Savage Affair

202 Pages·2016·0.86 MB·English

by  Mayo Margaret

SAVAGE AFFAIR

Margaret Mayo
Rhiannon was happy in her life

She had become tired of repelling the cunning advances of fortune
hunters after the daughter of a rich hotelier. Now she enjoyed
operating the elegant little hotel in the Canary Islands.

But quite unexpectedly the defences of her heart were invaded by a
mysterious stranger. From the moment she first saw him, she became
aware of a deep, dangerous passion stirring within her.

Only when the true identity of Pasqual Lorenzo Giminez came to
light did the aching love turn to cold hate. Why then, even when she
found herself trapped with him against her will, should she still yearn
for his touch?
CHAPTER ONE
THE LIGHT was fading fast, making it difficult to see clearly, but
Rhiannon never took her eyes off the unknown man. He had to be a
man. No woman could carve her way through the water quite so
fiercely and determinedly.
She sat with her back against a rock, confident that by the time he
came out darkness would render her invisible. She was so used to
having the beach to herself at this time of day that finding someone
here was intriguing.
At length he rose from the water, his shape silhouetted against sky
now almost as dark as the sea. He was tall, with wide shoulders and
narrow hips, and as he turned to look across the bay she observed a
flat taut stomach and muscular chest. There was an arrogant lift to his
chin, he had a high noble forehead, and the sinking sun cast a bronze
sheen over his statue-like body.
When he headed directly towards her Rhiannon froze. Had he seen
her after all? She held her breath, wishing she had made her presence
known instead of sitting here like a Peeping Tom, mentally crossing
her fingers that he would walk straight past.
She closed her eyes, as if by so doing she could banish him, then
gave an involuntary cry as he stumbled over her outstretched leg.
'What the devil?' His Spanish voice was loud and angry and she
glanced up to see his powerful body towering over her. Before she
could speak one firm hand grabbed her shirt and hauled her to her
feet. She felt like a fish dangling from an angler's hook.
'Put me down!' she yelled, answering in his own language, kicking
and punching, but not seeming to hurt him. He was strong, very
strong, and almost a foot taller than she. She could see a gleam in his
eyes and a ruthless thrust to his jaw.
In response to her plea he let go her shirt, but his hands fell instead to
her shoulders. And then as his eyes raked her face she felt the
tenseness go out of him. He smiled and his teeth gleamed white in
the darkness.
'I'm sorry if I startled you,' she said quickly. 'I was watching you
swim and -'
'It was suddenly too late to make your presence known?' he finished
for her. 'I can understand that.'
His low throaty tone sent a shiver crawling down her spine. It had a
sensual sound to it, and despite the fact that she could not properly
see him, that she did not know who he was or anything about him,
she felt an instant and unwarranted physical awareness.
'I'm glad you're not angry.' Her eyes were wide as she looked up at
him, and she tried to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. 'I was
afraid you'd think I was prying.'
His fingers began slow circling movements over her shoulderblades.
'I was curious, perhaps, but nothing so sordid as that.' And he moved
lower, and lower; to her waist, to her hips, urging her against him.
'Why didn't you come and join me?'
Frissons of alarm surfaced, only to be ignored, outweighed by an
answering need. 'I had no inclination to swim,' Rhiannon said faintly,
puzzling over her extraordinary response to a complete stranger.
It occurred to her that she might be heading for trouble. Who was he?
What was he doing here? The beach wasn't actually private, but as a
general rule was used by hotel guests only. She pushed her hands
against his chest, aware of cool, damp, hair-roughened skin, aware of
superior muscular strength—but overriding this, aware of a powerful
sexuality that under no circumstances could be denied.
He released her instantly, the merest frown visible, his smile
reassuring. 'I'm frightening you? I'm sorry. It's just that I feel I know
you already.' He traced the outline of her face with gentle finger-
tips—her cheekbones, the fine arch of her brows, her fractionally too
large nose, the softness of her lips.
Rhiannon suffered his touch, forcing herself not to respond, even
though every nerve in her body leapt. She looked away from his
hypnotic eyes and saw the faint circle of a full moon, ready and
waiting for the sun's final departure.
Was that the explanation for her behaviour? She'd heard a full moon
did strange things to some people. But she was a sane, normal
person, not given to flights of fancy or irrational behaviour. Was this
irrational? Or was it simply a basic chemical reaction that could
happen to anyone?
She moistened her lips and looked back at him. He was watching her.
'Did you win?' he asked softly, his lips curved upwards in a caring
smile.
Her brow creased. 'Win?' How she wished he would move away! A
war of nerves was going on inside her.
'You were obviously fighting a mental battle?'
Wryly she nodded.
'You were debating whether I was a sex maniac or a healthily sexy
male?'
'Is there a difference?' she quipped, his flippancy putting her
suddenly at ease.
'Oh, yes.' He cupped her face, his thumbs moving in a tantalising
caress across her lips, his eyes also on her mouth. 'If I were a sex
maniac I wouldn't be standing here like this. All I want is a kiss.'
He bent his head and she lifted hers, and the contact was explosive.
Whether it was the romance of the night or because he was a
mysterious stranger, Rhiannon did not know. But his kiss was like
none other—gentle and yet insistent, erotic but not frightening,
persuasive, experienced, seeking a response.
A few seconds only she hesitated before her hands slid around the
