She couldn’t answer. All her will was concentrated on not making a bigger fool of herself than she had already by being sick at the feet of this Good Samaritan.
‘Habla Inglés? French? Swedish?’
‘I’m English.’ The mist was clearing and she took a few long deep breaths before raising her head to focus on the stranger’s dark face. ‘Thank you for stopping. I was afraid you might not.’
He waved away her thanks with a sharp movement of his hand and as she caught the glimpse of gleaming gold on his wrist from what was obviously a very expensive watch she became aware that he was dressed in formal dinner clothes, the black velvet jacket and dark trousers beautifully cut.
‘Como se llama usted?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,’ she said faintly as the pain in her ankle surged into renewed life when she moved slightly. ‘I’ve been meaning to learn but—’
‘Your name?’ He was still kneeling at her side and somewhere in the back of her mind she noticed that the austere, coldly handsome face and cool, imperious voice added up to a very disturbing whole.
‘Lorne, Lorne Wilson.’ For a moment she almost held out her hand in spite of the situation. There was a stark formality, an inherent coldness about the man that was drying up the words in her throat.
‘I am Francisco de Vega, Miss Wilson.’ Two jet-black eyes pierced her white face. ‘Were you alone?’
‘Alone?’ She stared at him in confusion as she glanced round the empty barren countryside through which the road ran like a winding snake. ‘There were these men—’
‘I am aware of that.’ The voice was sharp and tight. ‘I am asking you if there was anyone else with you when this situation developed. A friend, maybe, who was not so fortunate as yourself.’
‘Fortunate?’ She stared at him as though he were mad. ‘Fortunate? I’ve been followed for miles and hassled and—’
‘They did not touch you?’ he asked stiffly.
‘No.’ Her voice was flat now. ‘But I was frightened and—’
‘Then I repeat, you were fortunate.’ The black gaze swept over her again, resting on the tousled blonde hair for a second before meeting her eyes. ‘Do you always dress so... indiscreetly when travelling alone?’
‘Indiscreetly?’ The full import of what he was insinuating caused hot colour to surge into her white face and now her eyes were sparking grey flashes as she raised her head proudly to meet his accusing gaze. ‘How I dress is my business, don’t you think? Surely I’m entitled—’
‘Freedom is a dangerous thing when put in the hands of children,’ the dark voice said smoothly, cutting into her furious tirade as though she hadn’t spoken. It was the fourth time in as many minutes that he had interrupted her and now all thoughts of gratitude fled as she took in, really took in, for the first time, the proud aristocratic face with its fine aquiline nose, well-shaped thin lips and icy cold eyes. What an overbearing, arrogant, haughty swine of a man! If he thought she needed his help he was very much mistaken!
‘Well, thank you for coming to my rescue, Mr de Vega,’ Lorne said frostily. ‘I’m sorry I seem to have inconvenienced you but I’m fine now so if you’d like to go on your way...’ She waved a dismissive hand towards the car in the distance. The effect was spoilt slightly by the fact that she was still sitting in a heap at the side of the road covered in dust and grime and blood from the copious grazes and scratches covering every inch of exposed flesh. And there was quite a bit of it. Not that she would ever admit that to him!
‘Are all English girls so difficult?’ he asked coldly as he rose in one lithe movement to his feet.
‘Difficult? I’m not difficult,’ she protested sharply, raising her face up and up until she met his eyes. Goodness, she hadn’t realised he was so tall, or so broad, or so very...male. Suddenly the Spanish youths seemed like young boys.
‘No?’ The humourless smile didn’t touch the glittering black eyes. ‘Has it escaped your notice that your right ankle has swollen to three times its normal size? How, exactly, do you intend to recommence your journey?’
‘On my knees if necessary.’ Lorne eyed him tightly. ‘I didn’t ask to be attacked, you know. There’s no need to be so downright aggressive.’
‘Can you stand?’ He ignored her defiance with regal indifference.
‘Of course I can.’ Her ankle was throbbing so badly that she could feel it in her head and there was no way she was going to try to struggle to her feet in front of his superior gaze. She’d try when he’d gone. And she hoped it would be soon! ‘You are obviously on your way out somewhere. Thank you again for your assistance and—’
‘This is not England, you know.’ He eyed her sourly. ‘There won’t be a nice safe bus along in a few minutes to take you where you want to go. How did you get this far? By taxi?’
‘No, I’ve got...’ she paused as her gaze flickered back down the road ‘...well... I did have a bike but the chain had broken and then it probably got more damaged when I threw it at those louts.’
‘You threw your bike at them?’ The momentary satisfaction at seeing him lost for words was sweet. He said something under his breath in his native tongue that sounded extremely caustic but the flash of admiration that lit the black eyes for a brief moment was not lost on her and it brought her chin up a fraction higher. She wasn’t some pathetic helpless female in spite of all the evidence to the contrary! And it was about time he knew it. ‘I won’t say I understand, Miss Wilson, because I do not.’ He bent down and lifted her up so swiftly that for a moment she couldn’t believe she was in his arms. ‘But one thing I do know is that that ankle needs attention and you need a stiff drink after such an unpleasant experience.’ In spite of the content of the words his cold stance hadn’t mellowed one iota but she was past caring. The pain in her ankle was blazingly fiercely again and she bit her lip until it drew blood in an effort not to cry out.
He glanced once at her white lips as he carried her quickly to the car, placing her in the front seat with a gentleness that belied the grim face. ‘What on earth are your parents thinking of to allow such a child to wander about in a strange country like this?’
‘Me? Do you mean me?’ Now her leg was still again she could just about cope with the pain and her eyes spat fury at his dark face. ‘To start with I am not a child, I’m twenty-two and—’
‘I do not believe it.’ The cool words were not spoken in politeness or as a social comment but stating fact. ‘You cannot be a day over seventeen.’
‘Look, Mr de Vega...’ He slid into the car beside her as she spoke and suddenly the words dried up in her throat. He was so close, so overwhelmingly Latin, so different...
‘Francisco.’
‘What?’ She stared at him, her eyes huge in the paleness of her face from which pain had taken all colour.
‘My name is Francisco, Miss Wilson, and let us stop the playing of the game.’ It was the first time his excellent English had let him down and she had to stifle the smile that sprang to her lips. So he was human after all. ‘How old are you and how is it that you are all alone in my country?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ She grabbed at his arm in panic as he started the engine. This could definitely be a case of the frying-pan being much hotter than the fire! ‘Where are you taking me?’
Her thoughts were patently visible in both her face and her voice, and the dark, cruel face hardened still further as he glanced down at her. She wished she hadn’t touched him. The hard, bunched muscles in his arm spoke of power and authority and just at the moment neither was attractive.
‘I am taking you to my home, Miss Wilson, so that your injuries may be attended to