The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride (6 page)

Raw, sensual heat flooded through her, and as she stared into his eyes she knew that he felt the same kick of desire. She bit back a gasp as his head slowly lowered. Her eyelids felt heavy and her lashes drifted down, only to fly open again when, instead of kissing her, he grabbed a handful of her long hair and jerked her head up.

At her stunned expression, Javier's mouth curled into a smile that told her he was aware of her disappointment. ‘You're not the fragile flower that I first thought, are you, Grace? Your delicate beauty belies a cunning mind that almost matches my own.' Before she had time to react, he claimed her mouth in a brief, brutal assault that demanded her response as if it were his God-given right.

It was over almost instantly. He released her and straightened to tower over her, his golden eyes glittering. ‘We have a deal Miss Beresford. We'll marry as soon as it can be arranged. I have a feeling that it's going to be an interesting year,' he added mockingly.

A cold hand of fear closed around Grace's heart but she made herself get to her feet and gave him an icy glare. Her lips were stinging, but she resisted the urge to trace the swollen flesh with the tip of her tongue. ‘I have every expectation that it will be the worst year of my life.'

‘I'm sure you'll find some compensations as the wife of a millionaire,' Javier replied dryly. ‘Think of all the shopping you can indulge in.' He strolled around his desk, picked up the phone and barked out a series of instructions without giving Grace the chance to tell him she would rather die than spend a penny of his money.

Having solved the niggling problem of finding a wife, Javier was getting back to business, she realised when he paid her no more attention. Presumably she would be dismissed until the civil ceremony that would legally bind them together. But her father would be a free man, and she would have to cling to that one comforting thought throughout the coming year.

She began to edge towards the door when Javier's curt voice stopped her.

‘Where do you think you're going?'

His arrogance made her seethe, but having just secured her father's freedom and financial security she was anxious not to annoy him and so she smiled hesitantly. ‘To find my car and drive back to Granada. Do you want me to wait there for a few days, or shall I return to England and expect to hear from you?'

‘Neither,' he replied coolly. ‘I'm leaving for Madrid in a few minutes, and you're coming with me.'

T
HE
Madrid offices of El Banco de Herrera were lavishly elegant, but Grace was growing tired of cooling her heels—however charming her surroundings.

‘Miss Beresford wishes to know if you are expecting her to sit here in reception
all
day.' Javier's secretary, Isabel Sanches, could not disguise the hint of embarrassment in her voice at she relayed the query to her boss.

Barely lifting his eyes from his computer screen, Javier spoke into the intercom on his desk. ‘Tell her she will remain there for as long as is necessary for me to finish this report,' he snapped, fighting the urge to remind Grace that if she was
that
bored she was free to leave—and he'd see her and her father in court.

Dios
, he was doing the woman an immense favour by releasing Angus Beresford from his debts—the least she could do was show a little gratitude! Instead she had spent the fifty-minute flight to Madrid moaning that she wanted to go home to her father, and Javier was having serious doubts about marrying her. The woman was a shrew, he thought darkly—albeit a very beautiful one.

He amended several pertinent details on the report, scrolled back to the top of the document and re-read it before he saved it to disc, but as he worked he was unable to dismiss the image of her delicate features and enormous, tear-filled blue eyes from his mind, and with a muttered curse he sprang to his feet and crossed his office to stare out over the city.

Below him Madrid sweltered in the late spring sunshine. He liked the buzz of the cosmopolitan capital. Commercially, it made sense to have the head offices of El Banco de Herrera at the heart of Spain's major city, and he was happy to spend time at his luxurious penthouse apartment in one of its elegant suburbs. But his heart lay in Andalucia, and home would always be El Castillo de Leon.

Having spent the first ten years of his life living in a filthy caravan, he had at first been overawed by the size and sheer majesty of the
castillo
. The fortress was a magnificent example of Moorish architecture, but as a young boy he had been more interested in exploring its vast rooms and extensive grounds than learning about its history.

Even now he could remember how good it had felt to finally know that he belonged somewhere. The castle was his home, his heritage, Carlos had told him. There would be no more endless travelling, no more scavenging for food like a wild dog, or spending hours huddled on the caravan steps while his mother entertained her numerous lovers and his father disappeared for days in search of his next fix.

His jaw hardened as he recalled Grace's taunt that his wealth shielded him from the real world. Little did she know, he brooded grimly. He'd been in the kind of places she couldn't even imagine. Situations where the toughest ruled with their fists, and the simple task of getting through each day had called on all his cunning.

