Seducing the Spaniard: She wanted revenge any way she could get it Read online

  SEDUCING THE SPANIARD

  Clare Connelly

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

  The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.

  First published 2015

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/lenets_tan

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: [email protected]

  Follow Clare Connelly on facebook for all the latest.

  Join Clare’s Newsletter to stay up to date on all the latest CC news. http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk/subscribe.html

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Clare Connelly grew up in a small country town in Australia. Surrounded by rainforests, and rickety old timber houses, magic was thick in the air, and stories and storytelling were a huge part of her childhood.

  From early on in life, Clare realised her favourite books were romance stories, and read voraciously. Anything from Jane Austen to Georgette Heyer, to Mills & Boon and (more recently) 50 Shades, Clare is a romance devotee. She first turned her hand to penning a novel at fifteen (if memory serves, it was something about a glamorous fashion model who fell foul of a high-end designer. Sparks flew, clothes flew faster, and love was born.)

  Clare has a small family and a bungalow near the sea. When she isn't chasing after energetic little toddlers, or wiping fingerprints off furniture, she's writing, thinking about writing, or wishing she were writing.

  Clare loves connecting with her readers. Head to www.clareconnelly.co.uk to sign up to her newsletter, or join her official facebook page.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Six years ago.

  Even though he was technically her step-brother, there was no escaping it. Gael Vivas was, without a shred of doubt, the epitome of roguish charm.

  Carrie studied him surreptitiously from beneath her thick brown fringe. He’d just arrived from Spain that morning. She knew, because she’d heard her mother Alexandra giving instructions to the housekeeper to prepare a guest bedroom. To prepare it especially well for this important visitor. After all, Gael never visited. And he was certainly important. And special.

  Apart from the odd social mixer, Carrie was woefully inexperienced with boys. The prestigious girls’ college she’d been accepted into on a full academic scholarship was hardly fertile ground for learning about matters of the heart. What she knew she’d gleaned from magazines, movies and courtesy of her friend Juanita, who’d had no problems attracting the attention of any boy she deemed worthy of her time.

  But none of Juanita’s crushes were like Gael.

  Her step-father’s son wasn’t a silly, childish boy. He was a man. With twenty-nine years of life experience, and the body of a brave, fearless warrior.

  The English summer was getting on with a bang. It was early August and the sun was shining, the breeze was slight. Gael had dressed accordingly, in a pair of low-slung jeans and a black shirt.

  Carrie’s breath caught in her throat as he lifted his hands in the air, stretching his muscular arms after the flight to London, and the drive out to the country estate. The action caused his cotton shirt to rise a little, exposing a perfectly tanned expanse of muscled chest. Ripples of defined abdominals were visible and Carrie experienced the first rush of desire, deep in her abdomen. She wrapped her arms around her chest, but she could not look away.

  His expression was nuanced. She tried to understand the emotions that flitted across his face as he scanned the elegant country mansion. Alexandra had won it in the divorce from Carrie’s father - Alexandra’s first husband. There’d been two more since then, and now there was Husband Number Four, Diego Vivas.

  Did Gael like the house? Carrie hoped he did, though she couldn’t have said why it mattered so much to her. After all, he had chosen to remain distant from them; and on some level, despite her inexperience in adult matters, she suspected it had to do with a disapproval of Alexandra and Diego’s hasty marriage.

  Yes, it was definitely disapproval, she thought, watching his lips twist into a grim line as he continued his slow inspection of the property. Forrest View was a stately country home, built in the early renaissance but improved on greatly in the nineteenth century. For her part, Carrie adored it. In a childhood ruptured by divorce, death and instability, Forest View had been a rock. A place of steadfast support and reliable comfort.

  She adored coming back in the holidays, though Alexandra had made that difficult since marrying Diego.

  For the briefest moment, Carrie’s own expression reflected the same disapproval she saw in Gael’s. But she smothered it quickly.

  She loved her mother.

  Alexandra was all she had. No father. No grandparents. Friends who seemed to move at a different pace to her; friends she was convinced she would lose contact with quickly enough, now that school had finished. University loomed, and with it, uncertain futures. Beyond Alexandra and Forrest View, Carrie had no idea what life had in store for her.

  “Is she here?” On the one other occasion she’d met Gael, his voice had sent shivers down her spine. The spicy timbre of his tone and the gentle husk of his mysterious accent were unlike anything she’d ever known in real life. Coupled with the glint in his almost-black eyes, and the permanently sardonic expression on his strong-featured face, he was surely the most desirable man ever created.

  Her heart gave a corresponding tremor as, for a brief moment, she imagined he was inquiring after her. What would it be like to have this man at your beck and call? To have this man care about you, and ask after you? She bit down on her full lower lip, wishing beyond measure that he would look at her as he had the supermodel he’d brought to the wedding.

