Holding her prisoner here would financially decimate both of his enemies. Without the wedding between the two families, Sheikh Mohamed ibn Battuta al-Maghrib would not sell the argan oil harvest on credit to Sheldon Winter, which he needed for the relaunch of his only profitable product. The board members of Winter International would sell the company off for parts, and Sheldon would be swamped beneath the weight of his personal debts.
Aziz would be hurt even worse. Without his uncle’s promised wedding gift, he would no longer be able to hide his gambling addiction. The Sheikh, an honorable but strict man, would likely disinherit him, and his creditors would break both his legs. A perfect end, in Marcos’s opinion.
The only thing that might be even more satisfying would be if Aziz came to Spain to start a war over Tamsin. After what the man had done to his father, nothing would give Marcos more pleasure than to rip him apart with his bare hands. He was sick of secrets. Sick of lies. And, most of all, sick of waiting. He wanted the men who’d destroyed his family punished.
In the meantime, he was stuck with Tamsin Winter as his prisoner.
His eyes traced the outline of her gorgeous figure and the red hair tumbling down her bare back. Her skin was as creamy-pale as winter and looked as soft as a summer breeze. His hands longed to stroke her back, to see if she was as soft as she looked, to see if the fire of her hair was reflected in the tumultuous passion of her embrace.
He shook himself in annoyance. She was his prisoner, he told himself, nothing more. Setting his jaw, he looked at her coldly. “You will join me for dinner tonight.”
Her full pink lip curled. “I’d rather starve.”
“As you wish.” With a flare of his nostril, he turned to his head of security standing discreetly behind them. “Reyes, lock Miss Winter in the tower.”
“No!” Her eyes went wide and she took a step towards him. “You can’t lock me up!”
“I can and I will.” The room he’d prepared for her was luxurious and comfortable, and far from the tower, but he had no intention of sharing that with her. Not after all she’d put him through today. “You’ve given me no reason to seek your company.”
Her hands clenched as she visibly struggled to contain her anger. Her cheeks were red with the effort.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said through gritted teeth. “I would love to have dinner with you.”
About time, he thought. Her constant insults were growing thin. He turned to his housekeeper, who’d just entered the foyer.
“We will take our supper in the sala, Nelida. It is late. Bring the whole meal at once.”
“Sí, Patrón,” she replied.
“I will keep you apprised,” he told Reyes. The man left with a nod, followed by the rest of the security team.
Marcos held out his arm. “This way.”
Tamsin stared at his arm distrustfully. Her blue eyes, emphasized by the dark fringe of kohl and thick lashes, seemed as wide and deep as the sea. Taking his arm was obviously the last thing she wanted to do.
But, to his surprise, she gave him a smile before tucking her small hand in the crook of his arm. The glow in her expression was so unexpected it nearly took his breath away.
“Thank you.” Her voice was a sultry purr, her eyes half-veiled by sweeping dark lashes, luring him on with the promise of some feminine mystery. Intrigued, he drew closer.
“Follow me, Miss Winter,” he said, feeling off-kilter again.
She laughed, and it was as crystalline and pure as a melody. She touched him softly on the shoulder. “If I’m really going to be here for weeks, I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you? Call me Tamsin. Marcos.”
Watching her lush, full lips speak his name, he suddenly was hungry for more than dinner. In the space of a moment, the ice princess had become a fiery temptress and, in spite of his better judgment all he could think was that he wanted to throw himself into her flames.
But why the change in her behavior? Surely she wasn’t that terrified of being locked in the tower?
Then it all became clear. She had changed her strategy. Rather than insulting him, she thought she could charm him into letting her go.
It wouldn’t work, of course. She took him for a halfwit if she thought he’d fall for such an obvious ploy. But, as she moved closer to him, her body swaying like music, he thought that after all her abuse of the past few hours it might be enjoyable for him to let her try.
He wouldn’t be tempted by her, he told himself.
He was just curious to see how far she’d go.
Tamsin realized now that she’d been a fool to waste time with insults.
Unlike her pompous, rather oblivious half-brother, Marcos Ramirez wouldn’t be baited so easily. He was smart, organized and ruthless. He’d gone all the way to Morocco to kidnap her. He’d obviously spent a great deal of time and money to set up his revenge against Aziz and her family. And she’d thought he’d let her go for being rude?
It was time for a new plan.
Marcos gave her a quick glance as they ascended the sweeping stone staircase towards the sala. His desire was plain in his eyes, though he quickly veiled his expression with a smile. He obviously believed her to be a shallow, promiscuous socialite. And, judging by the clothes he’d provided for her—a black Gucci halter dress with a plunging neckline and Christian Louboutin pumps—he’d been watching her for some time. The outfit was a duplicate of the one she’d famously worn to a party. It had caused the tabloids to proclaim her London’s new ‘it’ girl—for that month, at least.
But now she wished with all her heart for a tracksuit and trainers instead. The peep-toe heels in crêpe chiffon mesh, beautiful as they were, weren’t exactly made to scale down stone walls or sneak past guards.
A sexy dress had other benefits, though. She glanced at him beneath her lashes. She could flirt with him. Lull him into complacency. Make him believe she might actually sleep with him.
Yes. She would deal with this arrogant Spaniard.
All she had to do was make sure Marcos continued to think she was everything the tabloids said—a shallow flirt who cared only for fashion and the admiration of men. She’d convince him that she was content to remain here in luxury while he prevented her marriage and ruined her family. Then, when his guard was lowered and he least expected it, she would escape to Morocco and stop him.
She smiled to herself, imagining the look on his face when his plans were destroyed by the woman he’d underestimated.
“Here we are,” he said as they reached a wide dining hall. His hand lingered possessively on the small of her back.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, smiling up at him until her cheeks hurt.
It wasn’t a lie. The architecture was medieval in appearance, though the plasterwork on the walls was covered with expensive modern art. She recognized a Picasso. The ceilings were high and the long darkwood table was decorated with a vase of exotic fresh flowers. The outside doors were open, overlooking a wide balcony and stone balustrade. She took a deep breath of night-blooming jasmine.
He escorted her to a seat near the end of the table facing the open windows. He was still wearing the same white shirt and fitted black trousers he’d had on the yacht, and she caught his scent on the breeze. He smelled of warm sun and Mediterranean sea and something else—something indefinable but totally male. Very different from Aziz, who wore enough cologne to make her gasp for air.
Marcos’s