One night in MADRID
Spanish Billionaire,
Innocent Wife
KATE WALKER
The Spaniard’s
Defiant Virgin
JENNIE LUCAS
The Spanish Duke’s
Virgin Bride
CHANTELLE SHAW
MILLS & BOON
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Spanish Billionaire,
Innocent Wife
KATE WALKER
About the Author
KATE WALKER was born in Nottinghamshire, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots are there. She met her husband at university and originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theatre and, of course, reading. You can visit Kate at www.kate walker.com
Don’t miss Kate’s exciting new novels in March and October 2011 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.
CHAPTER ONE
THE hands on the clock didn’t seem to have moved even once in all the time that she had been sitting here. Alannah could have sworn that every time she glanced up at the big white circle that hung on the green-painted wall opposite the big hand and the little hand were in exactly the same position as they had been the last time she had looked, making a mockery of the audible sound of the minutes ticking away.
She felt as if she had been here all afternoon—almost all her life. And yet time hardly seemed to have moved on from the moment she had arrived and taken her place in the rather worn armchair in the middle of the room.
From here she could watch the door. She could see the approach of anyone coming near through the clouded pane of glass, and be ready if the door should open and the man she was expecting appeared.
The man she was expecting? Dreading would be more like it, Alannah admitted to herself, green eyes clouding rapidly.
She shook her head so that the red-gold swathe of her hair tossed along her shoulders, straggling strands escaping from the black elasticated band into which she had confined it before leaving home that morning, and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes in a vain attempt to drive away the weariness and apprehension that clutched at her.
She knew she looked pale and wan. The stress and sorrow of the past few days had drained every last drop of pink from her cheeks, tears had dimmed the brightness of her eyes and the set of her fine features reflected the strain of the nightmare week she had just endured. The jeans she had pulled on together with a plain black long-sleeved T-shirt, her mind too battered to even think of anything else, did nothing for her appearance. It took even more colour from her skin and left it looking lifeless and washed out. And she hadn’t had either the time or the inclination to add any artificial colour with a touch of make-up before she had left her flat. The need to know that her mother was settled at her aunt’s house, heavily sedated because of the shock, had been much more important than any personal grooming.
Still, what did that matter? The man she was here to see wouldn’t give a damn about her appearance or how she was dressed. He wouldn’t want to see her here in the first place and he’d be even less happy about it when he heard what she had to say.
‘Of course, Mr Marcín …’
A sudden bustle in the corridor beyond the door alerted her, the sound of the all-too-familiar name confirming her suspicions. Not that she’d needed them confirmed. Whenever and wherever Raul Marcín appeared, it seemed that instantly everything was bustle and activity. Even the air around him appeared enlivened, stirring and swirling in a way that left other more ordinary humans catching their breath in the suddenly rarefied atmosphere.
Once she had been part of that atmosphere, carried along on the tidal wave of energy and power that Don Raul Esteban Marquez Marcín created as he strode through life, arrogant dark head held high, golden eyes blazing. But not any more. Not since she had fled that world and all it brought with it.
And she was well out of it.
It was a world of power and money, yes—but there had also been cold deceit and even icier manipulation. Don Raul Marcín took what he wanted from people—from women—and used them to fulfil his own desires, without a thought for their feelings. He’d done that to her. And he would have discarded her too, she had no doubt. He would have tossed her aside when the purpose she had served was finished—done with. But luckily for her vulnerable heart, and before the foolish emotions she had allowed herself to feel had become so deeply embedded in her spirit that she could have had no hope of ever tearing them out, she had discovered the truth about their relationship. And that truth had set her free. Making her run as far and as fast as she could, never looking back, and never wanting to see Raul Marcín ever again.
Which was how she would have wanted it to stay. Except that now she had no choice. None at all. She had to face Raul Marcín once again. Face him and tell him things she had no doubt that he did not want to hear.
‘If you would just wait in here …’
A hand pushed open the door, bringing with it, Alannah would have sworn, a rush of swirling air, and a male voice murmured a word of thanks, although with an edge of impatience on the sound.
Immediately Alannah found that her hands had gone to smooth her hair, straighten her top, and with a mutter of annoyance and reproach she forced them still again. She didn’t want him thinking that she wanted to improve her appearance for him; or believing that she was in the least concerned what he would think of her. Once that might have mattered to her; once
