Kate Hardy - The Spanish Consultant's Baby

‘The salmon’s good,’ she said. ‘It’s local—comes from the farm down the road.’

‘Hmm. Poached in white wine, with dill. Is that what you’re having?’

‘Er…yes.’

‘Then I’ll join you.’ He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Let me guess. You only ever have two courses—if that.’

She flushed. ‘Am I that transparent?’

‘You look after others, but you neglect yourself,’ he said.

‘Whereas you would have three courses, I suppose?’

‘Four,’ he said, ‘if you count the tapas before dinner.’

Her flush deepened. ‘Sorry. I’ve obviously brought you to the wrong place.’

‘What could be more delightful than a summer evening in England next to the river?’ he asked. ‘Good food, pleasant surroundings and good company.’

She hadn’t exactly been good company so far. She’d been downright surly with him—because she was still annoyed with him for manipulating her into having dinner with him.

‘Are we having wine?’ he asked.

‘Not for me, thanks. I’ll be driving home. But don’t let that stop you.’

He flicked the wine list. ‘No, I think I’ll stick to water, too.’

‘Nothing Spanish there?’ The crack came out before she could bite it back.

He smiled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little patriotic pride. We make good wines in Sevilla. Sherry, of course, plus Manzanilla and Montilla.’

‘You’re from Seville?’ From Andalucia. Andrew’s mother’s family had come from Castile. So maybe Ramón wasn’t another Andrew.

He nodded. ‘You know Sevilla?’

‘No.’ Andrew had never taken her to Spain. He’d fallen out with his late mother’s family many years before and the breach had been irreparable. In the early days she’d started learning Spanish in secret to surprise him, please him—but when she’d tried practicing her Spanish on him, he’d just criticized her accent and told her not to speak it in his house again.

His house. Not theirs.

Unlike her cottage, which he’d never set foot in.

Then she became aware that Ramón was talking about his home city.

‘Legend has it that Sevilla was founded by Hercules.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a beautiful city. The minaret of La Giralda, the cathedral, the Alcázar palace, the María Luisa park, the Triana bridge over the Guadalquívir, the narrow streets around the church of Santa Ana…And remember, it is the city of Carmen, Don Juan and Figaro. History, food, art…’ He waved his hands. ‘Sevilla has it all.’

He clearly adored his home city. She couldn’t help asking, ‘So why are you here?’ Why hadn’t he stayed at home in Seville?

‘Because there are work opportunities for me in England that simply aren’t there in Spain. And—’ He broke off. ‘May I order for us now?’

‘Fine.’

‘What would you like for dessert?’

‘I’ll pass, thanks.’

When he came back, he gave her a guilty smile. ‘I think you’re about to be angry with me.’

‘Why?’

‘There was a specials board by the bar. I ordered us dessert from it. But if you hate it, you’re under no obligation to eat it.’

Ordering for her without asking first—just like Andrew. And yet Ramón had offered her a choice. Take it or leave it, as she pleased. There would be no anger, no smouldering sulk that she’d gone against his wishes.

‘Am I that scary?’

She blinked. ‘I…Uh. No.’

‘For a moment you looked terrified.’

‘You must be seeing things.’ She wasn’t going to share those memories. Ever. ‘So where were you before you came to Brad’s?’

‘Sevilla. And before that London for six months. And Manchester and Birmingham before that.’

‘All in paediatrics?’

He nodded. ‘I like working with los niños. Children. What about you?’

‘I’ve always worked at Brad’s.’

‘No, I mean, why the children’s ward?’

Because it was the nearest she’d get to having children of her own. She forced the thought back. ‘I like working with children too,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s very rewarding.’

To her relief, their meal arrived and the subject changed naturally. ‘An excellent choice,’ Ramón said when he’d tasted the salmon. ‘And Jersey Royals. Mmm. I adore these.’

‘So you’re a foodie?’

‘Foodie?’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘Explain.’

‘It means a gourmet. Someone who likes good food.’

He nodded. ‘Life’s too short not to have the best when you can.’

A quick glance at his wrist told her that he meant it. His watch was a seriously expensive make. Then she noticed that his shirt was silk. And his suit was clearly designer cut. She doubted he could afford them on a doctor’s salary—even that of a consultant—so clearly his family had money, too.

So what was he doing out with her?

This wasn’t a date, she reminded herself. This was just an extension of work. She was obeying Pete’s memo to the letter.

Ramón seemed to sense that she was uneasy because he changed the subject, telling her more about his home city and the children he’d worked with. She’d just started to relax with him when the waiter cleared their plates and brought a small pottery container to the table. He lit a tea-light candle in its centre and Jennifer looked at Ramón. ‘What’s this?’

‘Wait and see.’ Mischief lurked in his eyes.

On cue, the waiter placed a bubbling bowl of white chocolate fondue on top of the tea-light, then brought a platter of tiny sponge cakes and strawberries with two forks, which Ramón appropriated immediately.

‘This is the nearest they had to chocolate and churros.’

‘Spanish pudding?’ she guessed.

‘No, that’s flan—what you would call crème caramel. Or a dish of sweet oranges. But we had a light meal tonight, so I thought we could get away with this.’

Definitely a killer smile, Jennifer thought. She needed coffee. Or a bucket of iced water thrown over her head. Something—anything—to stop the way her knees were turning to jelly, the way her body reacted to this man.

‘Here.’ He speared a strawberry on the long fork, dipped it in white chocolate and held it to her lips. ‘This is perfection.’

All the tables around them were full. They were in the middle of a very public place. So why did it feel so intimate? Why did it feel as if he was the only other person in the city besides her? And why did she feel that he was offering her something more than the strawberry—something much more personal?

The strawberry was definitely a mistake, Ramón thought, because the moment she bit into it, the sensual awareness in her eyes turned to sheer blind panic.

Why was she so afraid? Of him? But surely she knew he would never hurt her? Regretfully, he relinquished the fork. ‘English strawberries have a certain something. It’s like eating sunlight, don’t you think?’

Gradually, the panic in her eyes receded. Though he noticed that she didn’t eat anything else. ‘Do you dislike strawberries?’ he asked.

‘It’s not that. They’re lovely. I’m just…full.’

In other words, he’d pushed her so hard that she’d lost her appetite. And the guilt in turn made him lose his. He ignored the fondue and the cake and just ate the strawberries. ‘Too sweet,’ he said in response to her enquiring glance.

‘I thought all Spaniards had an incredibly sweet tooth?’

He smiled. ‘It’s the Moorish influence. I admit that, yes, I do have a weakness for sticky pastries made with honey. And proper hot chocolate—made the Spanish way.’

She pulled a face. ‘Sounds a bit sickly.’

‘If you have too much, yes. The trick is knowing when to stop.’

Wise advice—but advice that he couldn’t heed. He knew he should stop this now, leave Jennifer be…But he couldn’t. He wanted more. Much more. ‘Coffee?’