At The Spaniard's Pleasure. Jacqueline Baird

life. ‘And don’t worry, I think you will love the meal. Greta is the best cook on the island.’ He smiled and lifted a hand casually to flick a strand of her hair over her shoulder and his darkening gaze trapped hers.

      She swallowed hard and had trouble speaking. ‘I’m sure you are right,’ she managed, tearing her gaze away from his and stepping towards the car.

      Liza slid quickly into the car with more haste than elegance, sinking into a seat that was a lot more comfortable than Nick’s Jeep. But when Nick moved in beside her she realised it was also a lot more intimate as a hard masculine thigh pressed against her own, and a long arm was casually flung around her shoulders yet again.

      ‘Nice car,’ she mumbled, intensely aware of his leashed strength, the subtle male scent of the man, and wondered for the umpteenth time what she was doing, playing with fire. But she had been doing that all day both physically and metaphorically, she realised with a wry smile.

      The villa turned out to be a magnificent building that oozed wealth and elegance. Nick introduced her to a middle-aged couple waiting in the entrance foyer, Greta and Paul. And beyond them she could see a glass wall that opened on to a floodlit swimming pool, she glimpsed tables and chairs and wondered if they were to eat outside. It wasn’t that warm.

      She lifted her puzzled gaze to Nick. ‘Are we eating outside?’

      ‘Dios! No.’ His ebony brows arched in surprise. ‘What you English think is warm we consider winter.’ And, taking her arm, he led her through into a massive room. ‘This is the main living area, but the dining room is more cosy,’ he said softly.

      Liza gazed around the vast room as he urged her across it. Soft deep sofas, exquisite antique furniture, glorious paintings on the walls, and vibrant flowers and plants—the place screamed money, and she was rapidly beginning to feel out of her depth.

      Nick pushed open another door, and Liza stopped dead one foot inside the room.

      A magnificent table about twenty feet long was set for two, and Greta and Paul were now standing by the table, smiling.

      ‘I’d hardly call this cosy!’ she exclaimed with a chuckle. ‘You could serve the Last Supper at that table and then some.’

      Nick’s mouth quirked at the corners in a grin at Liza’s stunned expression, and, slipping his arm around her waist, he led her forward. ‘I suppose it is a bit imposing; I hadn’t really noticed as I usually eat in the kitchen.’ He gave her waist a brief squeeze before setting her free, but stayed close to her side. He heard her breath catch and saw the deepening colour in her brilliant eyes, and allowed a small, satisfied smile to curve his lips before adding, ‘But I so rarely have anyone to dine here that Greta wanted to push the boat out, as you say.’

      Nick leant over slightly to say something to the other couple that Liza, although she spoke Spanish, didn’t catch. She watched as they left the room then Nick straightened up to his full, impressive height, and turned to face her again, pulling out a chair.

      ‘Please, Liza, sit down, and don’t look so wary; I can assure you, Paul and Greta won’t poison you.’

      It wasn’t the food Liza was worried about; it was much too hot in here, she told herself, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Nick. She reached for the edge of her shawl, and immediately Nick’s hand caught it and slipped it off her shoulders.

      ‘A little warm for you, Liza?’ he queried with the arch of a black brow.

      ‘Yes,’ she got out, having difficulty breathing as the backs of his knuckles brushed down over her breasts as he removed her shawl, but not by the blink of an eye did she let it show. Instead she sat down on the chair he offered and folded her hands primly in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms.

      Liza wasn’t afraid to be alone with Nick—in fact, if she was honest she liked the idea. She had enjoyed his company all day, more so than that of any other man she had ever met, and she was secretly flattered that he wanted to be alone with her.

      ‘Now, isn’t this nice?’ Nick remarked, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘So much more intimate than a restaurant, don’t you think?’ Shovelling on the charm by the bucket-load, he picked up the linen napkin in front of her and flicked it open.

      ‘I can do that.’ She reached for the linen.

      ‘But I want to,’ Nick said softly and, leaning forward, his dark eyes holding her startled blue, he spread the linen napkin over her lap, his hands deliberately smoothing the fabric over her stomach and thighs. ‘Greta is going to serve the meal in a minute.’ His glance roamed over her face and figure with obvious male approval that, had it been any other man, would have made her angry, but instead the lingering touch of his fingers on her thighs made her whole body tingle with excitement.

      ‘I am hungry, and I’m sure you are too,’ Nick drawled with silken emphasis.

      She tensed at the impact of his compelling dark gaze. Was it just food he was hungry for? Dear heaven, her own appetite had been seriously depleted by the erotic thoughts Nick aroused in her. She felt as if a thousand butterflies were partying in her stomach, and she tore her eyes away from his and cast a slightly panicked look around the room.

      What were her options? Get up and walk out? But that would be childish. Or stay and eat like a civilised woman? Suddenly she was no longer feeling quite so confident. But her mind was made up for her as Greta reappeared carrying a large silver tureen, followed by Paul carrying a bottle of champagne in a silver wine bucket. They both smiled at her.