In The Spaniard's Bed. Helen Bianchin

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?’

      CHAPTER TWO

      MINUTES later she slid behind the wheel and sent the car up to street level to join the flow of traffic. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and cool indicative of spring.

      A lovely time of year, she accorded silently as she negotiated lanes and took the route that led to Double Bay.

      Fifteen, twenty minutes tops, and she’d be home. Then she could get out of the formal gear, cleanse off her make-up, and slip into bed.

      ‘We need to talk.’

      Cassandra spared him a quick glance. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

      ‘No.’

      It was most unlike Cameron to be taciturn. ‘Is something wrong?’ Her eyes narrowed as the car in front came to a sudden stop, and she uttered an unladylike curse as she stamped her foot hard on the brakes.

      ‘Hell, Cassandra,’ he muttered. ‘Watch it!’

      ‘Tell that to the guy in front.’ Her voice held unaccustomed vehemence. Choosing silence for the remaining time it took to reach her apartment seemed a wise option. The last thing she coveted was an argument.

      ‘Park in the visitors’ bay,’ Cameron instructed as she swept the car into the bricked apron adjacent to the main entrance.

      ‘You’re coming up?’

      ‘It’s either that, or we talk in the car.’

      He didn’t seem to be giving her a choice as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid out from the passenger seat.

      She followed, inserted her personalised card into the security slot to gain entry into the foyer, and used it again to summon a lift.

      ‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she cautioned as she preceded him into her apartment, then she turned to face him. ‘OK, shoot.’

      He closed his eyes, then opened them again and ran a hand through his hair. ‘This isn’t easy.’

      The tension of the evening began to manifest itself into tiredness, and she rolled her shoulders. ‘Just spit it out.’

      ‘The firm is in trouble. Major financial trouble,’ he elaborated. ‘If Dad found out just how hopeless everything is, it would kill him.’

      Ice crept towards the region of her heart. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

      ‘Preston-Villers is on a roller-coaster ride to insolvency.’

      ‘What?’ She found it difficult to comprehend. ‘How?’

      He was ready to crumple, and it wasn’t a good look.

      ‘Bad management, bad deals, unfulfilled contracts. Staff problems. You name it, it happened.’

      She adored her brother, but he wasn’t the son her father wanted. Cameron didn’t possess the steel backbone, the unflagging determination to take over directorship of Preston-Villers. Their father had thought it would be the making of his son. Now it appeared certain to be his ruination.

      ‘Just how bad is it?’

      Cameron grimaced, and shot her a desperate look. ‘The worst.’ He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I’ve done the round of banks, financiers, sought independent advice.’ He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘It narrows down to two choices. Liquidate, or take a conditional offer.’

      Hope was uppermost, and she ran with it. ‘The offer is legitimate?’

      ‘Yes.’ He rubbed a weary hand along his jaw. ‘An investor is prepared to inject the necessary funds, I get to retain an advisory position, he brings in his professional team, shares joint directorship, and takes a half-share of all profits.’

      It sounded like salvation, but there was need for caution. ‘Presumably you’ve taken legal advice on all this?’

      ‘It’s the only deal in town,’ he assured soberly. ‘There’s just a matter of the remaining condition.’

      ‘Which is?’

      He hesitated, then took a deep breath and expelled it. ‘You.’

      Genuine puzzlement brought forth a frown. ‘The deal has nothing to do with me.’

      ‘Yes, it does.’

      Like pieces of a puzzle, they began clicking into place, forming a picture she didn’t want to see. ‘Who made the offer?’ Dear God, no. It couldn’t be…

      ‘Diego del Santo.’

      Cassandra felt the blood drain from her face. Shock, disbelief, anger followed in quick succession. ‘You can’t be serious?’ The words held a hushed quality, and for a few seconds she wondered if she’d actually uttered them.

      Cameron drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘Deadly.’ To his credit, Cameron looked wretched.

      ‘Let me get this straight.’ Her eyes assumed an icy gleam. ‘Diego del Santo intends making this personal?’ His image conjured itself in front of her, filling her vision, blinding her with it.

      ‘Without your involvement, the deal won’t go ahead.’

      She tried for calm, when inside she was a seething mass of anger. ‘My involvement being?’

      ‘He’ll discuss it with you over dinner tomorrow evening.’

      ‘The hell he will!’

      ‘Cassandra—’ Cameron’s features assumed a grey tinge. ‘You want Alexander to have another heart attack?’

      The words stopped her cold. The medics had warned a further attack could be his last. ‘How can you even say that?’

      She wanted to rail against him, demand why he’d let things progress beyond the point of no return. Yet recrimination wouldn’t solve a thing, except provide a vehicle to vent her feelings.

      ‘I want proof.’ The words were cool, controlled. ‘Facts,’ she elaborated, and glimpsed Cameron’s obvious discomfiture. ‘The how and why of it, and just how bad it is.’

      ‘You don’t believe me?’

      ‘I need to be aware of all the angles,’ she elaborated. ‘Before I confront Diego del Santo.’

      Cameron went a paler shade of pale. ‘Confront?’

      She fired him a look that quelled him into silence. ‘If he thinks I’ll meekly comply with