The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride (4 page)

T
RUST
a woman to turn on the water works, Javier thought contemptuously as he stared at the twin rivulets of moisture trickling down Grace's face. It never ceased to amaze him how the fairer sex was able to dissolve into tears whenever it suited.

At thirty-five he lived life in the fast lane in every sense of the word—fast cars and even faster relationships, some of which didn't even get off the starting block but made a pleasant diversion for a night or two. He'd seen it all—every devious twist of a woman's mind as she'd sought to gain her own way. And for him, weeping was the biggest turn-off of them all.

Why then did the sight of this woman's tears make him feel as though a knife was twisting in his gut? Something about her huge, navy blue eyes brimming with tears was getting to him, and he didn't like it. It made him feel uncomfortable, and the urge to pull her against his chest and thread his fingers through her mane of silky brown hair was downright ridiculous.

He should dismiss her this minute, he told himself. He should hand her over to the police, and then sue her for trespassing on his land, so why was he hesitating? From the moment he had learned her identity his emotions had swung between fury and another, rather more basic urge that was no doubt responsible for the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off her.

Muttering an oath, he dropped his gaze to her mouth, noting the perfect curve of her Cupid's bow and the fullness of her lower lip. Soft, pink and deliciously kissable, he acknowledged grimly, feeling his body's unmistakable reaction.

He favoured tall, elegant blondes with endlessly long legs and full breasts—even if most of the women he met sported the surgically enhanced variety, he thought cynically. Grace Beresford was small and slender, an unremarkable woman with her pale complexion and light brown hair with streaks of pale gold that were, he would lay money on it, entirely natural rather than due to the skill of a good colourist.

She would never stand out in a crowd, and yet there was something about her face, an air of serenity. Perhaps it was the hidden message in her astonishing blue eyes, the hint of sensuality in the elusive smile she had offered him earlier that was responsible for the ache in his loins, he thought derisively. Whatever it was, it was hellishly inconvenient.

‘You have two minutes,' he said coldly, forcing himself to stroll nonchalantly over to the window. ‘Although I must warn you that I already have a good idea as to the reasons for your father's financial problems, and I don't regard them as an excuse for abusing the trust I put in him.'

‘You know that he's addicted to gambling?' Grace said urgently. ‘He can't help it. In many ways, he's a victim of the easy availability of online betting.'

‘My heart bleeds.' Javier's cool sarcasm incited her temper, and she marched across the room to plant herself firmly in front of him.

‘My father is a good man, an honourable man,' she insisted fiercely when Javier's brows quirked in disbelief. ‘A few years ago he made some unwise financial investments, and unfortunately he lost a lot of money.'

‘I fail to understand why I should suffer for his recklessness,' Javier snapped.

‘He was desperate. My mother was seriously ill and he was prepared to do anything…
anything
…to help her.' Javier's expression of aloof uninterest did not flicker, and Grace ran a hand over her face in despair. She wasn't getting through to him, and time was running out.

‘Gambling seemed his only way out,' she faltered. ‘He had one or two wins and he believed his luck would continue. Instead, he started to run up massive debts. Incredible debts,' she whispered bleakly. ‘Which he had no way of ever settling. After Mum died, I think he just felt utterly overwhelmed. The only thing he had of value was our house, which had been registered in Mum's name but was now his. His creditors were threatening to take Littlecote, but he was desperate to hang onto it…for me,' she said thickly, fighting the tears. ‘Angus did what he did—took the money—because he wanted to keep the home that he knew I loved.' She broke off and scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. She didn't want to cry, not in front of this man who looked as though his heart was carved from stone.

‘It's a touching story,' Javier remarked in a bored tone. ‘And undoubtedly there are some grains of truth in it. I'm quite ready to believe that Angus stole for your benefit. You have expensive tastes, Miss Beresford.'

‘How can you possibly know my tastes?' Grace demanded indignantly.

