The Spaniard's Seduction. Anne Mather

you—us. It is—something to do with my father. A confidential matter I have to attend to.’

      Sanchia’s jaw dropped. ‘Your father has been having an affair?’

      ‘No!’ Enrique was horrified that she should even think such a thing.

      ‘But you said it did involve another woman,’ she reminded him, and Enrique wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

      ‘I also said, not in the way you mean,’ he declared shortly. ‘It is just—’ Dios, what could he say? ‘—an unexpected complication.’

      ‘That involves a woman?’

      ‘Only indirectly.’

      That, at least, was true, although Enrique could feel his stomach tighten as he thought of confronting Cassandra again. Dios, he hated that woman, he thought savagely. If only he could tell Sanchia how he really felt, she would have no further cause for concern.

      ‘Muy bien.’ She pivoted on her high heels and, waiting for him to fall into step beside her, she started towards her car. ‘But you will ring me later this morning, sí?’

      ‘Make it this afternoon,’ said Enrique, suppressing a sigh. ‘If I cannot reach you at home, I will call your mobile.’

      ‘Which will not be switched off as yours was last night,’ remarked Sanchia waspishly, inspiring another twinge of irritation. Dammit, when had they got to the point where every move he made had to be justified?

      ‘I will ring,’ he assured her, making no promises of when that would be. He swung open the door of the scarlet convertible. ‘Adiós!’