A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring. Angela BissellЧитать онлайн книгу.
before.
Her colouring was striking, with a head-turning combination of Titian hair and extraordinary hazel eyes which were a fascinating blend of green and gold. Her features were strong and symmetrical, with bold cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide, generous mouth.
Not pretty by conventional standards, perhaps, but stunning nevertheless.
Abruptly he sat back, irritated at his unusual lack of focus. Jordan Walsh’s looks, however remarkable, were irrelevant. She was a problem to be handled—that was all. One he needed to contain until he understood what threat, if any, she posed. Just as his feelings about his birth mother would have to be shelved and examined at a later stage. He didn’t have time for distractions. He had a global corporation to run. A multimillion-dollar acquisition to negotiate—a major deal that at least one member of the board would relish seeing him fail to close.
He opened the drawer where he’d shoved the photo and the piece of paper she’d left on his desk last night. He picked up his phone to punch in the number she’d written down, but then suddenly changed his mind, slipped the paper and his phone into his jacket pocket and stood.
In the anteroom outside his office he paused by Lucia’s desk and checked his watch. It was ten-twenty a.m. ‘I’m heading out,’ he told her.
Her heavily made-up eyes blinked as if he’d said something unintelligible. She glanced at her computer screen. ‘But...you have a ten-thirty meeting with the Marketing Director.’
‘Reschedule it. And arrange for Juan and Fernando to meet me with the car downstairs straight away.’
Lucia gaped at him, nonplussed. ‘And your video call with Peter Reynaud at noon?’
‘I’ll be back in time for that,’ he said, because he had to be. His intended acquisition of Reynaud Industries took priority over everything.
Buttoning his jacket, he turned to go.
Lucia shot up from her chair, her expression vaguely panicked. ‘But where are you going?’
‘To deal with a problem,’ he replied, and strode towards the lifts, leaving his wide-eyed, slack-jawed secretary staring after him.
* * *
Barcelona was basking in the heat of a blazing sun beneath a glorious blue sky when Jordan emerged from the hostel just before eleven a.m. She’d risen late and then lingered over breakfast, chatting with a Canadian guy and a young German couple who’d wanted to ask her a bunch of questions about Australia.
Pausing on the pavement outside the hostel, she rummaged in her tote bag for her sunglasses and slid them on. She had a mild headache, and her ears still rang from the overloud music in the club last night, but at least she wasn’t suffering with a hangover. She’d had one tequila shot with the girls, then stuck with lime and soda water for the rest of the time.
The dancing had been fun, but the clubbing scene wasn’t really her thing. She’d only gone because the two Irish girls with whom she was sharing a room had invited her out, and the prospect of a few hours of deafening music and fun-loving company had appealed more than sitting alone feeling sorry for herself.
‘Senyorita Walsh?’
She looked up, startled, when she saw a burly man she didn’t know in a suit and dark glasses standing in front of her. ‘Yes?’
‘Senyor de la Vega wishes to speak with you,’ he said, and then gestured towards a vehicle sitting at the kerb. ‘Please get in, senyorita.’
Shifting her stunned gaze from the man to the SUV, Jordan wondered how she hadn’t noticed the vehicle sooner, given that it was bigger and shinier than any other in the street. Black paintwork and dark windows gave it a slightly sinister veneer, and she couldn’t see who, if anyone, was sitting inside it. Another man of solid build stood by the rear door, which sat open, waiting for her to climb in.
Her heart beginning to pound, she bounced her gaze back and forth between the two men and the tiny hairs on her arms lifted. They were strangers, asking her to get into a car, supposedly sent by a man she barely knew.
She backed away. ‘Actually... I—I have somewhere else to be right now... Maybe Mr de la Vega could call—hey!’
Suddenly the man’s meaty hand was wrapped around her arm. Her heart tripped with panic and her brain could scarcely compute what was happening before she was tugged forward and bundled unceremoniously into the back of the SUV. She sucked in her breath, ready to scream, but the sound died in her throat as her backside landed, rather inelegantly, on soft leather and her gaze fell on the man sitting farther along the seat.
‘Good morning, Ms Walsh.’
Her pulse spiked. Hastily she righted herself, dismayed to find when she looked down that her wraparound skirt had got twisted beneath her and was gaping open, exposing the length of one pale thigh all the way up to her crotch. A fierce blush scalded her cheeks.
Lips tightly pursed, she closed the offending split with an indignant tug. ‘I’m not sure it is a good morning, Mr de la Vega.’
The car door closed behind her, shutting her in. Making her acutely aware of the confined space and the potency of the man whose presence seemed to fill every inch of the luxurious interior.
Breathing deeply, she willed her heartbeat to slow and tried not to look as overheated and flustered as she felt. How did he do it? How did he look so cool and refined in his immaculate three-piece suit and tie when the day was stiflingly hot and everyone else was melting?
Not that she could entirely pin the blame for her stampeding pulse and all-over body-flush on the rising mercury or the few seconds of fright his men had given her. But she would not think about how ridiculously handsome Xavier de la Vega was. Or how he looked not only cool and urbane in his sleek designer suit but also supremely fit and virile.
One dark brow slanted up. ‘Late night?’
Striving for an air of dignified calm, she folded her sunglasses away and pushed back some strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail and fallen across her face. ‘Not particularly,’ she said, crossing her fingers at the tiny lie.
Technically it hadn’t been a late night but rather an extremely early morning when she’d finally collapsed into her narrow bunk bed in the hostel. As for her roomies—Lord knew what time they’d eventually crept in. They’d both still been fast asleep as of ten minutes ago, one of them lying face-down and fully clothed on top of the bedding. If the girl hadn’t been softly snoring, Jordan would have felt compelled to check that she was breathing.
She lifted her chin. ‘I was referring to the fact that I hadn’t planned on getting manhandled into a car this morning.’
He frowned. ‘You were hurt?’
For a second she was tempted to say yes, just to test his reaction, see if he was capable of demonstrating remorse, but she wasn’t that good a liar. ‘No,’ she said, because the man who’d held her had been strong, but not rough, and the only thing truly smarting was her pride. ‘But that’s beside the point.’
‘Which is...?’
She saw a flicker of movement at one corner of his mouth that looked suspiciously like amusement. ‘My point,’ she said, prising her gaze away from those firm lips, ‘is that this is a rather unorthodox way of meeting. You couldn’t have called me first?’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, but his tone and the eloquent shrug of his broad shoulders gave the impression he didn’t care one way or the other whether she did or not. ‘Given the way you came to my office in person last night, I assumed that you’d prefer face to face.’
What I’d really prefer is to wipe the superior look off your face.
The thought rushed into her head from out of nowhere, and the small surge of churlish pleasure she gained from it was quickly overshadowed by shame. She’d never hit another person in her life—had never been so much