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  'This is not wise.'

  His eyes moved almost compulsively to her mouth, and she realised he was as aware of what was happening as she was.

  'Then let me go,' she pleaded unsteadily, though she made no attempt to move away.

  And Enrique sensed that she was susceptible to this sudden intimacy between them. It was evident in the dark fire that blazed suddenly in his eyes.

  'I will,' he said savagely, but his actions belied his words. His head dipped until his lips were only a few inches away from hers. 'I must,' he added barely audibly, before he bent even lower and touched her mouth with his.

  Anne Mather has been writing since she was seven, but it was only when her first child was born that she fulfilled her dream of becoming a published author. Her first book, CAROLINE, met with immediate success, and since then Anne has written more than 130 novels, reaching a readership which spans the world.

  Born and raised in the north of England, Anne still makes her home there with her husband, two children and, now, grandchildren. Asked if she finds writing a lonely occupation, she replies that her characters keep her company. In fact, she is so busy sorting out their lives that she often doesn't have time for her own! An avid reader herself, she devours everything from sagas and romances to suspense.

  THE SPANIARD'S SEDUCTION

  BY ANNE MATHER

  Sexy Romance

  DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER? II you did, you should be aware ■' is stolen property as it was

  reported 'unsold and destroyed' by a retailer.

  Neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment

  for this book.

  First Published 2002

  First Australian Paperback Edition 2002

  ISBN 0 733 53503 X

  THE SPANIARDS SEDUCTION © 3002 by Anne Mather

  Philippine Copyright 2002

  Australian Copyright 2002

  New Zealand Copyright 2O02

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in

  whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means,

  now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and

  recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden

  without the permission of the publisher. Harlequin Mills 8 Boon, P.O. Box

  7002, Chatswood, N.S.W, Australia 2067.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names They are not even distantly inspired by any individual

  known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade of otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V.

  Published by Harlequin Mills & Boon 3 Gibbes Street

  CHATSWOOD NSW 2007 AUSTRALIA

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  Printed and bound in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

  CHAPTER ONE

  It had rained in the night, and when Enrique stepped out onto his balcony at six o'clock the morning air brought a feathering of goosebumps over his flesh.

  Of course it was very early, too early for the pale thread of the rising sun to give any warmth to the day. He should still be in his bed—or rather in Sanchia's bed, as she had ex­pected—instead of standing here, brooding over something that alone could bring an unwelcome thinning of his blood.

  His long ringers curled impatiently over the iron railing. It was still much warmer here, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, than it had been in England, he recalled, not alto­gether wisely. Despite the fact that early June in Andalusia meant blue skies and long days of hot sunshine, London had been cool and overcast while he was there, making him glad to be boarding the plane to come back home.

  Only to find that letter waiting for him...

  He scowled. He didn't want to think about that now. He'd spent far too many hours thinking about it already and it was all too easy to allow his anger to overtake his common sense. The realisation that, if his father hadn't been so ill, the letter would have been delivered to him filled him with outrage. It was only because Julio de Montoya was in the hospital in Seville that the letter had lain unopened on his desk until Enrique's return the day before.

  His hands tightened on the railing, his fingertips brushing the petals of the morning glory that climbed the pillars beneath his balcony. Raindrops sparkled, creating a rainbow of colour on the pearly-white blossoms, drawing his eyes lower to where a veritable waterfall of jasmine and bougainvillaea spilled their beauty in the courtyard below.

  Enrique had always believed his home was the most beautiful place on earth, but this morning it was difficult to empty his mind of intrusive thoughts, destructive thoughts. Even the sunlight glinting on the spire of me church in the valley below the palacio brought him no pleasure today, and he fumed back into his apartments with a barely controlled feeling of frustra­tion.

  The letter was lying on the floor beside his bed, thrown there after he had read it for the umpteenth time at three o'clock that morning, but he ignored it. Even though the temp­tation was to pick it up and read it once again, he put the impulse aside and, stripping off the silk boxers which were all he wore to sleep in, he strode into the adjoining bathroom.

  He ran the shower hot at first, using its pummelling spray to warm his chilled flesh. Then, after thoroughly cleansing his hair and body, he turned the thermostat to cold. The shock of the ice-cold water sharpened his senses, and, feeling more ready to lace the day, he turned off the taps and stepped out.

  A pile of towels were stacked on a rack beside the shower cubicle and Enrique wrapped one about his hips before taking another to dry his straight black hair. His jaw was rough, ev­idence of the night's growth of beard, and, slotting a towel about his neck, he studied his reflection in the mirror above the handbasin with a critical eye.

  He looked as rough as his jawline, he thought grimly, scrap­ing a band over his chin. His olive skin had a sallow cast and his deep-set dark eyes were hollowed by the dark circles that surrounded them. Narrow cheekbones flared above thin lips that were presently set in a forbidding line, and although women seemed to find his appearance appealing he could see no attraction in his hostile face.

