physicality. “Your nipples bud for me. Feel how they want my touch. Should I kiss them?”
“You’re mistaken,” she said, forcing herself not to glance down, not to see the proof of his words.
A sensual grin creased his handsome features. “I am never mistaken about such things. Your heart pounds for me. I can see it. It is like a frightened rabbit.”
“You’re standing too close. I don’t like it.”
He stepped in again, until the hard length of his body hemmed her against the conference table. He placed his arms on either side of her, trapping her. “I think you do. I think, in fact, that you want me desperately.”
“You’re wrong, Alejandro,” she said, lifting her head to look him in the eye and deliver what she prayed was a stern look. “I hate you. I don’t want you.”
And yet her skin sizzled from his nearness. Her brain threatened to disengage completely. Her body trembled in spite of her resolve; an ache bloomed in the feminine core of her, spread outward on currents of liquid heat.
Alejandro’s smile was too knowing, too masculine. “Sí, I feel your hatred. It is very strong. Very frightening for me.”
His head dipped toward her. Her eyes drifted closed and he chuckled low in his throat, a sound of male triumph. Any second he would kiss her. Any second she would allow it. In spite of all she’d said. She was too weak, too lonely and needy—
No.
She found the strength to lift her palms, to push against his chest. At the same instant a buzzer sliced through the room. Alejandro stepped away, Spanish curses—or so she assumed—falling from his lips as he reached for the phone.
“Sí?” he barked.
Rebecca snatched up her briefcase and purse. She had to get away from here. She had to get home, back to New York, before Alejandro stripped her of far more than her company.
Her hand was on the door when his fingers closed over her shoulder. She gasped as he spun her around, pressed her against the door, his hard thigh wedged between her legs. He gripped her chin, pushed her head back until she was staring him in the eye.
“You will not leave me again, Rebecca. I call the shots— comprende?” His voice was low, intense. She had the feeling his words were more than a statement of fact.
They were a vow.
In spite of the heat between them, a chill slid over her. “I’m going to the airport, Alejandro. There’s nothing for me here.”
His eyes were colder than frost as he let her go and took a step back. “Walk out that door and I will destroy Layton International. Your employees will be without jobs, your hotels sold or demolished, your assets carved up and absorbed into Ramirez Enterprises. I will make sure you never work in this industry again. No one will ever hire you, Rebecca. Walk out and it’s over.”
The depth of his fury stunned her. She wished she had the strength to do it, to walk out and not give a damn. But she couldn’t let him take away the livelihood of the people who depended on her. At this moment she didn’t care about herself—being anywhere but here, with him, would be less painful to her—but she couldn’t desert them.
“What do you want from me?”
He glared at her without speaking for so long that she wondered if he’d heard her. Just when she started to repeat the question, he turned away.
“All in good time.” He flicked a hand as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “You may go now.”
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT did he want from her, she’d asked. Alejandro stared at the blinking skyline of Madrid at night. His problems in Dubai should take precedence—he had a hotel to build and permits to straighten out before he could do so—yet he couldn’t seem to get the problem of Rebecca Layton out of his mind while he worked late.
He reached for the sherry he’d poured over twenty minutes ago, took a sip.
Damn her and her lies.
It was her fault he’d married Caridad. He would never have agreed to it had Rebecca not left him. Had she not stolen from him.
It wasn’t just that she’d yanked the safety net out from under him. While it would have taken him far longer to take Ramirez Enterprises global without the Cahill Group’s backing, he still could have done it without Caridad’s family contributing to his coffers.
No, what Rebecca’s betrayal had confirmed was the folly of allowing emotion to rule his head. He’d cared for her, had sometimes even envisioned the children they would have if he’d married her. He’d grown up with parents whose daily emotional drama should have inured him to any hint of sentiment, but Rebecca’s smokescreen of naive charm had pulled him into her web.
What a bloody idiot.
And then he’d returned to his suite one afternoon and found a severe-looking woman waiting for him and no sign of Rebecca. The woman had fanned open a thick folder and nattered at him about planning a wedding.
It had taken him several more minutes to realize that Rebecca’s suitcases were gone. The woman had simply shrugged. “Sí,” she’d said. “There was a pretty young woman. She wished you a happy marriage to Señorita Mendoza.”
That was when it dawned on him. His father, the old fool, had been urging him to marry Caridad since Roberto’s death. Arranged marriages were no longer commonplace, but they did happen from time to time. His father had seen it as a measure of his own importance to find a bride for his eldest son. Roberto hadn’t had the guts to object, which Juan Ramirez had known full well. He’d never have tried it with Alejandro. But then Roberto died. Señor Mendoza had loaned his father a lot of money, and Juan intended to deliver his famous son as payment if it was the last thing he did.
Alejandro had steadfastly refused. Apparently Juan had decided to step up the campaign. The timing could not have been worse.
Alejandro’s first thought had been to go after Rebecca. But she’d had a head start and he’d had no idea where she’d gone. His calls to her mobile phone had gone unanswered. Two days later she’d finally picked up. From London. She’d been cool and aloof, and he’d lost his temper. How dared she expect an explanation? All she’d needed was to accept that what he told her was the truth: he was not engaged.
Not surprisingly, she hadn’t believed him. He’d realized later that his alleged engagement was merely a convenient excuse for her to do what she’d always intended to do. The next day Roger Cahill had told him they were backing Layton International instead.
Rebecca had said she loved him, but she’d lied. He wasn’t good enough for her and never would be in her eyes.
You weren’t important enough.
It had pricked his pride, sliced a wound in his soul, the knowledge that this woman he’d cared about had used him. He’d vowed never again to believe protestations of love from any female. So he’d agreed to marry Caridad. Why not? Her breeding and social standing were impeccable. She would be the perfect hostess, the perfect tycoon’s wife, the perfect mother to his children.
