Helen Bianchin - In The Spaniard's Bed

She had to force her voice to remain steady, otherwise it would betray her by shattering into a hundred pieces. ‘Sorry, but that won’t cut it.’

‘Do you know how close you walk to the edge of my tolerance?’

‘Don’t insult my intelligence by detailing a condition that has so many holes in it, even Blind Freddie could see through them!’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘No.’

He could walk away from the deal. It was what he should do. Twenty-three million dollars was no small amount of money, even if in the scheme of things it represented only a very small percentage of his investments.

He enjoyed the adrenalin charge in taking a worn-down company, injecting the necessary funds and making it work again.

‘What is it you want?’

It was no time to lose her bravado. ‘Something in writing detailing those nights, each comprising no more than twelve hours spent in your company, represents my sexual obligation to you, as covered by the term condition, and said obligation shall not be judged by my sexual performance.’ She took a deep breath, and released it slowly. ‘The original copy will be destroyed when you release funds in full into the Preston-Villers business account.’

She watched as he set up a laptop, keyed in data, activated the printer, proofread the printed copy, then attached his signature and handed her the page.

Cassandra read it, then she neatly folded the page and thrust it into her shoulder bag. Un-notarised, it wouldn’t have much value in a court of law. But it was better than nothing.

The melodic burr of his cellphone provided the impetus she needed to escape.

Diego spared a glance at the illuminated dial, and cut the call. He moved to the door, opened it, then he led the way out to the main foyer and summoned the lift.

‘Six-thirty, Wednesday evening,’ he reminded as the electronic doors slid open.

It nearly killed her to act with apparent unconcern, when inside she was a quivering mess. ‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure,’ Cassandra managed coolly as she depressed the appropriate button to take her down to ground level.

As a parting shot it lacked the impact she would have liked, but she took a degree of satisfaction in having the last word.

Two weeks from now she would have fulfilled Diego del Santo’s condition.

Three, no, four nights in his bed. She could do it…couldn’t she, and emerge emotionally unscathed?

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