Spanish Magnate, Red-Hot Revenge. Lynn Harris Raye

seat of the Mercedes that had picked her up at the Madrid Barajas International Airport. She stared bleary-eyed at the scenery as the car carried her down the Gran Via.

      He’d said he hated her. It shouldn’t surprise her, but somehow it did.

      Five long years. She hadn’t seen him—other than glimpses on television or in the pages of a magazine—in all that time. For one month he’d been everything to her. He’d been there when she woke, when she fell asleep, when she swam or shopped or ate. He’d laughed and made love to her and made her think she was the most special woman in the world.

      Now? She pinched the bridge of her nose. God only knew what happened now. He was ruthless, and he’d gained control of Layton International. He owned every last share. She’d confirmed it during her endless hours of travel.

      She had nothing left. If he fired her, she could only limp away in shame. Without her company she was stone-cold broke. She could pay her mortgage for the next three months, and she could eat. If she hadn’t found a job by then she’d lose her apartment and all her belongings.

      Somehow the loss didn’t compare to the loss of self-respect, the knowledge that she’d failed to protect her family legacy. She didn’t know how to do anything except run a chain of hotels. It was what she’d been brought up to do—however reluctantly on her father’s behalf—what she’d spent her life training for and trying to excel at. What would her father say if he could see her now? He’d wanted a son to leave the business to, but she was all he’d had. Would he now believe his concern about leaving a woman in charge was justified? She couldn’t bear to think of his disappointment.

      The car wound through the busy streets, nearing the ornate gray facade of the Villa de Musica, the Ramirez crown jewel in the heart of Madrid. Her heart hurt with the memories seeing it again brought. She’d been staying in the newly renovated hotel when she had first met Alejandro.

      Rebecca shoved away thoughts of the sexy Spaniard who had ruined her life. She’d see him soon enough, and though her stomach twisted, she reminded herself—firmly—that she was here for business. She would not be intimidated. His mere presence wouldn’t turn her to mush like it once had.

      She was only mildly surprised when the car continued past the hotel. She hadn’t really expected to be shown to a room, allowed to freshen up, maybe sleep a little, before being dragged into Alejandro’s presence. Since she had no idea where they were going, she tried to close her eyes and get a few minutes’ sleep—but rest eluded her.

      Finally, after what seemed like hours in traffic, the limo pulled into a private drive somewhere in the hills of Madrid. She wasn’t sure where they were, but she vaguely remembered passing the Palacio Real, the official residence of the King and Queen of Spain. A uniformed man helped her from the vehicle while another retrieved her bags. Within moments she was whisked through a stunning marble atrium and into a masculine office overlooking a terrace with a pool. How far Alejandro had come in five years.

      Rebecca drifted over to the window and clasped her hands together. Oddly, they were shaking. But she’d been traveling for almost twenty-four hours straight. Her wrinkled suit clung to her body like an old rag, her curls had lost their bounce hours ago and she desperately needed a hot shower. Clearly Alejandro would give her no quarter before he gloated over his triumph.

      Well, fine. She’d endure it, and she’d refuse to react to his insults.

      When the door behind her opened again, she put on her battle face and turned to meet him head-on.

      And, oh heavens, he was still the most amazingly handsome man she’d ever met. Her knees threatened to buckle at the sight of him. She had an inexplicable urge to rush into his embrace, the way she used to do, but she crossed her arms and stood her ground. It took every ounce of reserve she had not to give in to the desire to touch him.

       Why?

      She didn’t know if she was questioning her reaction or if the word was meant for him.

      Why, Alejandro? Why did you deceive me when I loved you? Why have you done this to me now?

      As if she’d spoken aloud, he halted, his gaze locking with hers. What lay behind those silver-gray eyes was anyone’s guess, but she didn’t think they held any warmth for her. And it hurt. Surprisingly, it hurt. She felt like she should do or say something, but she simply stood and drank him in.

      If he’d changed at all, she couldn’t see it. He was tall, six-three or six-four, and as muscular as ever. The years had not been unkind to him. He still looked every inch the hardened ex-bullfighter. She’d once teased him that he was a warrior clad in Armani.

      Had she really spent hours exploring his tanned skin? It seemed so long ago that it must surely be her imagination. But she remembered with every last nerve-ending in her body how extraordinary it had felt when he slid his hard length inside her. Over and over and over, until she’d shuddered from the exquisite pleasure.

      Rebecca pushed a hand against the stucco window casing to steady herself. Alejandro didn’t seem to notice. He was completely unaffected by the current whipping through the room. It was all she could do to keep from being sucked into the vortex, while he pressed on as if nothing had changed.

      For him, it probably hadn’t.

      “I have a schedule for you,” he said, walking to the desk and pulling out a folder. “You will read through these papers and be prepared to meet with the board first thing in the morning. We will discuss your duties then.”

      Rebecca stepped forward and clutched the folder, glad to have a new focus. Something hot and thick lurched to life in her sluggish veins. “That’s it? No Hi, how have you been? No explanation?”

      Ice-gray eyes regarded her dispassionately. “I owe you no explanation, Rebecca. I owe you nothing, in fact. Be grateful you’re getting this much.”

      “I’ve been doing okay, thanks for asking, Alejandro,” she said, ignoring him. “Or I was until yesterday. And you? How are you? Did you marry the woman you conveniently forgot to tell me about?”

      “I did,” he said coolly.

      She blinked back tears. Ridiculous to still be hurt over such a thing, or to expect an explanation so many years after the fact. He was Alejandro Arroyo Rivera de Ramirez, international playboy, billionaire financier.

      Women had always fallen over him. Always would.

      And she’d been no different, had she? He hadn’t been a billionaire back then, merely a famous man in his own country, making his way in a new business. She’d been the one with a privileged background, the one from hotel royalty. But she’d fallen hard for him; his betrayal still stung even now. She should have known better.

      “You will be pleased to know we are divorced,” he continued. “Alas, arranged marriages never work as planned.”

      “Good for her, for wising up.”

      “Like you did?”

      A bitter laugh burst from her throat before she could stop it. “There was never a choice for me, Alejandro. You were already engaged.”

      “Promised, not engaged.”

      Rebecca scoffed, hoping he wouldn’t see how the subject still affected her. “What is that? Spanish hair-splitting? The truth is you were to marry another woman when you so conveniently seduced me.”

      “You did not mind being seduced, as I recall.”

      Heat blossomed in her belly. Flooded her senses. Gathered between her thighs. “I was stupid—and blind to your true nature.”

      His square jaw flexed. He hitched a leg onto the corner of the desk, his custom-made trousers stretching tight against one hard thigh. “And just what is my true nature, querida?”

      Danger saturated his voice, but she was too angry and hurt to heed the warning. No, what she itched to do was slap his sculpted profile. How dare he steal her company