Люси Монро – The Spaniard's Pleasure: The Spaniard's Pregnancy Proposal / At the Spaniard's Convenience / Taken: the Spaniard's Virgin (страница 8)

As the house was hidden from the public road down a mile-long private drive this was the first time she had seen it. It was not what she had expected.

‘I thought it would be older.’ The sprawling building she was looking at was large and impressive, but it didn’t seem especially ancient.

‘The original house dated back to the fifteenth century; it burnt down at the turn of the century. All that’s left of the old house are the cellars. The present house was commissioned by my mother’s grandfather,’ Antonio explained as he waited with obvious impatience for her to negotiate a rocky outcrop.

Fleur fell behind as he covered the last hundred metres and by the time she walked through the impressive front door Antonio was already running up the curved staircase that dominated the entrance hall.

It was all a bit of a blur. There were lights everywhere, he was yelling in two languages and people were scurrying.

A middle-aged woman urged Fleur towards the sweeping staircase and said with a smile, ‘I’ll be right with you.’

A very short time later Fleur was still standing there in the echoey yet thankfully warm hallway when Antonio reappeared, rubbing his wet sable hair with a towel. He had obviously dressed in a hurry—the leather belt of his jeans was unfastened and his shirt hung open.

She swallowed, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the exposed golden flesh. Averting her eyes quickly—but not quickly enough to prevent her stomach muscles from going crazy—she cleared her throat.

He noticed her, frowned, and then looked annoyed. ‘Why has no one attended to you?’

‘I expect they were busy.’ Busy responding to the steady stream of instructions he had issued as he had athletically bounded up the stairs.

‘Busy…?’ he repeated with a displeased frown. ‘This is totally unacceptable…’ He looked around the deserted hallway and raised his voice.

‘Mrs Saunders!’

Great projection. Great voice too, if you like husky velvet with that sexy foreign inflection and, let’s face it, who wouldn’t? Her restless gaze returned of its own volition to his taut belly ridged by muscle and textured with a light sprinkling of dark hair. She swallowed as a lustful lick of heat warmed the centre of her chilled body—actually great everything!

‘Mrs Saunders!’

‘My God, I’m glad I don’t work for you.’ Especially if he made a habit of walking around semi-clothed, she thought, studying the painting above his head.

He turned his head and gave a sardonic smile. ‘On this subject we are in total agreement.’

‘Look, you go,’ she encouraged. Or at least put on some more clothes. ‘There’s absolutely no point hanging around. All I need is a dry set of clothes and my dog back, if that is possible,’ she added, directing a wry glance towards the animal at his feet. ‘Traitor,’ she inserted reproachfully as she shook her head.

She was going to have to have a quiet word with that faithless hound and explain the facts of life to him. Antonio Rochas wouldn’t look twice at a dog without a pedigree any more than he would look twice at a woman who lacked catwalk good looks. For people like him appearances were everything. The sudden realisation that she was displaying the exact characteristics she was condemning him for drew a husky laugh from her throat.

Covering her mouth with her hand, she looked up and found he was watching her.

‘It’s nothing,’ she provided. ‘I was just thinking…’

‘Happy thoughts, it would seem.’

‘Not exactly. Look, why don’t you just get along to the hospital? I’ll be fine. I hope your daughter makes a full recovery.’ Hopefully her nervous system would do the same once he was safely out of the way.

Antonio inclined his head in response and was actually turning away when he froze. Inexplicably he appeared to be studying the floor.

Under his tan he had gone pale.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, looking at her incredulously. ‘You’re standing in a pool of blood.’

Chapter Five

‘NOT a pool,’ Fleur protested the exaggeration. ‘And it’s mostly water,’ she promised with a rueful glance downwards. ‘The carpet should come clean; professional cleaners can work miracles these days.’

‘The carpet! Why would I care about the carpet?’

‘Well, I’m no expert,’ she admitted, using both hands to lift the heavy weight of her wet hair from her neck as she studied the weave beneath her feet. ‘But it looks like an Aubusson to me and…’

Antonio ground his teeth and laid his hands on her shoulders. Through the wet fabric of her shirt he was aware of the shape of her bones and the shocking chill of her skin.

