‘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 celebrity rags for all they were worth. Nothing sold a paper like aristocracy, after all, and the Derwents were as aristocratic as they came—a family that traced its bloodline back to Tudor times.
The thought of bloodlines served as a reminder of his own and he felt the familiar pulse of anger. An anger he crystallised into purpose.
‘You ready to go?’
‘I am.’
Rafael walked round and swung the passenger door up, waited whilst Cora slid inside the low-slung car, censure radiating from every pore. Perhaps she felt the car to be a vulgar show of wealth.
Yet he caught her slight exhalation of appreciation as she nestled back on the sumptuous carbon fibre seat.
As he revved the engine he shifted to face her. ‘Cora, say hello to Lucille.’ Another push of the accelerator elicited a throaty purr. ‘See—I think she likes you.’
A very small smile tilted her mouth, and for a second his gaze snagged on her lips. Unadorned with lipstick, they were full and generous, and when she smiled he wondered why she didn’t do so more often.
‘You can’t fool me. Or Lucille. You are impressed.’
A decisive shake of her head emphatically denied the statement. ‘Nope. Not impressed.’ Then, as if relenting, she reached out to stroke the dashboard. ‘But you can tell Lucille that I prefer a British sports car to an Italian or German one any day. I like it that a UK designer came up with the idea, and I love it that it can compete with those European giants and come out the winner. Apparently Lucille is based on the “Blackbird” spy plane, and—’
She broke off and Rafael blinked. Genuine enthusiasm had illuminated her face and totally eradicated the dowdy image.
‘You’re a car buff!’
‘No. My brother is, so I know a bit about it.’
Her brother. Gabriel Derwent. Super-charismatic, super-intelligent, currently abroad and off the radar for a while, following a public break-up with Lady Isobel Petersen. There had been a harvest of rumours along the celebrity grapevine of a family rift, but these had been countered by the Derwent publicity machine with assurances that the Derwent heir was involved in an exciting, new project, details yet to be revealed.
Cora frowned—perhaps in regret at the mention of her brother, given the identity charade she wished to maintain. Then her lips snapped back into a thin line and she folded her arms across her chest.
‘That doesn’t mean I understand why anyone would spend such an exorbitant amount of money on a car. For the sake