  But then, that was what came of burning the candle at both ends, he conceded. He'd flown back from London only the previous morning, and had spent the afternoon in meetings that would have been exhausting at the best of times. Then Sanchia had expected him to spend the evening with her; more than the evening, as it had turned out. Though much to her disap­pointment he had declined. Nevertheless, it had been after two o'clock when he'd crawled into bed—but not to sleep. The letter had made sure of that, and he scowled again as he thought of it lying there, waiting for him to pick it up, waiting for him to deal with it.

  And he would have to deal with it. Soon. Before his father came home from the hospital, which might be in the next few days. When he'd spoken to his mother yesterday evening,
she'd been overjoyed to report that the surgery her husband had undergone had proved so successful. Now, with care and a certain amount of luck, Julio de Montoya should have sev­eral more years of active life ahead of him. That was so long as nothing untoward happened to hinder his recovery.

  Like that letter.

  Enrique's jaw compressed and, after smothering the lower half of his face with foam, he reached for his razor. Dammit, what did that—bruja—hope to achieve? And who was the child—if there really was a child—who had reputedly written the letter? No kin of his, he was sure. Or of Antonio's. Cassandra had probably invented the whole thing. So what game was she playing?

  Cassandra...

  His hand slipped and the razor sliced into his cheek. Swear­ing as blood dripped onto the towel around his neck, Enrique groped for the tap. Then, after sluicing his face with cold wa­ter, he waited for the blood to congeal. What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered, letting that letter cause him such grief? He had to get a hold of himself, and damn quick. He'd done it ten years ago and he could do it now. He had no intention of letting that woman ruin his life. Again. She might be Antonio's widow, but she had no connection with this family. None at all.

  The cut had stopped bleeding by the time he'd dressed in loose cotton trousers and a black tee shirt. Deck shoes slipped easily onto his narrow feet and he used a comb on his still-damp hair. Then, despite Ms unwillingness to do so, he bent and picked up the letter and opened it once more.

  It was only a short letter, written in a distinctly childish hand. Had Cassandra used her left hand to write it? It might explain the immature scrawl, the evident effort taken to form the letters. A child of' nine could have written it, he supposed, but as he refused to accept its content he couldn't accept its validity.

  The temptation to tear the letter into shreds was appealing. He doubted if even Cassandra would have the nerve to write again, and once it was destroyed he could forget all about it.

  But he couldn't do it. Despite his suspicions, despite the fact that Antonio's untimely death meant he had no nieces or nephews, a sick kind of curiosity demanded to know what was at the bottom of it.

  Even the paper offended his sensibilities. A single sheet of lined notepaper, the kind a stenographer might use to take notes at a meeting, or. more likely, a sheet torn from a child's notepad, just to reinforce the illusion of innocence.

  Innocence!

  His lips curled as he spread the page between his fingers and read again the message that had so angered him.

  Dear Grandpa,

  You don't know me and Mum says you don 'I want to but I don't believe that. I'd like us to be friends and that's why I've gut Mum to bring me to Spain on holiday this year. We're coming on June 12 and we're staying in Punta del Lobo at the Pension del Mar. I know it's by the sea, but I don't know if it's a lung way from Tuarega, but anyway you could come to see us. I'm sure Mum would like to see you whatever she says.

  With love from your grandson, David de Montoya.

  Enrique's teeth clenched. How dared she call her child de Montoya? he thought savagely. If indeed there was a child, he reminded himself again. But, if so, he had to be some bastard born after Antonio was dead and buried. And Enrique knew—

  But that was a path he had no intention of being drawn down. Whatever he knew or didn't know about Cassandra was not in question here. His only concern was in ensuring that his father never saw the letter, never suffered the pain of knowing that once again Cassandra Scott—de Montoya, dam­mit—was trying to insinuate herself into his family.

  His fingers curled about the cheap sheet of paper, screwing it into a light ball in his palm. He didn't want to look at it. He never wanted to see it again. But he had the feeling that, whatever he did, nothing would erase the memory of the words.

  He aimed the ball of paper at his wastebin, and then dropped his arm again. If he left the letter there, someone might be curious enough to wonder what it was and unravel it. Unless he was prepared to tear it into pieces and put it into the lav­atory, or set fire to it, he would have to dispose of it elsewhere.

  Which was what he would do, he decided, neither of the other alternatives having much appeal to him. He refused to consider he might have any unacknowledged motive for hang­ing onto the missive. It was, after all, the only evidence he had that Cassandra had tried to reach his father.

  Smoothing the letter out again, he opened a drawer in his bedside cabinet and slipped it between the pages of his missal. An ironic smile touched his lips at the incongruity of its resting place, but at least he was fairly sure that no one else was likely to find it there.

