serious,’ Siobhan declared as Cassandra’s smile widened.

‘It always is.’

‘Got to go. The parents are in tow.’

‘Have fun.’

‘I shall. In Italy.’ She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Cassandra’s in a gesture of affection.

‘Take care.’

‘Always.’

Soon the ballroom doors would be open, and guests would be called to take their seats. There would be the introductory and explanatory speeches, the wine stewards would do their thing, and the first course served.

Speaking of which, she was hungry. Lunch had been yoghurt and fruit snatched between the usual weekend chores.

Cameron appeared deep in conversation with a man she presumed to be a business associate, and she sipped chilled water from her glass as she debated whether to join him.

At that moment she felt the warning prickle of awareness as her senses went on alert, and she let her gaze skim the guests.

There was only one man who had this particular effect on her equilibrium.

Innate instinct? An elusive knowledge based on the inexplicable?

Whatever, it was crazy. Maddening.

Maybe this time she had it wrong. Although all it took was one glance at that familiar dark head to determine her instinct was right on target.

Diego del Santo. Successful entrepreneur, one of the city’s nouveau riche…and her personal nemesis.

Born in New York of Spanish immigrant parents, it was reported he’d lived in the wrong part of town, fought for survival in the streets, and made his money early, so it was rumoured, by means beyond legitimate boundaries of the law.

He took risks, it was said, no sensible man would touch. Yet those risks had paid off a million-fold several times over. Literally.

In idle fascination she watched as he turned towards her, then he murmured something to his companion and slowly closed the distance between them.

‘Cassandra.’

The voice was low, impossibly deep with the barest trace of an accent, and possessed of the power to send tiny shivers feathering the length of her spine.

Tall, broad-framed, with the sculptured facial features of his Spanish ancestors. Dark, well-groomed hair, dark, almost black eyes, and a mouth that promised a thousand delights.

A mouth that had briefly tasted her own when she’d disobeyed her father and persuaded Cameron to take her to a party. Sixteen years old, emerging hormones, a sense of the forbidden combined with a desire to play grown-up had proved a volatile mix. Add her brother with his own agenda, a few sips too many of wine, a young man who seemed intent on leading her astray, and she could easily have been in over her head. Except Diego del Santo had materialised out of nowhere, intervened, read her the Riot Act, then proceeded to show her precisely what she should be wary of when she heedlessly chose to flirt. Within minutes he had summoned Cameron and she found herself bundled into her brother’s car and driven home.

Eleven years had passed since that fateful episode, ten of which Diego had spent in his native New York creating his fortune.

Yet she possessed a vivid recollection of how it felt to have his mouth savour her own. The electric primitiveness of his touch, almost as if he had reached down to her soul and staked a claim.

Diego del Santo had projected a raw quality that meshed leashed savagery with blatant sensuality. A dangerously compelling mix, and one that attracted females from fifteen to fifty.

Now there were no rough edges, and he bore the mantle of power with the same incredible ease he wore his designer clothes.

In his mid-to-late thirties, Diego del Santo was a seriously rich man whose property investments and developments formed a financial portfolio that edged him close to billionaire status.

As such, his return to Australia a year ago had soon seen him become an A-list member of Sydney’s social élite, receiving invitations to each and every soirée of note. His acceptance was selective, and his donations to worthy charities, legend.

Preston-Villers’ involvement with similar charity events and her father’s declining health meant they were frequently fellow guests at one function or another. It was something she accepted, and dealt with by presenting a polite façade.

Only she knew the effect he had on her. The way her pulse jumped and thudded to a rapid beat. No one could possibly be aware her stomach curled into a painful knot at the mere sight of him, or how one glance at his sensual mouth heated the blood in her veins in a vivid reminder of the way it felt to have that mouth possess her own.

The slow sweep of his tongue, the promise of passion, the gentle, coaxing quality that caught her tentative response and took it to an undreamt-of dimension.

Eleven years. Yet his kiss was hauntingly vivid…a taunting example by which she’d unconsciously measured each kiss that followed it. None matched up, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself imagination had merely enhanced the memory.

There were occasions when she thought she should dispense with her own curiosity and accept one of his many invitations. Yet each time something held her back, an innate knowledge such a step would put her way out of her depth.

His invitations and her refusals had become something akin to a polite game they each played. What would he do, she mused, if she surprised him by accepting?

Are you insane? a tiny voice queried insidiously.

‘Diego,’ Cassandra acknowledged coolly, meeting his compelling gaze with equanimity, watching as he inclined his head to her brother.

‘Cameron.’

For a millisecond she thought she glimpsed some unspoken signal pass between the men, then she dismissed it as fanciful.

‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

Tonight’s event was a charity fundraiser aiding state-of-the-art equipment for a special wing of the city’s children’s hospital.

Without doubt there were a number of guests with a genuine interest in the nominated charity. However, the majority viewed the evening as a glitz-and-glamour function at which the women would attempt to outdo each other with designer gowns and expensive jewellery, whilst the men wheeled and dealed beneath the guise of socialising.

Diego del Santo didn’t fit easily into any recognisable category.

Not that she had any interest in pigeon-holing him. In fact, she did her best to pretend he didn’t exist. Something he seemed intent on proving otherwise.

He could have any woman he wanted. And probably did. His photo graced the social pages of numerous newspapers and magazines, inevitably with a stunning female glued to his side.

There was a primitive quality evident. A hint of something dangerous beneath the surface should anyone dare to consider scratching it.

A man who commanded respect and admiration in the boardroom. Possessed of the skill, so it was whispered, and the passion to drive a woman wild in the bedroom.

It was a dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and latent sensuality. Lethal.

Some women would excel at the challenge of taming him, enjoying the ride for however long it lasted. But she wasn’t one of them. Only a fool ventured into the devil’s playground with the hope they wouldn’t get burnt.

Eluding Diego was a game she became adept at playing. If they happened to meet, she offered a polite smile, acknowledged his presence, then moved on.

Yet their social schedule was such, those occasions were many. If she didn’t know better, she could almost swear he was intent on playing a game of his own.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Cassandra ventured. ‘There’s someone I should catch up with.’ A time-worn phrase, trite but true, for there were always a few friends she could greet by way of escape.

Cameron wanted to protest, she could tell, although Diego del Santo merely inclined his head.

Which didn’t help at all, for she could feel those dark eyes watching her as she moved away.

Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and something tugged deep inside in a vivid reminder of the effect he had on her composure.

Get over it, she chided silently as she deliberately sought a cluster of friends and blended seamlessly into their conversation.

Any time soon the doors into the ballroom would open and guests would be encouraged to take their seats at designated tables. Then she could rejoin Cameron, and prepare to enjoy the evening.

‘You had no need to disappear,’ Cameron chastised as she moved to his side.

‘Diego del Santo might be serious eye candy, but he’s not my type.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ She managed a smile, held it, and began threading her way towards their table.

‘Do you know who else is joining us?’ Cassandra queried lightly as she slid into one of four remaining seats, and took time to greet the six guests already seated.

‘Here they are now.’

She registered Cameron’s voice, glanced up from the table…and froze.

Diego del Santo and the socialite and model, Alicia Vandernoot.

No. The silent scream seemed to echo inside her head.

It was bad enough having to acknowledge his presence and converse for a few minutes. To have to share a table with him for the space of an evening was way too much!

Had Cameron organised this? She wanted to rail against him and demand Why? Except there wasn’t the opportunity to do so without drawing unwanted attention.

If Diego chose the chair next to hers, she’d scream!

Of course he did. It was one of the correct dictums of society when it came to seating arrangements. Although she had little doubt he enjoyed the irony.

Cassandra murmured a polite greeting, and her faint smile was a mere facsimile.

This close she was far too aware of him, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes, the subtle aroma of his exclusive cologne.

Yet it was the man himself, his potent masculinity and the sheer primitive force he exuded that played havoc with her senses.

A few hours, she consoled herself silently. All she had to do was sip wine, eat the obligatory three courses set in front of her, and make polite conversation. She could manage that, surely?

Not so easy, Cassandra acknowledged as she displayed intent interest in the charity chairperson’s introduction prior to revealing funding endeavours, results and expectations.

Every nerve in her body was acutely attuned to Diego del Santo, supremely conscious of each move he made.

‘More water?’

He had topped up Alicia’s goblet, and now offered to refill her own.

‘No, thank you.’ Her goblet was part-empty, but she’d be damned if she’d allow him to tend to her.

Did he sense her reaction? Probably. He was too astute not to realise her excruciating politeness indicated she didn’t want anything to do with him.

Uniformed waiters delivered starters with practised efficiency, and she forked the artistically arranged food without appetite.

‘The seafood isn’t to your satisfaction?’

His voice was an accented drawl tinged with amusement, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity, almost inclined to offer a negation just to see what he’d do, aware he’d probably summon the waiter and insist on a replacement.

‘Yes.’

The single affirmative surprised her, and she deliberately widened her eyes. ‘You read minds?’

The edge of his mouth curved, and there was a humorous gleam apparent. ‘It’s one of my talents.’

Cassandra deigned not to comment, and deliberately turned her attention to the contents on her plate, unsure if she heard his faint, husky chuckle or merely imagined it.