  She leaned against the building, taking comfort from the ancient stone wall. He walked with an economy of movement that was innate to him; a stealthy, powerful gait that spoke of a contained strength ready to be unleashed. He crossed the courtyard and the white gravel crunched beneath his custom-made leather shoes.

  She watched him disappear from sight and flipped backwards, pressing her spine against the building while she waited for her breathing to return to its usual speed.

  Her skin deepened to a rosy hue as she contemplated going inside to see him. But what would she say? Would he even remember her? Mortification at the possibility that he might not sent a jangle of anxiety running along her spine. They’d danced together at the wedding, the year before. It had been a month to the day after her sixteenth birthday, and she’d then considered herself quite the adult. After all, wasn’t that the threshold of womanhood?

  Her cheeks flamed as she remembered the way his hard body had felt against her own soft, generous flesh. His hands had held her lightly, impersonally, and her heart had pounded in her chest. She’d barely been able to speak, for the way his touch had sent her nerves rioting.

  And now?

  She’d find out soon enough.

  She moved up the stairs slowly, trying to conceal the way her legs were unsteady beneath her. She’d changed into a flowing dress when she’d overheard Alexandra’s stern instructions to the housekeeper. It was a beautiful dress, though it did little to conceal her over-full waist and rounded bottom.
She had always wanted to be reed-thin like her mother, but it was not her natural shape. And, as Alexandra was fond of pointing out, never would be if Carrie continued to indulge her penchant for creamy pastas and sitting around studying. So what if achieving her excellent academic results had required hours of sedentary desk-time? Alexandra had never taken much pride in Carrie’s scholastic achievements. She’d wished, frequently and obviously, for a daughter who followed after her, in terms of looks.

  And that was certainly not Carrie.

  Her lips twisted wistfully as she walked purposefully past a photograph of her mother, taken at the height of her modelling fame. She had been one of the top-paid supermodels of the eighties; renowned for her slender, fragile beauty and enormous pale blue eyes. Now, in her early fifties, Alexandra was no less beautiful, and no less vain.

  “Carrie.”

  She froze in her tracks, halfway down the stately corridor. So he did remember her, at least. She turned, trying to affect an expression of nonchalance on her heart-shaped face.

  “Gael,” she responded, cursing inwardly at the slight tremor in her breathy voice. She forced a smile to her face, as she looked up into his stormy dark eyes. “Welcome to Forrest View.”

  He nodded, though it was obvious that he was making an effort to relax his stern expression. “Thank you. I’m only here briefly. Where is my father?”

  Carrie couldn’t help the sympathetic grimace. “He spends most of his time in bed.”

  “I see. And your mother?” Carrie knew she wasn’t imagining the slight curl of disdain that coloured his words.

  She regarded him sharply, confusion making her eyes linger a little on his face. “She’ll be back soon. She had some business in town.”

  “I see.” His lips were just a line in his face. “Do you know which room I’m to use?”

  “Of course,” she nodded nervously. “I suspect you’re tired after your journey.”

  His face relaxed completely, and he actually smiled at her properly now. “Not especially. I am hungry, though.”

  “Hungry? Why don’t you … I mean … why don’t you come to the kitchen and I’ll fix you a sandwich.”

  He grinned and shrugged. “Sure.” He fell into step beside her, and matched his stride to her shorter one. “My father tells me you have done extremely well at school.”

  Her heart turned over at the idea of Gael expressing an interest in her. Even in something as benign as her academic achievements. She nodded modestly. “I was lucky with my final exams.”

  He shot her a droll look of amusement. “I doubt luck had anything to do with it.”

  Her smile was genuine. “Of course it plays a part. The questions catered well to my knowledge.”

  “Knowledge you obtained by studying long and hard.”

  She dipped her head forward in a silent concession. Her brown hair fell like a curtain.

  “What do you intend to study at university?”

  “I’ve been accepted into English at Oxford, and Economics at Cambridge.”

  “Economics and English? Two vastly different courses. Which is your preference?”

  She shrugged. “I like the idea of both. I just want to learn. I can’t wait to get to university.” Her smile was overflowing with enthusiasm. “I can’t imagine what it will be like to be surrounded by people who are smart and motivated and totally wrapped up in academia.”

  He walked quietly beside her, his brain ticking over. “But surely of the two you have an area that interests you most?”

  Carrie bit down on her lip. “I don’t know. I mean, I love both. And for different reasons. I’m going to tour the campuses and then make my choice.” She slowed her pace and tilted her face to look at him. “What do you recommend?”

  “Me?” Gael was not comfortable advising her. He scanned her face thoughtfully, unsure exactly what it was about this young English woman that made him uneasy. “I couldn’t say.”

  “But you studied economics, didn’t you?” She pushed.

  He let out a slow sigh. “I did.”

  “And are you glad?”

  “Am I glad?” His brow furrowed. “It serves me well. But I did not attend university for enjoyment; I studied as a means to an end.”

