Back in the Spaniard's Bed. Trish Morey

drawer, searched every space, but there was nothing of hers, only Alejandro’s impeccable clothes gracing the wardrobe. She flopped down on the bed, her heart heavy in her chest.

      She cursed him again—yet even as she did, even though she knew she should feel incensed by his actions, she couldn’t dispel the heavy coiling ache building inside her, the inexorable build-up of excitement that came with being with this man. He wanted to make love to her. He’d made that plain.

      But damn him! She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he was affecting her. And if she needed a reason to be all the more determined to resist his advances, this was surely it.

      Reluctantly she abandoned the voluminous wrap in which she’d once felt so exposed, and slipped the dress over her head, the fabric falling like a waterfall, sliding over skin in a silken kiss. She zipped it up, thankful that the halter offered some kind of support, and never before more grateful for lining. But still the fabric caressed her skin, sensitising it, and even as she strapped on the glittering sandals she could feel her breasts swelling, her nipples hardening at the sensual caress of silk against skin—and the knowledge that Alejandro would know exactly how little she was wearing under it.

      She gathered up the clutch purse and opened it, surprised, but realising she shouldn’t be, that someone had transferred from her handbag the very items that she might need tonight. As she straightened and turned she caught her reflection in the wall of mirrors. Just as he’d asserted, the dress was a perfect fit, accentuating curves she’d thought she’d lost, its length lapping at the ground behind her like the waves lapping at the shore as she moved.

      And the way the fabric draped across her hips nobody would know she wasn’t wearing a stitch underneath.

      Nobody except Alejandro. But no way would she give him the satisfaction of knowing it bothered her.

      She opened the door to join him, doing her best to ignore the feel of a lover’s caress on her skin as she moved, and plastering a supremely confident look on her face she had no right to claim.

      He stood with his back to her, pouring champagne into two gold crystal champagne flutes. Reflected in the mirrored back of the sideboard she could see his look of concentration, his expression and every part of his bearing showing his aristocratic upbringing. Leah’s feet came to a halt, the madness of her situation defying understanding. For even after she’d had the best in beauty treatments, was now wearing haute couture