Spanish Magnate, Red-Hot Revenge. Lynn Harris Raye

      His fingers spanned her skull, probing softly. He was so close his breath whispered over her skin, sent a shiver skimming. “No bumps. I think you will live.”

      “Sell me the hotel, Alejandro,” she urged, her eyes searching his. “It means nothing to you.”

      “And everything to you.”

      “Yes.” She pulled a deep breath into her lungs, savoring the sweet night air, forcing herself to go on though her throat was raw. “They built it together. He knew she missed Paris, and he gave it a French theme. There are family antiques in the hotel even now.”

      “You may have them.” His eyes were flat, the concession seeming to cost him a great deal to say. “I won’t prevent you from taking what is sentimental to you.”

      “The hotel is sentimental to me. I—” she swallowed “—I was born there. I beg you to reconsider.”

      His gaze slid down her body, over the wet dress clinging to every curve. One dark hand settled on her thigh, traced the outline of her leg, moving slowly up to her hip. His touch burned her, even through the layer of wet material between them. Mercy, what those fingers had done to her the last time they’d been together.

      Rebecca bit her lip.

      “To what lengths are you willing to go, bella, to secure your hotel?” His look was intense, as if a word or a nod from her would set in motion a seismic event that could not be stopped until they sprawled together in bed sated, replete—utterly ruined.

      Her heart tapped hard inside her chest. His head descended in slow motion to her throat, his tongue pressing against an erratic pulse-point. “You want this,” he murmured. His fingers spread over the wet material on her thigh. Her skin was cold from the pool and the night air, but his hand sizzled where it touched, branding her.

      Once she would have welcomed his touch. Would have opened herself to him and reveled in the way he made her feel. Part of her still wanted to.

      But she couldn’t. It would cost her too much.

      “No,” she said softly. And again, stronger, “No.”

      His head lifted. His eyes searched hers, almost as if he couldn’t believe what she’d said. Oddly, it gave her courage. She pushed him away, satisfied when he rocked back, breaking all contact between them.

      She lifted herself onto her elbows, and then to a sitting position when her head no longer spun. “I will buy it from you, Alejandro. I won’t sleep with you for it.”

      “My, how you’ve changed.” Sarcasm thickened his voice. “You weren’t so principled five years ago.”

      “It’s funny that you talk about principles when you were the one with a secret fiancée. Or was I the secret mistress?”

      He unfolded from the tile deck, rose to his full height. “The only secrets were the ones you kept while you lied to me about your true reasons for being at the Villa de Musica.”

      Rebecca shook her head softly, stopped when a wave of nausea threatened. “You’re unbelievable, Alejandro. You say I lied to you and stole your deal, but you were the one using me to learn how to expand your reach beyond Spain—”

      “What?” He looked incredulous, his voice snapping into the night like a whip.

      Rebecca shoved herself to her feet. The movement was too quick, and she almost sank to the ground, but Alejandro reached out and steadied her.

      “I’m fine,” she said, shrugging away from his touch. “We talked all the time, Alejandro. You asked me about every detail of the business, and I told you all I knew. You used me.”

      His hand dropped away. “I did not need you to succeed, Rebecca,” he said coldly. “That I now own Layton International is proof of that, do you not think?”

      She wrapped her arms around her wet body, her teeth beginning to chatter though she was burning up with fury on the inside. No, he hadn’t needed her at all. Not in the way she’d wanted anyway. “You got lucky.”

      “Lucky? I make my own luck, querida. I don’t wait for chance.”

      One temple throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. He’d gotten lucky because her father had made mistakes, taken risks. If making his own luck meant watching Layton International like a panther and pouncing when they were crippled beneath the weight of obligations, then fine. He hadn’t left anything to chance.

      The exhaustion of the day sat like a lead weight on her shoulders. She just wanted to go to her room and pretend she was anywhere but here. With her ex-lover. Her ex-love.

      “If you give me a few days, I’ll put together a fair offer for La Belle Amelie.”

      He snapped his towel from the chaise, where he’d dropped it the first time. “You may have the family antiques, Rebecca, but the hotel is not negotiable.”

      “You just offered to let me buy it if I’d sleep with you.”

      He laughed. “No, I asked to what lengths you would go for the hotel. I did not say I would accept the offer.”

      Rebecca grabbed the papers she’d tossed onto one of the chaises. Then she spun to face him again, the documents crumpling in her chilled fist. “You can’t deny you were aroused, Alejandro. If I’d said yes, we’d be in bed right now.”

      He looked bored. “I’m a man. A woman pressed against my body causes a reaction, sí. This is true of many men, I believe.”

      “Some more than others, apparently. I should have believed the stories I read about you. When you weren’t fighting bulls you were bedding every woman in sight. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble.”

      The look he gave her was sharp. “The press enjoys telling tales. If I’d bedded half the women they accused me of, I’d have been too tired to fight and the bulls would have won.”

      “Well, it certainly didn’t stop you from sleeping with me and a fiancée at the same time. Were there others too?” She flung the words at him, surprised at the vehemence knotting her throat. For years she’d thought of the face-to-face confrontation they’d never had. Would he have denied it if she’d given him the chance? Would he have apologized? He’d tried to convince her over the phone that he was not engaged. But his denials had fallen short because the truth was irrefutable.

      “There was no one but you.”

      “You were engaged,” she said, forcing the words past the wedge of pain in her throat. “I think that counts as someone else.”

      “I was not engaged.”

      “But you married her anyway. How convenient.”

      He took a step toward her, menace rolling from him in waves. “I married her because of you—because you stole from me and left me no choice.”

      This time she stood her ground. “I didn’t steal anything, Alejandro. That’s a lie.”

      “Of course you would say that. But it does not change the truth. When the Cahill Group informed me of their decision, they said they were investing in Layton International instead. Do you intend to tell me Roger Cahill lied?”

      Rebecca tried to remember exactly what had happened then. She’d left Spain and gone to London to meet with Roger, at her father’s direction, about a financing deal. They had not discussed Ramirez Enterprises. She would have remembered since the pain of Alejandro’s betrayal had still been so raw.

      “We were working with Roger on a South American deal. What he and his investors decided about you had nothing to do with us.”

      Alejandro snorted. “You expect me to believe that? Layton International wanted to shut out the competition. You tried to ruin me, or at least contain me to Spain.”

      “No,” she