  “Right. To run your father’s company.”

  His laugh was a humourless tone in the cavernous hallway. “No. To avoid running my father’s company.”

  It fascinated her. She knew that he’d taken over as chairman of Vivas Industries straight out of college, and that it was still one of the companies that was controlled under the umbrella of his own corporation. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand?” She prompted, her interest undisguised.

  “No,” he agreed quietly, his dark eyes probing her face gently. “I would say you don’t.” He shook his head, as if to physically shift the conversation. “I am sure you’ll enjoy whichever degree you choose.”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn to his face. She had never anticipated having such an easy conversation with him. Up close, he was so much more fascinating than from a distance. When they’d danced at the wedding, she’d been too nervous to properly appreciate the details. The light smattering of freckles across the tanned bridge of his nose; the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. She fumbled her fingers in front of her.

  “What kind of sandwich would you like?” She asked, as she stepped ahead of him into the kitchen.

  He shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Whatever you suggest, Carrie.”

  Was she imagining the teasing note to his voice? Blood pounded through her seventeen year old body, as every dream and fantasy she’d conjured since meeting Gael came back to haunt her. She spun away from him to hide the betraying flush in her face. “Umm,” she whispered, her breath snatched in her throat. “I think we have some ham somewhere.”

  “Ham will be fine,” Gael responded quietly, his manner so beautifully intriguing that Carrie thought she might have died and gone to heaven.

  Under his watchful gaze, she spread butter and mayonnaise onto rye bread, then layered some ham in the middle. Her eyes flicked to his and then dropped back to the sandwich; her temperature soared and her stomach clenched in almost-painful awareness. She moved the knife through the bread, her fingers shaking a little as she placed the two triangles onto a delicate Royal Albert plate and handed it to the man who was technically her stepbrother.

  “Gracias,” he said with the hint of a smile. The single Spanish word was like lemon and olives on a summer’s day. She let the sound of it flick over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

  “How is your mother?”

  Again, Carrie wondered if she was imagining that slightly scathing tone to his voice. It made her pause for a moment, but she would do anything rather than cut short this delicious slice of time – this moment when Gael Vivas was hers. When he was actually interested in talking to her.

  Carrie shifted her shoulders, her fingers toying with the lid of the butter. “She’s … fine.”

  Gael nodded, and his dark eyes glowed as though they were comprehending so much more than she was saying. “I suppose you do not see her or my father often.”

  “No,” she agreed. “They were away during the last term break.”

  His brows knitted together thoughtfully. “And what did you do, Carrie Beauchamp?”

  How intriguing her surname sounded, coming from his lips. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest. “I holidayed with a girlfriend and her family.” She was amazed at the way she had injected the sentence with a degree of easy going normality. The carefully phrased statement hid the nights of agonised hurt that her mother had yet again chosen not to see her. That her mother’s life swirled on far away from hers.

  And despite the way she’d managed to sound unconcerned, she knew that Gael understood. That the slight deepening of his brow and lowering of his lips were because he disapproved of the fact she’d been left to spend her term break away from her only family.

  She
had to tread carefully. An ally was not something she had ever had before. She wasn’t sure she knew what she’d do if someone actually supported her in her very worst fear in life: that her mother didn’t love her enough.

  She swallowed past a sudden knot of pain and replaced the lid of butter onto the plastic base. “Anyway,” her voice was overbright, “Most of my friends would love to get as much time to themselves as I have. I mean, I’m one of the lucky ones. To get the freedom I have.”

  “Are you?” His sardonic disbelief was obvious.

  She spun away and placed the ingredients back into the fridge. When she turned back to Gael, her mother framed into shot behind him. She was, as always, picture perfect.

  Alexandra Beauchamp had reverted to her first surname after husband number two, and had kept it ever since. She told people it was to save the confusion over having a different moniker to her daughter, but Carrie knew better. It had more to do with the title that went along with the surname than the name itself.

  Carrie couldn’t help the small sound of admiration that escaped her softly parted lips at the sight of her mother. Jeans that clung to her long, slender legs like a second skin, parted at the middle to expose just a hint of perfectly tanned midriff beneath the floaty peasant top she wore. Her blonde hair was long and worn flowing over her shoulders, and her skin boasted a caramel tan courtesy of a recent trip to Italy.

  “Gael, darling, how wonderful,” she remarked in her clipped, aristocratic tone. “Why am I not surprised to find you loitering about the fridge, Carrie?”

  Embarrassment, hot and sharp, speared through her impressionable teenage soul. “Oh… I…”

  “Carrie was kind enough to make me a snack,” Gael responded with a quiet yet unmistakable note of condemnation.

  Alexandra was oblivious to his disapproval. “Yes, well, if there’s food about, my daughter is guaranteed to be somewhere nearby.” She rolled her eyes in a failed attempt at humour and pressed her lips to Gael’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, anyway.”