In The Spaniard's Bed. Helen Bianchin

purposely into Reception.

      ‘Please come with me.’

      Minutes later she was shown into a luxurious suite. ‘Take a seat. Mr del Santo will be with you soon.’

      How soon was soon?

      Five, ten, thirty minutes passed. Was he playing a diabolical game with her?

      Nervous tension combined with anger, and she was almost on the point of walking out. The only thing that stopped her was the sure knowledge she’d only have to go through this again tomorrow.

      Five more minutes, she vowed, then she’d go in search of him…conference be damned!

      The door swung open and Diego walked into the room with one minute to spare.

      ‘Cassandra.’

      She rose to her feet, unwilling to appear at a disadvantage by having him loom over her.

      ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’ He crossed to the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, turned his back on the magnificent harbour view, and thrust one hand into his trouser pocket.

      Her expression was coolly aloof, although her eyes held the darkness of anger. ‘Really? I imagine keeping me waiting is part of the game-play.’

      Sassy, he mused, and mad. It made a change from simpering companions who held a diploma in superficial artificiality.

      ‘If you had telephoned, my secretary could have arranged a suitable time,’ Diego inferred mildly.

      ‘Next week?’ she parried with deliberate facetiousness, and incurred a cynical smile.

      ‘The very reason I suggested we share dinner.’

      ‘I have no desire to share anything with you.’ She paused, then drew in a deep breath. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ She indicated the sheaf of papers tabled together in a thick folder. ‘I have the requisite proof, and a copy of your offer. Everything appears to be in order.’

      ‘You sound surprised.’

      Cassandra swept him a dark glance. ‘I doubt there’s anything you could do that would surprise me.’

      ‘I imagine Cameron has relayed the deal is subject to a condition?’

      Her eyes glittered with barely repressed anger. ‘He said it was personal. How personal?’

      ‘Two separate nights and one weekend with you.’

      She felt as if some elusive force had picked her up and flung her against the nearest wall. ‘That’s barbaric,’ she managed at last.

      ‘Call it what you will.’

      It took her a few seconds to find her voice. ‘Why?’

      ‘Because it amuses me?’

      Was this payback? For all the invitations he’d offered and she’d refused…because she could. Now, her refusal would have far-reaching implications. Did she have the strength of will to ruin her father, the firm he’d spent his life taking from strength to strength?

      ‘An investment of twenty-three million dollars against all sage advice, allows for—’ he paused deliberately ‘—a bonus, wouldn’t you say?’

      She didn’t think, or pause to consider the consequences of her actions. She simply picked up the nearest thing to hand and threw it at him. The fact he fielded it neatly and replaced it down onto his desk merely infuriated her further.

      ‘Who do you think you are?’ Her voice was low, and held a quality even she didn’t recognise.

      Stupid question, she dismissed. He knew precisely who he was, what he wanted, and how to get it.

      ‘I’d advise you to think carefully before you consider another foolish move,’ Diego cautioned silkily.

      Her eyes sparked brilliant blue fire. ‘What did you expect?’ Her voice rose a fraction. ‘For me to fall into your arms expressing my undying gratitude?’

      She didn’t see the humour lurking in those dark depths. If she had, she’d probably throw something else at him.

      ‘I imagined a token resistance.’

      Oh, he did, did he? ‘You realise I could lay charges against you for coercion?’

      ‘You could try.’

      ‘Only to have your team of lawyers counter with misinterpretation, whereupon you withdraw your financial rescue package?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Emotional blackmail is a detestable ploy.’

      ‘It’s a negotiable tool,’ Diego corrected, and in that moment she hated him more than she thought it possible to hate anyone.

      ‘No.’ Dear God, had she actually said the verbal negation?

      ‘No, you don’t agree it’s a negotiable tool?’

      ‘I won’t have sex with you.’

      ‘You’re not in any position to bargain.’

      ‘I’m not for sale,’ Cassandra evinced with dignity.

      ‘Everything has its price.’

      ‘That’s your credo in life?’

      He waited a beat. ‘Do you doubt it?’

      She’d had enough. ‘We’re about done, don’t you think?’ She tried for calm, and didn’t quite make it as she hitched the strap of her shoulder bag as she turned towards the door.

      Damn Cameron. Damn the whole sorry mess.

      ‘There’s just one more thing.’

      She registered Diego’s silky drawl, recognised the underlying threat, and paused, turning to look at him.

      ‘Cameron’s homosexuality.’

      Two words. Yet they had the power to stop the breath in her throat.

      Diego del Santo couldn’t possibly know. No one knew. At least, only Cameron, his partner, and herself.

      Anxiety meshed with panic at the thought her father might catch so much as a whisper…

      Dear God, no.

      Alexander Preston-Villers might find it difficult to accept Cameron had steadily sent Preston-Villers to the financial wall. But he’d never condone or forgive his son’s sexual proclivity.

      An appalling sense of anguish permeated her bones, her soul. Who had Diego del Santo employed to discover something she imagined so well-hidden, it was virtually impossible to uncover?

      How deep had he dug?

      No stone unturned. The axiom echoed and reechoed inside her brain.

      It said much of the man standing before her, the lengths he was prepared to go to to achieve his objective.

      ‘I hate you.’ The words fell from her lips in a voice shaky with anger. She felt cold, so cold she was willing to swear her blood had turned to ice in her veins.

      Diego inclined his head, his eyes darkly still as he observed her pale features, the starkness of defeat clearly evident in her expression. ‘At this moment, I believe you do.’

      He’d won. They both knew it. There was only one thing she could hope for…his silence.

      ‘Yes.’ His voice was quiet. ‘You have my word.’

      ‘For which I should be grateful?’ she queried bitterly.

      He didn’t answer. Instead, he indicated the chair she’d previously occupied. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

      He crossed to the credenza, extracted a glass, filled it with iced water from the bar fridge, then placed the glass in her hand.

      Cassandra