‘If you say another word I will strangle you.’ Kissing her, inserting his tongue between her soft lips and sampling the sweet softness within would be an equally efficient method of silencing her. But, he suspected, much more dangerous.

A man could start kissing that mouth and find himself unable to stop. A man whose daughter lay in a hospital bed should not even be thinking such thoughts.

Fleur found that his unblinking blue stare had a strangely hypnotic quality. He sounded as if he meant the strangling part. A sensible person should at this point feel scared, or angry, or both. Instead she was thinking about his eyes and the way he smelt of warm, clean male.

Maybe I hit my head as well as my leg…? It would be an explanation for the strange thoughts that kept popping unbidden into her head.

Satisfied he had her attention, Antonio continued, the rasp in his deep voice external evidence of his inner struggle not to lose it big time.

‘You are injured.’ Not to mention unhinged. He looked at the lush softness of her mouth and thought, Which makes two of us.

‘Just a little scratch.’ I hope. ‘You know a little bit of blood can look like a lot, especially when it’s mixed with half a gallon of water. It really isn’t a big thing.’

His fingers tightened on the skin that covered her delicate collar-bones. ‘You knew!’

Fleur winced and he lifted his hands, holding them palm upright towards her. ‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ His glance drifted down her body. There was an uncharacteristic vagueness in his shadowed blue eyes as they returned to her face. ‘You look so delicate.’

The observation emerged sounding very like an accusation.

‘I’m tougher than I look,’ she promised him.

‘Not so tough you did not notice until now you’d injured yourself.’ He thought of the direct route he had taken back to the house, a route that even the most committed hill-walker would have found tough, and she hadn’t asked for help once.

This woman took stubborn into uncharted territory, along with his temper.

‘Well, I felt something when I was in the water,’ she admitted, wrinkling her nose as she recalled the sharp pain in her leg when she had been swimming out to him. ‘But I forgot about it.’ There had after all been a lot else to think about.

Antonio’s exasperation and temper climbed to breaking point. ‘Why in God’s name did you not say something? Are you a martyr or an idiot?’

‘Neither,’ she protested indignantly. ‘The water was cold, I suppose I was numb, and, like I said, I forgot about it.’ She wished she were still numb. Since they had come indoors the throbbing pain in her leg had become painfully intrusive.

‘Forgot! Give me strength,’ he gritted, rolling his eyes heavenwards. ‘We’re wasting time here.’

‘I’m not—’

‘I don’t want to hear it!’ he blasted. ‘Just tell me where you are injured and we will take it from there.’

‘You need to get to the hospital.’

‘Yes, I do. So just answer my question and stop wasting my time.’

Fleur sighed and reluctantly gestured towards her right thigh, careful not to touch the painful area.

‘Right, take off those jeans and let me have a look.’

Fleur saw an image in her head of his hands dark against the skin of her inner thigh and a jolt of sexual longing slammed through her body. Even as she stood there trying to banish the images she saw his mouth replace his fingers—in fact she could practically feel it!

‘I’m not taking off my jeans.’ She caught herself trying to remember which pants she had put on that morning and, flushing, shook her head. ‘I’m definitely not taking off my jeans.’ Modest white cotton with rosebuds…pink rosebuds.

‘If you don’t, I will. Yes,’ he said, smiling wolfishly into her shocked face, ‘you’re right; I would. And spare me the false modesty,’ he begged.

‘It’s really not necessary.’ Even as she spoke she knew the protest was useless. One thing Antonio Rochas did not come across as was a man to be diverted once he’d made up his mind about something.

‘Let me decide what is necessary, because if you bleed to death on my premises it will be me who will be held responsible.’

‘So you’re covering yourself and here was me thinking you cared,’ she trilled sarcastically. ‘Relax, Mr Rochas, you’re not responsible for me…and there’s no need to swear,’ she added with a disapproving sniff.

He looked at her mouth and thought about other ways he could release his feelings. Inhaling through flared nostrils, he pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead and told her, ‘You are enough to make a saint swear.’

‘Something nobody is about to accuse you of if the stuff I’ve read is even half true.’