Rafael's Contract Bride. Nina Milne

asked María to produce some regional specialities. We have piquillo peppers, wood-roasted and then dipped in batter and fried. Plus the same peppers stuffed with lamb. And white asparagus, whose shoots never see sunlight—which makes them incredibly tender. And one of my favourites—patatas riojanas—cooked with chorizo and smoky paprika. And chuletas a la riojana—perfectly grilled lamb chops over vine cuttings.’

      A special meal for a special day?

      ‘Is this how you usually entertain your business guests?’

      ‘No. I don’t usually give my business guests lunch here.’

      ‘So who do you entertain here?’

      ‘No one. I don’t bring my dates here either.’

      ‘So why me? Why have you brought me here?’

      Wrapping one arm round her waist, she tried to subdue the prickle of apprehension as she awaited his answer.

      * * *

      Crunch time, and a small droplet of moisture beaded his neck as he surveyed Cora’s body language. Doubt whispered as he considered his own. He had not anticipated an attraction factor. In all the times he’d seen Cora at Cavershams he’d noticed her, been intrigued by the itch of memory that told him he’d seen her before, but there hadn’t been any hint of attraction.

      Instead he’d written her off as cold, aloof, and set on avoiding him. And once he’d figured out her identity he had assumed she didn’t like him because of her social position—that she was a snob.

      But now... Well, now for some bizarre reason his body was more than aware of her. Because it turned out that Cora Derwent wasn’t cold or aloof or a snob. There was a feistiness to her, countered by the sense of her vulnerability, and he’d felt a tug of attraction even when she’d been hidden beneath that hideous blue trouser suit.

      Now that she was clothed in a dress that showed off long legs and curves in all the right places his libido was paying close attention. Which was not good.

      Especially as she was waiting for an answer to the million-dollar question.

      ‘Well, why don’t you sit down and I can explain. Have an olive. And a glass of wine.’

      For a moment he wasn’t sure that she’d comply, and before she sat her eyes narrowed. ‘OK. But eating your food does not mean I will agree to anything.’

      ‘Understood.’

      He poured the pale golden wine for them and then settled back on the wooden chair. ‘OK. Here goes.’

      Cora speared an olive. ‘I’m all ears.’

      ‘So, I’ve explained how the wine business sucked me in—and I now own four vineyards across Rioja. You also know that Ethan and I have set up a Martinez-Caversham venture which will offer vineyard holidays. As part of that venture I want to buy another vineyard, which is owned by Don Carlos de Guzman, the fifteenth Duque de Aiza—it would link my vineyards beautifully and it is for sale. I arranged a meeting, but...’

      His skin grew clammy as he recalled the churning of hope, anger and anticipation. He had even wondered if the old man would somehow recognise him—even though he’d known it would have been impossible for his grandfather to have kept tabs on him. His mother had changed their surnames and gone to ground.

      ‘Unfortunately the Duque is...’ A stubborn old man and my paternal grandfather—although he doesn’t know it. Yet. ‘Unwilling to sell it to the likes of me.’

      Rafael kept his voice even, though it was hard. Each word stuck in his craw. But he didn’t want Cora to garner even a glimmer of the truth. Though really there was no risk of that. Who would believe that Rafael Martinez was the illegitimate grandson of the Duque de Aiza? He’d had difficulty believing it himself. But there had been no disputing the facts in the letter his mother had left with a solicitor, to be given to him on his thirtieth birthday. The phrases were etched on his brain as if his mother had been alive to read them to him herself.

      Cora frowned, confusion evident in the crease on her brow and the expression in her bright blue eyes. ‘I don’t understand...’

      Careful, Martinez. Stick to facts and keep emotions off the table.

      ‘Don Carlos doesn’t approve of my background or my lifestyle, so I need to change his mind.’

      And he was pretty sure his marriage into the crème de la crème of British aristocracy would do exactly that.

      He sipped his wine, savoured its silkiness. ‘That’s where you come in.’

      ‘Me? I don’t see how I can help.’

      There was a faint hint of trepidation in her voice and he saw her hand tighten round the stem of the glass.

      ‘I’m an administrator.’

      ‘You’re more than that, Cora.’ Rafael kept his voice even, gentle—he didn’t know why Cora was hiding her identity, and he didn’t want to spook her, but... ‘You’re Lady Cora Derwent.’

      Her turquoise eyes widened and the sudden vulnerability in them smote him. For a second he thought she’d push her chair back and run, but instead she sat immobile.

      ‘How long have you known?’ she asked eventually.

      ‘You looked vaguely familiar—I’ve got a good memory for faces.’

      Probably because he had spent so many years studying them—always wondering if that person was his father, or related to him in some way. He’d constructed so many fantasies as a child, each more farfetched than the last, and yet none had been as out there as the truth.

      ‘Then, when I was trying to figure out a way to persuade Don Carlos to reconsider my credentials, something clicked in my brain and I remembered that I had seen you years ago at some party. I knew exactly who you were. After that it was easy to make sure.’

      Cora inhaled a deep breath. Her face was still leeched of colour but she managed a shrug. ‘OK. Fine. I’m Lady Cora Derwent.’

      Her voice was tight, but he could hear the supressed hurt mixed with a tangible anger.

      ‘I still don’t see how that helps you. I’m a lady, not a magician. I can’t convince Don Carlos that your lifestyle is moral and upright. It wouldn’t wash—the Duque de Aiza won’t listen to me. I don’t even get why you would want him to. Why not tell him to shove his stupid hidebound ideas? I wouldn’t have the nerve, but I’m pretty sure that you do.’

      ‘An enticing option, but that wouldn’t get me the vineyard.’

      ‘Surely there are other vineyards?’

      ‘True. But not that many are for sale—plus, the Duque de Aiza made it more than clear that he would consider selling to the right sort of person.’ With the right sort of blood. The supreme irony had nearly made him laugh out loud. ‘Let’s say this is the optimum vineyard, and therefore I am prepared to go the extra mile to get it.’

      ‘Well, I’m not.’ The scrape of her chair on the terracotta mosaic indicated that as far as she was concerned this lunch was over.

      ‘Wait. You haven’t even heard what I want you to do. Or what the salary is.’

      Her blue eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not for sale, Rafael, and neither is my title.’

      ‘Do you agree with Don Carlos?’

      For a second he thought she would fling the wine at him.

      ‘Of course I don’t. In fact I can’t stand the man.’

      ‘So you know him?’

      ‘My family knows him. I went to his grandson’s wedding a year or two back. Alvaro.’

      Rafael froze—it took every ounce of his iron control to keep his face neutral, to keep the questions from spewing forth. Cora had met