He was the most irritating, impossible man she’d ever met. Examining why wasn’t on her agenda. At least that’s what she told herself whenever Diego’s image intruded…on far too many occasions for her peace of mind.

It was impossible to escape the man. He was there, a constant in the media, cementing another successful business deal, escorting a high-profile female personality to one social event or another. Cameron accorded him an icon, and mentioned him frequently in almost reverent tones.

Tonight Diego del Santo had chosen to invade her personal space. Worse, she had little option but to remain in his immediate proximity for a few hours, and she resented his manipulation, hated him for singling her out as an object for his amusement.

For that was all it was…and it didn’t help that she felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall.

Cassandra took a sip of wine, and deliberately engaged Cameron in conversation, the thread of which she lost minutes later as the waiter removed plates from their table.

She was supremely conscious of Diego’s proximity, the shape of his hand as he reached for his wine goblet, the way his fingers curved over the delicate glass…and couldn’t stop the wayward thought as to how his hands would glide over a woman’s skin.

Where had that come from?

Dear heaven, the wine must have affected her brain! The last thing she wanted was any physical contact with a man of Diego del Santo’s ilk.

‘Your speciality is gemmology, I believe?’

Think of the devil and he speaks, she alluded with silent cynicism as she turned towards him. ‘Polite conversation, genuine interest,’ she inclined, and waited a beat. ‘Or an attempt to alleviate boredom?’

His expression didn’t change, although she could have sworn something moved in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘Let’s aim for the middle ground.’

There was a quality to his voice, an inflexion she preferred to ignore. ‘Natural precious gemstones recovered in the field by mining or fossiking techniques are the most expensive.’ Such facts were common knowledge. ‘For a jewellery designer, they give more pleasure to work with, given there’s a sense of nature and the process of their existence. It becomes a personal challenge to have the stones cut in such a way they display maximum beauty. The designer’s gift to ensure the design and setting reflect the stone’s optimal potential.’ A completed study of gemmology had led to her true passion of jewellery design.

Diego saw the way her mouth softened and her eyes came alive. It intrigued him, as she intrigued him.

‘You are not in favour of the synthetic or simulants?’

Her expression faded a little. ‘They’re immensely popular and have a large market.’

His gaze held hers. ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’ He lifted a hand and fingered the delicate argyle diamond nestling against the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Your work?’ It was a rhetorical question. He’d made it his business to view her designs, without her knowledge, and was familiar with each and every one of them.

She flinched at his touch, hating his easy familiarity almost as much as she hated the tell-tale warmth flooding her veins.

If she could, she’d have flung the icy contents of her glass in his face. Instead, she forced her voice to remain calm. ‘Yes.’

A woman could get lost in the depths of those dark eyes, for there was warm sensuality lurking just beneath the surface, a hint, a promise, of the delights he could provide.

Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and she barely repressed a shiver at the thought of his mouth on hers, the touch of his hands…how it would feel to be driven wild, beyond reason, by such a man.

‘Have dinner with me tomorrow night.’

‘The obligatory invitation?’ Her response was automatic, and she tempered it with a gracious, ‘Thank you. No.’

The edge of his mouth lifted. ‘The obligatory refusal…because you have to wash your hair?’

‘I can come up with something more original.’ She could, easily. Except she doubted an excuse, no matter how legitimate-sounding, would fool him.

‘You won’t change your mind?’

Cassandra offered a cool smile. ‘What part of no don’t you understand?’

Diego reached for the water jug and refilled her glass. The sleeve of his jacket brushed her arm, and her stomach turned a slow somersault at the contact.

It was as well the waiters began delivering the main course, and she sipped wine in the hope it would soothe her nerves.

Chance would be a fine thing! She was conscious of every move he made, aware of the restrained power beneath the fine Armani tailoring, the dangerous aura he seemed to project without any effort at all.

Another two hours. Three at the most. Then she could excuse herself and leave. If Cameron wanted to stay on, she’d take a cab home.

Cassandra drew a calming breath and regarded the contents on her plate. The meal was undoubtedly delicious, but her appetite had vanished.

With determined effort she caught Cameron’s attention, and deliberately sought his opinion on something so inconsequential that afterwards she had little recollection of the discussion.

There were the usual speeches, followed by light entertainment as dessert and coffee were served. Never had time dragged quite so slowly, nor could she recall an occasion when she’d so badly wanted the evening to end.

To her surprise, it was Cameron who initiated the desire to leave, citing a headache as the reason, and Cassandra rose to her feet, offered a polite goodnight to the occupants of their table, then preceded her brother out to the foyer.

‘Are you OK?’

He looked pale, too pale, and a slight frown creased her brow as they headed towards the bank of lifts. ‘Headache?’ She extended her hand as he retrieved his car keys. ‘Want me to drive?’