The thought darkened his mood, and it was only lightened by the idea of winning restitution in his mother’s name.
Once Don Carlos sold him the vineyard, Rafael would tell him the truth. That he had sold his precious Aiza land to his own illegitimate grandson, whom he had once named the tainted son of a whore. Don Carlos and his son Ramon would seethe with humiliation and Rafael would watch with pleasure.
‘Come on. Lunch should be ready.’
Time to get this show on the road.
AS CORA WALKED through the beauty of the flowering vines curiosity swirled with anticipation. Over lunch presumably Rafael would outline the role he had in mind for her, and she had to concede he’d played his hand well.
The vineyard had enticed her with its scents and its atmosphere, and in the glorious heat of the Spanish sun it would be hard to refuse whatever he offered. But she would—because she knew with deep-seated certainty that whatever Rafael offered there would be a catch—a veritable tangle of strings attached. As the saying went, there was no such thing as a free lunch—let alone a lunch you were being paid thousands to eat.
Plus—she might as well be honest—it wasn’t only the vineyard that exerted heady temptation. It was Rafael himself. Her prejudices against Rafael Martinez seemed to be in the process of disintegration. After her harangue on the plane about his lifestyle the very last thing she had expected was what she’d seen on the vineyard tour.
Rafael took his wine seriously—he’d spoken of the grapes with passion and a deep knowledge—and it was also clear that he had ethics and environmental morals she couldn’t fault.
But, be that as it might, it didn’t alter the fact that Rafael Martinez was dangerous. Because there had been moments when her heart had skipped a beat and his proximity had made her shiver despite the heat of the Mediterranean sun. Made her believe that all those beautiful glamorous women might well count themselves lucky.
The thought made her blood simmer. How could she, of all people, be at even the smallest risk of attraction? Rafael was like both her siblings—he only dallied with the beautiful and all he touched turned to gold. Cora was ordinary and average and went pink in the sunshine. Plus, she disapproved of his lifestyle, for heaven’s sake.
As they approached the cool white villa a small plump woman bustled towards them, a beaming smile on her face as she surveyed Cora, and burst into a stream of voluble Spanish.
‘This is María—Tomás’s wife,’ Rafael said.
Cora returned the smile, though a sudden hint of wariness made her hackles rise as María continued to speak, gestured to Cora, and then wagged her finger at Rafael, whose tautened jaw surely indicated a smidgeon of tension?
‘Is everything OK?’ Cora asked.
‘Yes. María seems to feel that you are probably a bit hot and uncomfortable in a suit and is giving me a hard time for not telling you I was bringing you to Spain. She would like to give you a dress.’
Another torrent of Spanish.
‘María says you mustn’t worry. It is not her clothes she is offering.’
María chuckled and waved her hands.
‘She says once she was as slim as you, but that the years have not been good to her.’
Cora shook her head. ‘Tell her I am more scrawny than slim, and that if I look half as good as her in twenty years I will be a happy woman.’
‘Her daughter owns a clothes store in Laguardia and there is some of her stock here. María insists you change so you can eat the lunch she has prepared in comfort.’
‘Um...’ Cora looked down at her suit. ‘It feels a bit unprofessional to change, but I don’t want María to think I don’t appreciate her kindness.’
And she was hot, and it would be a relief to clear her head of all foolish thoughts of attraction and temptation.
‘Come, come.’
The plump woman gestured and Cora followed her into the welcome cool of the whitewashed villa.
María smiled at her, a smile that took away the disapproval indicated by a wag of her finger as she gestured at Cora’s suit. ‘Not right,’ she said. ‘Un dia especial.’
Cora frowned. A special day? Was that what María meant?
The question was forgotten as María led her into a small bedroom, opened a large wardrobe and pulled out a brand-new dress. ‘Perfecto,’ she announced, in a tone that brooked no denial.
Though denial flooded Cora’s system. The T-shirt-style dress was vividly patterned with a butterfly motif. Bright, bold and eye-catching, it represented everything Cora avoided in her wardrobe.
‘Um...’
María beamed. ‘Perfecto,’ she repeated. ‘Rafael. He love.’
The thumbs-up sign that accompanied the words did little to assuage Cora’s sense of panic. Clearly María had grasped the wrong end of the stick. But how could she vault the language barrier and explain that really Rafael’s opinion of the dress meant less than nothing? That she was here on a strictly professional footing?
What really mattered right now was the fact that she could not wear the dress. It was the sort of dress that Kaitlin would pull off, no problem—but Kaitlin would look good in a bin bag. The point was the dress did not constitute ‘professional’.
But as she looked at María’s beaming face Cora managed to manufacture a smile and nodded. ‘Thank you.’
No need to panic, she told herself as María left the room. How bad could it be?
Ten minutes later Cora had the answer. Pretty darn bad. Self-consciousness swamped her, along with a dose of discomfort in the knowledge that there was way more of her on show than she felt the world deserved to see.
The door opened and María bustled in. ‘Bella!’ She handed over a pair of jewelled flip-flops and a sun hat and gestured for Cora to follow her.
Minutes later they approached a paved mosaic courtyard, dappled with sun and shadow and awash with the smell of flowering grapes, the aromatic smell of spices and the tang of olives.
Cora’s legs gave a sudden wobble as Rafael rose from a wooden chair and any last vestige of confidence soared away. No man had the right to look so good. His rolled up shirtsleeves exposed tanned forearms that made the breath hitch in her throat, and as her gaze travelled up his body her eyes drank in the breadth of his chest, the column of his throat, and the sheer arrogant strength of his features.
María said something and then turned to walk away. From somewhere Cora found her voice and a smile and said, ‘Gracias,’ before turning back to Rafael. From somewhere she found the courage to stand tall, not to tug the hem of the wretched dress down.
Something flashed across his dark eyes: surprise and a flicker of heat that made her heart thud against her ribcage.
‘That looks way more comfortable,’ he said eventually.
Comfortable? She must have imagined that flicker—of course she had. She was not Rafael’s type and best she remembered that she didn’t even want to be.
‘It is,’ she said coolly, and headed to the table—at least once she was sitting down the dress would be less obvious.
But before she could take a seat her gaze alighted on the table and she came to a halt. Crystal glasses gleamed, and a cut-glass vase of beautifully arranged flowers sat next to a silver wine cooler amidst an array of dishes that smelt to die for. This didn’t look like a business lunch—and it didn’t feel like a business lunch.