The Secret Sanchez Heir. CATHY WILLIAMS
but he wanted her and he was going to New York. He’d glanced at his watch with a nonchalance she’d found unutterably cool and had told her he wanted to take her with him, but that she’d have to decide on the spot, because his private jet was due to leave in three hours.
His eyes had roved over her with open desire but everything about him had told her that, if she chose to walk away, he wouldn’t try to stop her.
He’d been everything she hadn’t been looking for and she’d dumped every single principle she’d ever had and gone with him. She’d let him sweep her into his world of chauffeur-driven cars, five-star hotels and every whim granted at the snap of a finger. He’d worked during the day and had insisted that she buy herself a new wardrobe, and whatever else she fancied in whatever store she chose, because money was no object.
But she had objected, only to learn that, what Leandro didn’t want to hear, he simply chose to ignore, and he hadn’t wanted to hear her objections.
‘I have never,’ he had told her, undressing her very, very slowly, ‘allowed any woman of mine to pay for anything. Not going to change the habit now.’
No-strings-attached sex was what he’d offered and it was what she’d taken, greedy for him in a way that had shocked her beyond words. They’d lived for the moment and, whilst she had not lied to him about her past, neither had she told him about it. Somewhere along the line, she’d felt that it would turn him off and quite quickly she’d known that she hadn’t wanted to turn him off.
When one week had turned into two and then three, and when, on the spur of the moment, he had decided to take a break with her in the wilds of Canada, she’d begun to hope that what had started out as just sex might end up as more.
But then everything had gone wrong, and it had all happened so fast. One minute she had been dreaming impossible dreams, and the next minute his sister had entered the frame and within three days all her fledgling dreams had lain in ruins around her and she’d been turfed out of his Manhattan apartment without a backward glance.
He’d made no bones about spelling out the sort of unscrupulous guy he was when it came to women and, instead of listening, she had chosen to ignore the writing on the wall because she had been first bowled over by him and then head over heels in love with him.
Abigail stared off now into the distance. She hadn’t drawn the curtains in the kitchen and she could see that, whilst the snow wasn’t getting any heavier, it was still falling, a flurry of white, shining and beautiful where the lights around the house illuminated the drift.
‘So...’ a familiar voice drawled from behind her.
Startled, Abigail saw Leandro’s reflection in the glass of the French doors through which she had been staring. He’d changed into a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved black jumper, the sleeves of which had been pushed up to the elbows, and he was barefoot. It might be freezing outside, but this rolling country manor was heated to perfection. Her heart jumped and her mouth went dry as she turned slowly towards him.
‘I see you decided to stay rather than brave the snow in an attempt to get out of here. Wise decision.’
‘I thought you’d gone to bed.’ Abigail said jerkily—the first thing that came to her head.
‘You mean you’d hoped I’d gone to bed. Why’s that?’ Leandro strolled towards a platter of cold meats, made himself a clumsy sandwich and poured himself a glass of red wine, offering her one as well, an offer she refused.
She gazed at him helplessly as he sat at the kitchen table. She’d remembered the way his physical presence could affect her. She’d forgotten how much.
‘It’s awkward being here,’ she stammered, finally dropping into the chair opposite him and watching as he ate, his eyes flicking towards her every so often.
Leandro didn’t say anything. He thought that awkward didn’t begin to cover it, but the hand of fate worked in mysterious ways, and he wasn’t feeling uncomfortable with the situation at all.
Indeed, things were remarkably clear cut. Far clearer cut than they had been when they had been seeing one another a year and a half ago.
Then he had found himself, for the first time in his life, in a situation in which normal play had been suspended. The rules he had always applied to his life had taken a back seat and, even before his sister Cecilia had had her say, he had known that the relationship was entering unexplored territory. When he had first laid eyes on Abigail, he had known that he wanted her. Desire had hit him hard and fast and, never one to ignore the demands of his libido, he had done what he had always done, without beating round the bush or going down any nonsensical courtship route. He’d found her attractive and he’d wanted to bed her. A simple equation.
He hadn’t reckoned on her being a virgin and he wondered whether that had marked the beginning of all those subtle changes that had pulled him in and frankly terrified him at the same time.
She’d been cagey about her past and he hadn’t pressed her for detail, instinctively wanting to hang on to whatever safe ground he could. He hadn’t wanted her to start the whole confiding game, which always inevitably led to the sort of cloying situation that he found a huge turn-off. He’d sought to keep her at a distance because he could feel the compulsive drag of being pulled in and, subconsciously, that had seemed the safest way of fighting it.
He’d told himself that he wasn’t curious but, even while he’d been trying to hold her at arm’s length, he’d wanted to know everything about her, had wanted that act of possession.
Perhaps his sister had heard something in the way he had talked about Abigail down the phone. Why else would she have dug up all that dirt on her? He had known that Cecilia was possessive and he had always indulged that and understood the reason for it. He had been her anchor from the day she’d been born, but even so he had seen red when she had descended on his Manhattan apartment, clutching evidence of Abigail’s past, challenging him to continue seeing a woman who, if not an outright liar, had concealed the truth—and why else unless she was a gold-digger, playing the long game? He had walked away from the relationship without a backward glance. Problem was that his body hadn’t quite managed to forget her.
Which was why the woman had stayed in his head. Which was why, looking at her now, he could feel the slow burn of desire inside him.
She was unfinished business and he still wanted her. The blondes and eventually Rosalind had been sticking plaster over an open cut and now the sticking plaster had been ripped off. There was only one way the cut was going to be healed and that was to sleep for one last time with the woman who had delivered the damage.
Things were different now. He knew Abigail for who she was. Once upon a time, he had almost believed her to be the person she’d been pretending to be, but that was then. Now, he was in no danger of being sucked into anything.
‘It’s only awkward,’ Leandro drawled, ‘if you insist on dragging the past in. Personally, I’m the sort of guy who is happy to let bygones be bygones.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not interested in talking about why you did what you did.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Abigail muttered in a driven undertone. ‘Okay, so I didn’t tell you about my background because I didn’t want to put you off. Why is that so hard for you to understand? I’m human. You were everything I wasn’t and I couldn’t believe that you’d even looked in my direction. I didn’t want to spoil the moment and then...things started getting serious and I just never seemed to know when to sit you down and explain that you might have got the wrong idea of who I was...’
Leandro flushed darkly. ‘Things got serious for you,’ he corrected coolly.
Abigail nodded. ‘I won’t sit here and pretend that they didn’t,’ she told him. ‘I felt things for you and, the more I felt for you, the harder it seemed to start telling you about myself and my foster homes and what it was like growing up in them.’
Her voice had sunk to a whisper and Leandro grimly fought off any inclination to feel sympathy