  That still didn't solve the problem of what he was going to do about it, he reflected later, after the maid had served him strong black coffee and warm brioche at a table set beneath the arching canopy of the colonnade. At this hour it was ex­tremely pleasant eating breakfast outdoors, and normally this was the time of day when Enrique reviewed the work that had been done the previous day and consulted his managers' re­ports of work in progress. As his father's deputy—and in re­cent weeks the nominal head of the de Montoya corporation— Enrique took his responsibilities seriously. It was infuriating to think that this morning his thoughts were constantly bom­barded by the knowledge that it was already June the fifteenth and Cassandra—and possibly her son—were only thirty miles away at Punta del Lobo.

  Had the boy—if there was a boy—already found out how far it was from Punta del Lobo to Tuarega? Was ii conceivable that Cassandra might go so far as to come to the estate?

  Unable to sit still with such a prospect for company, Enrique picked up his coffee and walked restlessly across the courtyard to where a stone nymph cooled her heels in the waters of the fountain. He paused beside the stone basin and tried to calm his thoughts with the sight of the cream waterlilies that floated in the pool. The palacio circled three sides of this central courtyard, the fourth edged with purple azalea and scarlet ole­ander, whose mingled perfumes found little favour with him this morning. A warm breeze blew up from the valley, tum­bling the drying strands of his thick hair over his forehead, and he thrust them back with impatient fingers.

  Dammit, why now'.' he wondered, taking an absent mouthful of his coffee. After almost ten years, why choose this time to break her silence? Was it possible she'd read about his father's illness? Did she think the old man might be more—approach­able now, having been faced with his own mortality?

  It was possible. Indeed, it was the only explanation that made any sense. Putting aside the unlikely premise that this boy, David de Montoya—he baulked at using that name—had written the letter, what else did he have? So what did he intend to do about it?

  Cassandra stood on the sand, shading her eyes as she watched her son playing in the water. He'd made friends with a German boy who was also staying at the pension and they'd spent the past couple of hours competing with each other on the plastic floats they'd hired from the beach attendant. This cove was the ideal place for children, and, although she'd had misgiv­ings when she'd booked the holiday, there was no doubt that they were both benefiting from the break.

  But it was already nearly five o'clock and Cassandra could feel her shoulders prickling in spite of the layering of sun­screen she'd applied and reapplied during the afternoon. Three days was not long enough to become completely acclimatised, and, although her skin wasn't as sensitive now as it had been when they'd arrived, she knew better than to risk getting burned.

  David didn't have that problem. His skin already possessed a stronger pigment, and, even though she'd insisted on his wearing some protection, he didn't seem to be affected by the sun. Which wasn't unexpected considering his ancestry, Cassandra thought wryly. Not even nine years spent in a cool northern climate could significantly alter the pattern of hered­ity, and his skin was already acquiring a deeper tan.

  Which she couldn't hope to emulate, she reflected, brushing the sand from her arms with slim fingers. She rarely tanned, her pale skin turning pin
k or red, depending on the circum­stances, and then reverting to a creamy white again as soon as the heat subsided. But at least she didn't suffer the igno­miny of freckles, even if her unruly mass of hair was more red than copper.

  She glanced about her and noticed that the beach was emp­tying fast. Most people were making their way back to the hotels and pensioner that dotted the hillside below the small town of Punta del Lobo, and Cassandra mimed to her son that it was time they were leaving, too. The beach was used almost exclusively by tourists and, like her, Cassandra guessed they were all looking forward to a cool shower and a change of clothes before venturing out for the evening meal.

  Because of David, Cassandra ate earlier than many of their fellow guests. Europeans often had dinner at nine or even ten o'clock in the evening, but as David was invariably up at dawn, by ten o'clock Cassandra was wilting, too.

  Still, it was nice to eat at one of the outdoor cafes or tapas bars that thronged the small square, and Cassandra looked for­ward to the glass of wine she usually allowed herself with the meal. Well, she was on holiday, after all, she defended herself, bending to pick up her beach bag and the towels lying on top of it. It had taken long enough, goodness knew, for her to feel sufficiently confident to make the trip.

  She straightened and looked about her once again. Despite the fact that this bay was at least an hour's drive from Tuarega, she couldn't completely dispel the apprehension that gripped her when she was alone like this. This was the de Montoyas' territory, after all, and it wouldn't do to forget it.

  Not that she truly expected to see anyone she knew. None of them knew they were here and she was a fool to anticipate anything unexpected happening. It would be too much of a coincidence if any member of the de Montoya family turned up in Punta del Lobo. She was worrying unnecessarily.

  Alt the same, when David had once again broached the idea of them coming to Spain on holiday, she had demurred. She supposed he'd been six or seven years old when he'd first asked if they could go to Spain, and it had been comparatively easy at that time to find excuses not to go. This year she hadn't been able to put him off, and, telling herself that Spain was a big country, she'd given in.