During the first ten years of his life he'd known poverty and hunger, a sense of fear and loneliness that, even after twenty-five years, still tainted his dreams. His only blessing was to have been born with a tenacious instinct to survive, plus a determination to answer to nobody. It was those qualities that had shaped the man he was today, and he didn't need a spoilt, high-maintenance English miss from a privileged background trying to make him feel bad.

On the other hand, she
had
been sitting in his secretary's office for two hours, and that was after he'd bundled her out of the castle and allowed her only a few brief minutes to collect her belongings from her hotel in Granada before whisking her aboard his private jet. Patience was not one of his more obvious virtues, he acknowledged honestly. Grace probably didn't know if she was on her head or her heels, and with another oath he crossed to his desk and spoke into the intercom.

‘Isabel, tell Miss Beresford to come in,
por favor
.'

Javier remained seated behind his desk when Grace entered his office, and he spared her a cursory glance when she walked hesitantly towards him.

‘What's the matter? I told you I had to attend an important meeting and then file a report afterwards,' he snapped. ‘Are you always so impatient?'

For a few seconds Grace felt totally intimidated. He was so arrogant and powerful, and so God-damned sexy, she admitted silently as her heart lurched in her chest. This man held her father's well-being in his hands, but all she could do was stare at him like a teenager in the throes of her first crush, her annoyance at being abandoned like a parcel in the outer office momentarily forgotten.

As soon as they'd arrived at the bank's head office he had gone straight to his private quarters, where he must have showered and changed before his meeting. It was the sight of him in a suit that had thrown her, she reassured herself feverishly. The expert cut of the grey cloth emphasised the width of his shoulders, while his blue silk shirt and tie that was a shade darker complemented his olive-gold skin. His formal attire lent him an air of urbane sophistication, but she sensed that Javier Herrera possessed a wild streak and beneath his civilised veneer was a man who had scant regard for rules.

‘Me impatient?' she muttered indignantly. ‘You're the one who insisted on dragging me to Madrid without giving me a chance to pack properly or anything. I don't even know why I'm here—unless it's simply to sit around your office looking decorative.'

Anger briefly surged through Javier, followed almost instantly by a flash of amusement that he struggled to hide. Grace might look like a meek little mouse, but she had a sharp wit and wasn't afraid to stand up for herself, and he felt a grudging admiration for her nerve.

‘Actually, my reason for bringing you here is very simple,' he told her. ‘Tonight we're attending a prestigious banquet held in honour of Madrid's top businessmen and social elite.' His eyes briefly skimmed over her and settled on her flushed face. ‘But first we need to go shopping.'

Several hours later there was no trace of amusement in Javier's voice when he spoke to Grace. ‘Hurry up and get out of the car. And stop sulking.'

Grace turned her head and gave him a poisonous glare. ‘I'm not sulking,' she snapped indignantly. ‘I was merely…collecting my thoughts.' Thoughts that she judged would be better kept to herself, she decided after another glance at the smouldering impatience in his amber eyes. Their marriage pact was less than a day old, and already she had the sickening feeling that she had lost control of her life. ‘You might enjoy storming through life like a tornado but you can't expect me to keep up with you.'

‘I expect you to step out of the car and into the lift in the next five seconds—unless you want me to throw you over my shoulder and carry you?' Javier ground out, his brows drawn into a frown as he stared at her mutinous expression.

‘You can keep your damn hands off me!' Riotous anger coursed through Grace's veins—and that in itself was a shocking indication of how strongly the situation was affecting her, she thought dismally. She was renowned for her gentle nature and even temper, but Javier Herrera seemed to bring out the worst in her.

Catching the glint of battle in her tormentor's eyes, she flung open the car door and stalked across the underground car park towards the lift, muttering a curse beneath her breath. For the past few hours her feet had barely touched the floor. The banquet being held tonight at one of Madrid's most exclusive hotels would be the ideal situation at which to announce their engagement, Javier had informed her. For once he would welcome the attention of the media, and had already prepared a statement giving details of their forthcoming marriage in three weeks' time.

Grace had baulked at the thought of marrying so soon—her heart lurched painfully at the thought—but Javier had overridden her concerns in his usual autocratic manner. He was plainly a man used to getting his own way, and he was utterly determined to claim control of El Banco de Herrera by making her his bride.