Javier threw her a disdainful glance that seemed to question her intelligence. ‘Naturally a thorough investigation has been made into your private affairs. I know everything there is to know about you—and you don't come cheap,' he informed her coolly. ‘The upkeep of two thoroughbreds which you show at dressage events,' he listed when she opened her mouth to argue. ‘The private education at an exclusive college for young ladies, not to mention the luxury flat while you were at university. There was no slumming it in student digs for you, was there, Miss Beresford?'

‘I paid the rent on the flat with money released from an insurance policy set up for me by my grandparents,' Grace said tightly. Her anger was bubbling inside like molten lava beneath the earth's crust. Any minute now and she would erupt, but the release of pressure and the torrent of furious words she wanted to throw at Javier Herrera would scupper all chances of helping her father. ‘And I worked damned hard for my degree,' she defended herself.

‘In the history of art?' The derision in his voice made her long to hit him. ‘I'm sure it's proved very useful.'

‘Extremely, in my profession,' Grace said coldly. ‘As you seem to know so much about me, I'm sure you've discovered that I run my own antiques business.'

‘I know that you like to play shop in a pretty little establishment in Brighton,' he murmured, his accent sounding particularly strong as he pronounced the name of the English seaside town where Grace had spent most of her life. ‘But The Treasure Trove is hardly a thriving business, is it? Oh, come on,' he derided when she frowned. ‘You barely make enough profit to cover your overheads. Your business acumen leaves a lot to be desired, Miss Beresford,' Javier told her flatly.

‘It's true that my profits haven't been as good as I hoped, but it takes time to build up a good reputation in the world of antiques,' Grace muttered, her cheeks flaming at his scathing comments about her fledgling business. Before opening her shop, she had loved her work as a junior cataloguer with a famous auction house, but her life in London had come to a crashing halt when she'd ended her engagement to Richard Quentin. Heartbroken at Richard's betrayal, she had fled back to Brighton, and with her father's support had opened The Treasure Trove. But in her first year of trading, business had been slow. After paying her bills, she'd had little money left over for extras, and it was true that she had allowed her father to treat her sometimes.

Angus had loved to spoil her and take care of her, just as he had taken care of her mother, she acknowledged painfully. She'd enjoyed an extremely comfortable lifestyle, but the realisation that her father had paid for those treats with money he'd stolen from the bank was unbearable. Sick with shame and mortification, she lifted her eyes to Javier, who was watching her expressionlessly, his golden eyes hooded so that she had no clue to his thoughts.

‘I should share the blame for this whole terrible mess,' she said huskily. ‘I have to face the fact that my father stole from your bank, not just to pay for my mother's medical expenses, but because he wanted to continue giving me the lifestyle I'd been used to. You don't know how terrible that makes me feel.'

‘Annoyed that your lifestyle is going to have to change, I imagine,' Javier drawled derisively. ‘Losing your main source of income must be extremely inconvenient, but I'm afraid that my bank—with the help of your light-fingered father—is no longer prepared to supplement your spending sprees.'

‘Are you suggesting that I knew what he was doing?' Outrage lent a sharp edge to her voice.

‘Do you expect me to believe that you didn't? I'm not stupid, Miss Beresford. It's quite clear that you have your father wrapped around your little finger,' Javier told her, his mouth thinning to a cruel line as he subjected her to a cold stare. ‘All your life you've sat back and allowed him to indulge you, and, now that your pampered little world is falling apart, you're panicking.

‘What did you hope to achieve by coming here?' he demanded savagely. ‘Did you really think you could persuade me to turn a blind eye to embezzlement on such a huge scale? Your tears may work with your father, but they do nothing for me,' he added harshly. His eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. ‘Your two minutes are up.'

‘I came to offer to repay the money my father took from you.' Grace stalled him frantically. ‘I've already agreed to a sale price on Littlecote and my shop, and together with the shares left to me by my mother I can raise two million pounds.'

‘And what of the other million?' Javier queried coolly.