smooth firmness of his back. His tongue probed and searched and she
moved sensually against him, moaning softly in the back of her
throat, freely returning his kisses.
It was unlike her to respond like this to a man she did not know, but
it was like a coming together of kindred souls, as though this was the
man she had been waiting for all her life.
He left her mouth and her head fell back as he burned a fierce trail
down her throat. Pushing aside her shirt, he nibbled an achingly
throbbing breast, and then suddenly she was free.
'This is all wrong,' he said gruffly. 'I want to spend time with you, get
to know you, not rush you like this. Let me get dressed, then we'll sit
and talk and you can tell me about yourself.'
'I'm sorry, I can't.' Rhiannon's face was pained. This was the first time
in a good many years that she had met a man who genuinely
interested her. 'I have to go. I've been here longer than I intended
already.'
'But I will see you again?' He disappeared behind the rock against
which she had been sitting—how ironic, thought Rhiannon, that she
had chosen this very spot. And then he emerged again zipping up a
pair of tight, patched jeans.
'I don't know,' she frowned. It was crazy, not like her at all—and yet
there was something about him. She too would like to learn more. At
least he was gentleman enough not to take advantage. There was no
reason to be afraid.
'I'll be here tomorrow,' he smiled. 'Same time. If you don't come, I'll
understand.' He scooped up his shirt and tossed it over his shoulder.
Rhiannon studied the carved beauty of his face, the straight nose, the
jutting brows, the expressive eyes which looked black in this light
but could be any colour, the wide mobile infinitely kissable mouth.
In the darkness he looked aloof, he looked hard and untouchable,
ruthless even, and she had for a brief space seen this side of him. But
for an instant only. A mutual desire had been born. Fires raged in him
now as they did in her.
She smiled softly, stood on tiptoe and touched his lips with her own,
then ran lightly across the sand without a backward glance.
It was not until she reached Yurena and the sanctity of her room that
she allowed herself to think of him again. She took a deep breath and
looked in the mirror. Her eyes widened. She looked—beautiful! And
yet never in all her life had she considered herself anything other than
plain.
Her shoulder-length auburn hair, tousled by her flight, framed her
face attractively. Her green eyes were shining, her cheeks flushed,
her parted lips soft and dark. There was an air of expectancy about
her. She looked like a girl on the brink of falling in love.
Touching the tip of her tongue to her lips, she wondered what
madness had invaded her. This was not the first man to kiss her. She
had not reached the age of twenty-four without her fair share of boy-
friends. And yet—he was different. He was all man, for one thing—
mature, self-confident, arrogant even.
It was difficult to put an age to him, but she would guess in his mid-
thirties. He spoke Spanish with the typical sing-song accent of a
Canarian, and yet he hadn't looked a typical Spaniard. Or was it the
half- light that had played tricks on her?
She looked forward to seeing him again, and that in itself was
surprising, since she had deliberately cut all men out of her life and
immersed herself in running the hotel.
There had been a reason for it. Even since her parents had won a
small fortune on the football pools back home in England six years
ago, she had been bombarded with proposals of marriage. Boys
buzzed round her like bees round honey, and even Jonathan, whom
she had thought herself in love with, had let her down, making plans
for what they would do with the money she was sure to be given.
When her parents announced that they were thinking of buying a
small hotel in the Canary Islands, she had been all for it, and as
excited as they when the time came to go. But men were the same the
whole world over, she discovered. The nubile daughter of a couple of
rich hoteliers was a prime target, and she got sick and fed up with
rejecting their advances.
They had been on Cerrillo for only twelve months when her mother
died, and Rhiannon and her father were devastated, talking about
returning to England. But a hotel was something her mother had
always wanted, and never been able to afford before their win, and
they both knew she would wish them to carry on.
So Rhiannon took a hotel management course in London, her father
meantime running the place with the help of a temporary manager,
and now she was virtually in complete charge. Tony Howarth had
lost some of the enthusiasm that had carried him and his wife through
their first year and was content to let his daughter make all the
decisions.
It suited Rhiannon, she was able to immerse herself in her work and
forget about men and sex and marriage—until tonight. Stifled
emotions flooded back with a vengeance, making her realise what
she had missed these last years.
'Rhiannon?' A tap came on her door.
Her father? She clapped her hands to her cheeks. She had completely
forgotten their nightly ritual of drinks on the balcony when she gave
him a run-down on what had happened during the day. But if he saw
her like this questions would be asked, ones she was not prepared to
answer at this stage.
'I'm sorry, Daddy. Give me five minutes, I'm just about to take a
shower.' And she needed one. She needed to wash that man right out
of her hair, as the song went. There mustn't be one trace of him left
when she joined her father.
Her five minutes stretched into ten. She stood beneath the cooling
jets of water, letting them play over her skin as the unknown man's
hands had earlier. It was like reliving those moments, and she
quivered from head to toe.
Who was he? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Where had he
come from? Their hotel was the only one on this unspoilt island, and
he wasn't one of their guests.