a frizzy ponytail. But she forced herself to maintain eye contact, to keep her back straight and her gaze cooler than iced water.
‘Or don’t get,’ she pointed out.
‘So you wouldn’t be interested in working for me?’
Cora tried to think, swallowed the instinctive no that had leapt to her vocal cords. Surely by now she had learned not to blurt out the first thing that came into her mind? How many times had her mother sighed and wrinkled her face in lines of distaste at her younger daughter’s lack of social grace?
The constant refrain of her childhood had been, ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ Why, indeed? Cora had always wondered. What cruel fate had decreed that her twin should be so beautiful, vibrant and perfect and that she, Cora, should be so different? So average, so invisible—Kaitlin’s pale shadow.
As if in reminder, she tugged at a strand of her hair and looked at it. Carroty-red whereas Kaitlin’s hair was a beautiful red-gold that caught the light with magical hues. If Kaitlin were here she’d lean forward, enthral Rafael Martinez with her smile, her throaty voice and a hint of cleavage. She’d lead him on to tell her more, and then decline in a way that somehow robbed her refusal of all sting.
Well, Kaitlin wasn’t here, and Cora didn’t want to work for Rafael. Every instinct told her that Rafael Martinez was every bit as lethal as her very own family. Well, she couldn’t choose her family—but she could choose who to work for.
‘I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think that is the right move for me.’
‘Why not? I haven’t even told you about the role I have in mind for you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Really, I don’t want to waste your valuable time.’
Please don’t let her have put a sarcastic inflexion on ‘valuable’.
‘It’s my valuable time to waste.’
His eyebrows rose, though his black eyes held more amusement than chagrin. And then he smiled—a smile that had no doubt brought more women than she could count to their knees. Heaven help her, she could see why—but she knew the exact value of such smiles. What she did wonder was why Rafael Martinez was wasting one on her.
A flicker of curiosity ignited—one that she suppressed. No doubt Rafael expected her to roll over and beg to work for him. Tough.
‘I appreciate that, but it would also be a waste of my valuable time.’ A smile of saccharine-sweetness sugared her tone as she rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.’
The man simply sat there, made no move to stand. ‘Trust me, Cora. What I have in mind you will want to hear.’
The easy assurance in his voice flicked her on the raw.
‘Hear me out. I accept that your time is valuable—I’ll pay you well for it.’
Cora stared at him—heard the steel under the silk of his voice, saw the sculpted line of his jaw harden. Curiosity surged, despite all resolution, instinct and common sense. This was important to Rafael Martinez, but for the life of her she didn’t know why. Administrative staff were ten a penny. Yet Rafael Martinez was willing to pay for her time...
Her brain emitted a reminder flare of her need for cash. ‘No strings. I hear you out and then if I don’t want the job I say no.’
‘Deal.’
That worked for her—in truth there would be satisfaction in saying no. In pulling down his arrogance a notch or two.
‘Fine. Five hundred for an hour of my time.’ It was outrageous, but Cora didn’t care—she would almost be relieved if he got up and walked away. Almost.
‘I’ll give you five thousand for a day.’
‘A day?’ Once again drop-jaw-itis had arrived.
‘Yup. I’ll pick you up from Cavershams at nine tomorrow morning.’ In one lithe movement he rose to his feet—clearly her consent was a token he didn’t need. ‘See you then.’
Part of her itched to tell him to forget it, but common sense yelled at her that five thousand pounds was a windfall she couldn’t afford to refuse. Suspicion whispered that he had orchestrated this entire encounter. And then there was a part of her that she didn’t want to acknowledge—the one that fizzed with a stupid sense of anticipation.
He turned. ‘And don’t forget your passport.’
* * *
Rafael Martinez parked on the gravelled drive of the renovated Caversham Castle Hotel and for a scant second wondered if he had run mad—whether this whole enterprise qualified him for bedlam.
No. Resolve tightened his gut and clenched his hands around the steering wheel. This was the best way forward—the only way to persuade Don Carlos de Guzman, Duque de Aiza, to sell his vineyard.
Correction. The only way to persuade Don Carlos to sell his vineyard to Rafael Martinez. Because Don Carlos despised Rafael without even knowing his true identity.
Anger burned as the voice of Don Carlos echoed in his brain and raked his soul. ‘Men like you, Rafael, are not the kind of men I like to deal with.’
Well, they’d soon see about that. Soon, Grandpapa. Soon. The taste of anticipated revenge was one to savour, but actual revenge would be better yet. Full-bodied and fiery and with a hint of spice—like the Rioja the Martinez vineyards produced.
But first things first—right now he had to persuade Cora to join his scheme. It was more than clear that Cora disliked him—and the only reason he could think of was the fact she too disapproved of his background. To Lady Cora Derwent, as to Don Carlos, he must appear the epitome of jumped-up new money and bad blood.
That new money might be despised but it would be the key—he was sure of that. The previous evening Cora had obviously wanted to tell him to take a hike, but the idea of filthy lucre had prevented her.
A glance out of the car window demonstrated that Cora herself was headed towards the car through the light smattering of rain. She was dressed in a dark blue trouser suit expressly designed, it seemed to him, to minimise her assets, and sensible blue pumps. She looked...muted.
He swung the door of the sleek silver two-seater up and climbed out of the car; stroked the roof of his pride and joy—the glorious creation that was proof he’d left his childhood in the dust.
Not that Cora looked impressed—in fact her lips had thinned into a line of disapproval that Don Carlos himself would have applauded.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
Up close, Rafael could see that her ensemble didn’t just mute her: it almost rendered her invisible. Her red hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her posture was slightly slouched, her face ducked down. Perhaps it was a bid not to be recognised. Though why Lady Cora Derwent was masquerading as Cora Brookes was a mystery he fully intended to solve.
True, she had always kept out of the limelight, whilst the rest of her family played social media and
