The Spaniard's Pleasure. Margaret Mayo

sure my ego will take any more bashing.’

      ‘Oh, I think it would survive a force-five hurricane. You know,’ she said injecting a note of discovery into her saccharine-laced voice, ‘if you took away your vanity, egoism and overly high opinion of yourself you wouldn’t have any personality at all.’

      For a second she saw shock register in his eyes, but it was swiftly subsumed by amusement and, rather to her alarm, interest. ‘I have a confession…I have never had so much trouble getting a woman to take off her clothes for me.’

      The husky rasp of his voice had an effect on every single nerve ending in her body. The horror on her face was very real as she begged hoarsely, ‘Spare me the details!’ Her over-stimulated imagination was already providing plenty of those.

      The things going on in her head made it hard for Fleur to look him in the face. If he guessed she would die of shame…

      ‘Let’s just hope your reputation doesn’t suffer lasting damage,’ she said, lacing her words with as much insincerity as she could.

      Frustratingly the acid jibe just made him grin some more and ask, ‘What’s your problem anyway?’ He studied her stubborn expression and produced a possible explanation. ‘Are you not wearing underclothes or something?’

      Fleur, her mind still dealing with a number of erotic mental images involving women stripping for his pleasure, felt mortified colour fly to her face.

      ‘Of course I’m wearing knickers!’ A discussion of her underwear or possible lack of with Antonio Rochas…could this day get any more surreal?

      ‘Then the sooner you stop behaving like a petulant child and take off those jeans, the sooner I can get to the hospital to see my daughter.’

      At that moment the middle-aged woman from earlier appeared. ‘I am so sorry, miss, I was so long, but—’ She stopped dead when she saw Antonio.

      He turned his head. ‘You have dry clothes, Mrs Saunders?’

      ‘Some towels and a robe.’

      Fleur smiled and said, ‘That’s very kind. I’ll be fine now with Mrs Saunders…’

      ‘Mrs Saunders has more important things to attend to,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘If you could get me some surgical tape and a dry dressing?’ He opened the door to Fleur’s right and took the bundle from the older woman before turning back to Fleur. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day.’

      ‘Which charm school did you graduate from?’ she asked him sweetly as, left with little choice, she followed him into the room. Hovering in the doorway, she slid a curious glance around the bedroom. It was decorated in a feminine style in shades of lilac with sprigged wallpaper and a four-poster bed.

      ‘My sister’s,’ he said, watching her. ‘It was,’ he revealed with an expressive grimace, ‘her lilac period. Nowadays she and her husband, along with their litter of kids, take a suite in the west wing, but whenever decorating this room is suggested she comes down with a bad case of nostalgia.’

      Fleur continued to hover as he dragged a chair that stood against the wall towards her. His attitude was impatient as he instructed her to, ‘Take off the jeans and take a seat.’ He stood there, his arms folded across his bare chest, shoulders braced against the wall.

      She nibbled on her lower lip. Logically she knew that prolonging this and making a big thing of it was only going to make her look more of a fool than she already did. The knowledge did not affect her reluctance. Exhaling a gusty sigh, she lifted her chin and shrugged as if the problem were his, not hers.

      Her hands were shaking as she unfastened the button on her jeans and fumbled with the zip. Sliding the fabric down her hips, she stood there feeling horribly exposed and totally ridiculous. She sat on the chair he had provided and eased the jeans lower until they reached her ankles.

      ‘I thought the secret of success was the ability to delegate…?’ she grumbled as he dropped down to his knees beside her.

      His head lifted. He was so close she could see the gold tip to each individual eyelash. It made sense that if she could smell the soap he’d just showered with he could smell her fear. Fear…? Dear God, I’m going crazy. There’s no reason in the world for me to be afraid of Antonio Rochas.

      And then it hit her, the truth—she wasn’t afraid of Antonio Rochas. She was afraid of the way he made her feel…She inhaled deeply. She was afraid of feeling!

      It was one revelation she could have done without.

      She turned her head as he scanned the injured area. His attitude was clinical and his light touch objective…an objectivity she wistfully envied.

      ‘Tell me if I hurt you.’

      Fleur gave a noncommittal grunt.

      His dark brows knit into a frown as he concentrated. ‘Relax!’ he ordered tersely.

      If only it were that easy, she thought, looking at the top of his dark head. Almost immediately she found herself fighting a compelling need to sink her fingers into the glossy wet strands.

      She closed her eyes and took a deep sustaining breath. The sooner she put as much space between herself and this man, the sooner she could get back to normality!

      After a moment—it seemed a lot longer to Fleur—he gave his verdict. ‘It’s deep.’ It was still oozing blood and the area around the jagged tear in her smooth flesh was red, inflamed and angry-looking. It had to be hurting like hell.

      ‘But not life-threatening.’ She gave a nervous laugh, then winced as his fingers lightly brushed the sensitive skin of her thigh.

      ‘That depends on whether you intend to get it treated.’ Balanced on the balls of his feet, Antonio rested his hands on his thighs and angled a critical look at her face.

      If I tried that, she thought, I’d fall flat on my face.

      ‘You look feverish,’ he observed critically.

      ‘I’m not feverish. Anyone,’ she accused, ‘would think you wanted me to be ill.’ This time her laugh just stopped short of hysterical. ‘Well, if you’ve seen enough,’ she added, lifting her bottom from the seat and yanking the jeans upwards. The fabric caught against the injured area and she winced, tears of pain filling her eyes.

      ‘You’ll start it bleeding again, you little idiot,’ he said, catching hold of her hand.

      The protest shrivelled on her tongue as Fleur stared at the long brown fingers curled around her own. She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. Her heart was banging so hard against her ribs that he should have been able to hear it.

      ‘Besides, you need to get into dry clothes,’ he added, easing her jeans carefully back down to her ankles.

      She looked at the top of his sleekly wet head, felt her pulses quicken and thought, What I need is for you not to be here.

      ‘Are you covered for tetanus?’

      ‘I’ve no idea.’

      The admission earned her a scornful look, but Fleur barely noticed. She shifted restlessly in the chair, and pondered some more the worrying discovery that the lightest and most clinical touch of his brown fingers could make her ache deep inside. She looked at the dark shadow of his jaw and caught herself wondering how it would feel to be kissed by a man with stubble.

      These were very dangerous thoughts for a girl who had sworn off men, but then Antonio Rochas, she reminded herself—it might sink in at some point—was a very dangerous man.

      ‘I should think you’ll need a few stitches and probably antibiotics.’

      Great! Her day was complete. Stitches equated doctors and the hateful smell of hospitals. ‘No way.’

      Impatience coloured his voice as he suggested laconically, ‘Shall we let the doctors decide that?’