The afternoon had been spent on a whirlwind tour of the city's top boutiques as he'd personally selected a wardrobe of designer outfits and evening dresses that he deemed suitable for the soon-to-be Duquesa de Herrera. He had ignored Grace's initial refusal to accept anything from him, and had scathingly pointed out that a few thousand pounds on clothes was a drop in the ocean compared to the million he had already paid for her.

The words ‘paid for' had rendered Grace speechless. She had indeed sold her soul to the devil, she acknowledged despairingly. Her father would be free from debt and fear of a jail sentence, but she would be Javier's prisoner for a whole year.

‘I can't believe you bought me so many clothes,' she muttered when he followed her into the lift, holding a multitude of bags and boxes. ‘I told you I don't need them, I have my own clothes.'

Javier pressed the control panel to take them to the top floor. ‘Let's get one thing straight,
querida
,' he drawled, the inflexion in his tone making the endearment sound like an insult. ‘For the next year you will be my wife, God help me. When we are in public I expect you to act and dress like a
duquesa
rather than a badly dressed schoolgirl—understand? What you do in private is up to you—you can run around naked for all I care.' His eyes settled on her furious face and he gave a sudden grin that did peculiar things to Grace's insides. ‘Who knows? It might spice up our relationship,' he murmured silkily.

‘In your dreams!' Grace told him witheringly, ignoring the way her heart rate accelerated. ‘And what do you mean, “badly dressed”? What's wrong with the way I look?' She caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored panels of the lift and grimaced. Her sundress was pretty but hardly elegant, she acknowledged. Compared to Javier's sophisticated secretary and the fashionably dressed shop assistants who had aided her in trying on outfits, she was sadly lacking in style. She had managed to bundle her long hair into a topknot, but stray tendrils had escaped to curl around her flushed cheeks, giving her the appearance of a grubby urchin rather than a mature woman of the world.

She had a feeling that she was standing at the bottom of a steep learning curve, she thought heavily when the lift doors opened and she followed Javier into his apartment. From the outside the apartment block appeared to be an old historical building that complemented the architecture of the nearby Palacio Real. But inside the layout and decor were modern and minimalist. The rooms were light and airy, with pale wood floors and huge windows that allowed sunlight to flood in.

It was very much a bachelor pad, Grace decided as she studied the neutral coloured walls and furnishings. Splashes of colour had been artfully added with crimson and purple cushions and rugs, while in the kitchen the granite worktops and stainless-steel appliances were the epitome of designer chic.

The apartment, rather like its owner, was expertly crafted but soulless. For a moment she longed to be back at Littlecote with its comfortable, chintz chair covers that her mother had once chosen—in the far off days before her illness had wreaked its terrible price—and her father had refused to ever change for something more up to date.

But Littlecote was being sold, and she had nowhere back in England to call home, apart from the guest house in Eastbourne that Aunt Pam had bought after she'd sold her bar in Malaga, where her father would stay until he was well enough to pick up the threads of his life.

‘What's the matter now? You look like you've seen a ghost.' Javier's harsh voice intruded on her thoughts, and Grace hastily blinked back her tears.

‘I was thinking about my father, hoping he's all right,' she said thickly. ‘When will the charges against him be dropped? Soon, I hope.'

‘My legal team are already working on it, but you have to understand that his case is in the hands of the British justice system. There's only so much my lawyers can do.'

‘Well they'd better do it quickly, because your wedding ring isn't going on my finger until my father is free from the threat of prosecution.'

‘
Dios
, you have a disrespectful tongue,' Javier growled darkly. Never had he been spoken to in such a manner. He was used to giving commands, not receiving them. And how
dare
this tiny, insignificant woman, the daughter of a thief, lay down the law to him?

He was tempted to tell her that the deal was off. He would find himself a wife elsewhere—the gutter if necessary. Anyone would be better than this she-devil, even though she did have the face of an angel. He would have no problem in finding another woman to agree to his marriage proposition—his wealth ensured that, he brooded cynically. But Grace owed him. It was Angus Beresford's fault that Carlos had doubted his abilities to run the bank, and it was only fitting that a Beresford should be punished—an eye for an eye, and in this case a year of Grace's life, in return for her father's freedom.

‘I give respect where it's due,' Grace said with a sniff that warned him he fell way below her standards. For a second Javier's anger threatened to overwhelm him. Over the years he had learned to control his hot temper, but Grace Beresford brought out the worst in him and he glowered at her. She was five-feet-nothing of stubborn determination, but beneath her bravado he sensed wariness and real fear.