image of Simon’s excited expression when he had revealed that the firm he had employed to investigate her background without telling her had discovered her real mother did not have, as his own mother had suspected, Romany blood, but was in fact a member of one of Spain’s oldest families.
‘Like Mother said, it explains your temperament and your colouring, doesn’t it, sweetheart? The way I see it,’ he had mused, ‘if this family are willing to acknowledge you it would do us no harm at all. Obviously we have to approach them sensitively…’
Sensitive—he actually said sensitive and with no trace of irony. ‘You told your mother about this?’
Simon had remained oblivious to the danger in her voice and stilted manner. ‘It was her idea.’
He had not appeared to notice her flinch as he’d smiled indulgently before announcing confidently, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
Maggie had been pretty sure Simon hadn’t or he wouldn’t have been standing that close to her clenched fists.
She could remember clearly staring up at his handsome face, and thinking, I’ve never actually seen you before.
She was engaged to a man who didn’t know her at all, a man who under the caring exterior he liked to cultivate, was utterly and totally self-centred.
‘You’re thinking how did the daughter of a Spanish aristocrat come to be adopted by an ordinary English couple.’
Maggie had recovered her voice in time to silence any further revelations and assure Simon that she had no interest in her birth mother or a family who were strangers to her, and neither did she have an interest in marrying him.
It had taken some time to convince Simon that she wasn’t joking, but when he had realised he had been furious, revealing a side to his nature that she had never glimpsed previously.
Maggie flicked her ponytail firmly over her shoulder and equally firmly pushed away the memories.
She had moved on and in a rather unpredictable way, she thought, directing a bold direct stare at the face of the dark, devastatingly handsome Spaniard. Communication was not a problem; he spoke perfect English.
The problem was her inability to stop staring at him or speculate on how good his non-verbal communication skills were.
‘You are here with your family?’ He arched an ebony brow, his eyes travelling up from her toes to her glossy head.
She shook her head, feeling ridiculously tongue-tied and unable to shake the crazy conviction he could read her thoughts.
Rafael arched a dark slanted brow. ‘Boyfriend…?’
Maggie rubbed the finger that had recently sported her engagement ring. ‘No’
Rafael’s sharp gaze noted the action and he filed it away for future reference. She was young to be divorced, but he did not discount the possibility.
‘I’m here alone. On holiday.’ Nice move, Maggie—you’ve just told a total stranger that you’re a vulnerable target. ‘With friends,’ she added quickly as her natural caution kicked in.
‘You are alone with friends?’
She flushed and gave a self-conscious laugh and struggled not to look guilty. Her inability to lie without blushing remained a constant source of irritation. ‘I’m with a group of friends,’ she lied.
The corners of his sensual mouth lifted as he arched an ebony brow. ‘Public place and I’m totally harmless,’ he drawled, displaying an uncomfortable ability to read her mind as he stood there looking about as far removed from harmless as a wolf. She tilted her head back to look into his face and qualified further—of the big and bad variety.
‘I’m sure you are,’ she lied politely, adding, ‘Excuse me,’ as she fished her phone from her pocket and scanned last night’s text from her mum with an expression of interest.
For some women, of course, the bad part would have been a plus, but she had never been drawn to danger. Danger was for women who could live in the moment, and men like him were for women who did not worry about how it would feel the next day.
Maggie had never been swept away by the moment, she had never said to hell with tomorrow and she didn’t see the attraction of dangerous men any more than she felt the urge to walk along a crumbling cliff edge because the view was nice.
She studied her companion’s dark lean face and couldn’t deny that the view was very nice…The skin on her scalp tingled as her glance drifted to his mouth and she corrected her assessment. This man was many things but nice wasn’t one of them!
Uncomfortably conscious of the flash of heat that washed over her skin, she pressed her hands to her stomach where a flock of butterflies were rioting and lowered her eyes back to her phone.
‘Bad news?’ he asked, not fooled by the little pantomime but playing dumb and for time.
His thoughts raced.
He needed to warn Angelina and give her the opportunity to tell Alfonso. He owed her that much, as he was the one who had encouraged her in her lie of omission to her husband in the first place.
That one had really come back to bite him, he reflected grimly. The next time he got asked for advice he would politely refuse.
This girl might, for all he knew, be an expert liar, but there were some things that you couldn’t control and she was genuinely shaken. Whatever the cause it seemed logical to take advantage of it before she fully recovered her wits.
All he had to do was figure out in the next thirty seconds how to get her some place that wasn’t here without breaking any laws…If it involved kissing that would be a plus, he reflected as his heated glance shifted to the full sexy curve.
‘Not really…I just missed them.’
‘Your many friends.’
Fascinated, he watched the colour rush over her cheeks.
She nodded, not meeting his eyes, but lifted her chin defiantly. ‘We’re meeting up back at the hotel,’ she told him creatively before glancing at her watch and exclaiming, ‘It’s that time already!’
To her dismay the tall Spaniard did not take the hint; he just carried on looking at her. Looking hard. She lowered her own gaze. The unblinking regard was unsettling on more levels than she wanted to admit, let alone examine.
Maybe the novelty of a man noticing she existed had spooked her. Wincing at the self-pitying direction of her thoughts, she shook her head and laughed.
Rafael raised an enquiring brow. ‘Something is funny?’
‘Not funny—sad,’ she admitted, hoping the enigmatic response would shut him up.
As he watched her soft lips curve into a determinedly cheerful smile that did nothing to banish the despondent shadow from her luminous eyes he felt feelings stir. Refusing to recognise them as concern—definitely not empathy—he reminded himself that his concern belonged with the mother and her threatened marriage, not