‘I speak fluent Spanish. I thought, perhaps, I could work for the bank until the debt is cleared—unpaid, of course,' Grace added hastily at his look of derision.

‘
Dios!
You think I would allow you anywhere near my bank? One Beresford with their fingers in the till is enough. And how would you live without an income? A million pounds would take years to repay, even discounting the interest accrued. The idea is ridiculous,' Javier stated harshly. ‘You have nothing to offer that I find of remote interest.' His eyes skimmed over her in scathing dismissal.

Despite everything, despite the fact that he was the devil incarnate, Grace was unable to prevent a tremor from running through her body. What was the matter with her? How could she allow this man of all men to affect her to such an extent that she could barely think straight?

He was sinfully sexy, she acknowledged as her gaze skittered from his luxuriant black hair down over his broad chest, where the muscles of his abdomen were visible beneath the fine material of his shirt.

She was filled with a wild and totally uncharacteristic longing to unfasten that shirt, to rip it from his shoulders so that she could run her hands over his olive-skinned torso and discover the fine covering of dark hairs visible at the base of his throat. Now was not a good time for her sensuality to stir into life, she thought with a flash of near hysteria. She had to concentrate on saving her father from a jail sentence, and nothing else mattered, certainly not the peculiar sensation of butterflies in her stomach when Javier moved across the room towards her.

‘My father will fall apart if he's sent to prison,' she whispered. ‘My mother's death has left him a broken man, and emotionally I don't think he can cope with much more. I genuinely fear that he might take his own life, and I'm begging you to show leniency.' Her mouth quivered and she bit down hard on her lip. The Duque de Herrera had already told her that tears didn't impress him, and she needed to be calm and controlled. ‘I'll do anything you ask, if you'll agree not to prosecute him.'

‘Anything?' Javier's brows rose, his amusement evident. ‘Am I to understand that you are offering your services in the time-honoured fashion, Miss Beresford? How many nights of passion do you estimate would recompense me for a million pounds?' He let his eyes trail slowly over her, noting her scarlet cheeks and the frantic rise and fall of her breasts.

‘I didn't mean…
that!'
Grace snapped vehemently. ‘I hoped we could come to some sort of arrangement…' She broke off, bitterly aware that she had precious little to offer a multi-millionaire
duque
except her body. But how dared he think she had been offering sex? The idea was disgusting, outrageous, and she would not for one minute admit that she was tempted, she told herself, closing her eyes weakly when he came to stand too close for comfort.

The scent of him, clean and fresh with a musky undertone of his exotically spiced aftershave, assailed her senses. Blood coursed through her veins and she swayed unwittingly towards him as a cloak of sensual heat closed around her.

‘Perhaps you would not find sharing my bed such a hardship?' Javier suggested silkily, his golden eyes gleaming. ‘Indeed, from the eager invitation in those incredibly expressive eyes of yours, it would seem fairer if you paid
me
to pleasure
you
.'

Never had the word ‘pleasure' sounded so heavily laced with sexual innuendo, Grace thought. She inhaled sharply. ‘I
don't
think so,' she hissed, practically squirming with embarrassment. She took a jerky step backwards, but he caught hold of her chin and tilted her face so that she had no option but to meet his gaze.

‘I'm not blind, Miss Beresford. I can see the way your eyes darken to cobalt when you look at me, and the way your mouth quivers so temptingly—begging to be kissed,' he murmured, his voice suddenly as soft as crushed velvet. ‘We're both aware of the chemistry between us, and let's face it, there are worse ways of making a living.'

Dear God, was he serious? Myriad emotions flitted across Grace's face, all of which Javier correctly deciphered. Was he really suggesting that she become his mistress for however many nights it would take until her father's debts were paid? And, if that were the case, was he expecting a certain of level of expertise between the sheets? If so, then with her limited experience it could take her the rest of her life to pay back the money, she acknowledged with painful honesty. And what the hell was she doing even considering the suggestion?