Spanish Magnate, Red-Hot Revenge. Lynn Harris Raye

      “That’s not what I meant.” Ramirez Enterprises hadn’t been big enough to be a threat, but he didn’t give her a chance to explain.

      “I know what you meant, querida. How difficult it must have been for you to endure my touch. To sacrifice your body for the sake of your precious Layton International.” He stalked closer until he towered over her—so close she could feel the heat of his skin, could smell the mixture of chlorine and male that threatened to overwhelm her senses. “You did a fine job of playing the whore, Rebecca. You were quite natural at it. But do not worry that you will ever need to lie beneath this dirty torero again. There are plenty of women who find it no chore to do so.”

      His words stung. “I slept with you because I wanted to. No other reason.”

      “Yes, tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

      Rebecca took a step away from him, her belly churning with hurt and anger. How dare he question her feelings, her integrity. He suggested she’d thought he was beneath her, unworthy of her because of what he’d been. God, it was untenable! “I loved you, Alejandro,” she whispered fiercely. “You—”

      “Silencio! I will not listen to your lies.” He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood with fists on lean hips. Moonlight limned the hard contours of his chest, glistened on the water that still dripped from his head and left a trail of silver down his skin.

      “Nothing you say will change the past, Rebecca, nor the fact I own Layton International. Spend your time worrying about your job, and cease trying to convince me you ever cared for me. We both know the truth.”

      * * *

      Señora Flores coolly informed Rebecca that breakfast was usually served on the terrace in summer. There would be no coffee or pastries delivered to her room, no matter how sweetly she asked. But the last thing she thought she could do right now was sit across from Alejandro and share a meal. In fact, if she managed to avoid him altogether that would make her day nearly perfect. He’d accused her of so much ugliness. Of sleeping with him for information, of stealing from him and of lying about being in love with him.

      Oddly, it was the last thing that bothered her most. She’d been so naive. She’d fallen fast and hard, and then she’d let the words fall from her lips often and easily. And, though he’d never repeated them, she’d believed he had cared for her. Believed what they had was special.

      Until his fiancée sent a wedding coordinator to his hotel suite. A wedding coordinator. The woman had invitation samples, possible menus and fabric samples for his tuxedo. And he’d still denied he was engaged.

      She was the one who’d been wronged, damn him! The one who’d had her heart broken and the pieces pulverized beneath his boot heels. Previous experience should have taught her he was only using her for the information she could give him, for her status as Jackson Layton’s daughter, but she’d denied the truth and carried on blissfully with the affair. And he accused her of betraying him? Was the man insane?

      She’d wanted to call Roger Cahill last night, see if she could find out what really happened, but it had been too late when she’d returned to her room. Today, however, she would make that call. There must have been a reason the Cahill Group had pulled their backing. A reason that had nothing to do with her or Layton International. Alejandro might never believe it, but at least she would know the truth.

      Until then, how could she go out on that terrace and face him like nothing had ever happened between them? Eating with him was too intimate, too much like the past. And after last night her nerves were scraped raw.

      She briefly considered refusing to join him, but she was too hungry—and she definitely needed the caffeine. Rebecca ran a comb through her honeyed curls one last time, before twisting them into a knot and securing it with a clip. Then she smoothed a stray wrinkle from her cream pantsuit and grabbed her briefcase, before shoving on a pair of matching sunglasses and heading for the terrace. She didn’t want Alejandro to see the dark circles beneath her eyes. He’d only gloat at her distress, and she was in no mood for it.

      She passed through a large great room, with soaring ceilings and pale stucco walls. Dark Spanish timbers spanned the ceiling at regular intervals. Cool cream furniture and inlaid Syrian wood tables clustered on silk Oriental carpets near a giant fireplace. Priceless art graced the walls—a Bellini madonna, a Picasso etching and a Velázquez oil among them. Even at his best, her father could only have afforded one or two of those paintings. Alejandro must be very rich indeed to have such a collection.

      She went through large double doors propped open onto the terrace. Alejandro sat in profile to her. His white shirt hung open casually, the paleness of the fabric in contrast to his sun-warmed skin. A gray suit jacket was draped across a chair, the expensive fabric gleaming richly in the dappled sunlight falling through the arbor. He spoke a rapid stream of Castilian into the phone wedged to his ear. He didn’t look up as she approached.

      A uniformed man held out a chair. Rebecca gave him a smile as she sank onto it.

      “Coffee, señorita?”

      “Please.”

      He poured a steaming cup for her while she helped herself to a slice of toast, spread it with jam and took a bite. She could eat a side of beef, she was so hungry, but the typical Spanish breakfast was toast and jam, or churros with a pot of chocolate. After polishing off the first slice, she fixed another, biting into it as she let her gaze roam the courtyard.

      “You wish for eggs and bacon?”

      The sudden English startled her, whipped her concentration from the hot-pink bougainvillea vines overflowing the arbor. Alejandro’s attention was on her now, the phone resting on the table beside his plate.

      “This is fine.”

      “You do not want something more American?”

      “Toast is American.” She avoided meeting his eyes.

      Alejandro shrugged. “It is not a problem. If you wish for something more, you have only to say so.”

      She continued to eat her toast. In light of all they’d said to each other last night, she didn’t want to be thankful to him for anything. Knowing she owed him for dragging her out of the pool before she drowned was bad enough. Though if he hadn’t made her so angry she wouldn’t have been in the pool in the first place.

      “You slept well?”

      “Well enough,” she said, spreading a third slice with jam. Praying he wouldn’t guess she’d done anything but. That her heart was doing double time and her nerve-endings sizzled simply from being near him.

      Before she knew what he was doing, he was standing beside her. He removed the clip holding her hair back and dropped it on the table as he tunneled his fingers into the loosened strands.

      “Alejandro—”

      “Shh.” His touch was gentle, sure—and as startling as ever. He was so close his scent invaded her senses. No chlorine this time. Just expensive soap and man. Her eyes drifted closed as warmth spread through her.

      “Ouch!” Her eyes snapped open again.

      “It’s a small bump,” he said, his fingers exploring the swelling on her head. “Nothing serious.”

      Rebecca marshaled her resolve as awareness followed hard on the heels of the warmth permeating her body. “Stop touching me,” she said, batting at his hand.

      “I have experience of these things, bella. You wouldn’t want it to be serious, would you?”

      “It’s not. Leave me alone.”

      A second later, he whipped off her sunglasses. She tried to pull away, but he gripped her chin firmly, his eyes searching hers. “You did not sleep well.”

      Rebecca managed to jerk away. She snatched the shades from his hand and replaced them, praying he wouldn’t