The Billionaire Tycoon's One Night Baby

The Villa belonged to him. "I'll do whatever it takes to get it back," he vowed. The Kanes obviously knew that. And that was probably why Jamie, the current heir, ignored Marco's calls and emails.

Marco stared at the once magnificent, palatial inspired building, its tired turrets grey against the blue summer sky. Anger flooded through him as he took in the peeling paint, cracked windows and crumbling stairway. Villa de Sancha-Castille had been in his family for generations until his grandfather was conned out of their precious ancestral home by an unscrupulous, so-called friend — William Kane, Jamie Kane's grandfather. He clenched his fists, shutting his eyes. A gentle breeze infused with the scent of brine teased him out of his dark mood. Marco refused to budge. His jaw tightened as he stared at the Villa — the same Villa that destroyed his family, ruined their lives, and left him an orphan. All because Grandfather couldn’t give up gambling.

Despite a handful of bad memories, the Villa once served at the Sancha-Castille holiday home. His attempts to arrange a meeting with Jamie Kane, the current heir to the property, had gone in vain. He shook his head, disgusted that some people showed no respect towards common business etiquette. He muttered something under his breath in his native tongue. Most people around the world jumped at the chance to do business with Salvador Marcos Sancha-Castille. He realized now Jamie Kane wasn’t most people.

He tore his eyes of the Villa and glanced at the Indian Ocean. His grandfather, Rodriguez Sancha-Castille often reminisced about the serene, uninterrupted view of the Ocean from the Villa and the precious moments he'd spent entertaining family and friends at the Villa until his death…

Marco sighed. His chest tightened. He really needed to stop obsessing over his grandfather’s loss. His breathing quickened as his temper rose, heating his skin. He loosened the buttons on his coat. Apart from a few neat shots of brandy, there was little else that would calm him down. Or so he thought until he glimpsed a wild-haired woman walking determinedly towards him in the next instant. Even the ocean paused beating against the rocky shoreline when he spotted her. She hurried down the street dressed in a close-fitting black dress that ended mid-thigh. His gaze strayed to her lightly tanned skin and endless legs — legs any man would want wrapped tight around him. Desire flared up instantly inside him. She was a vision of ice flashing down the deserted street in the scorching summer heat. Delicious heat enveloped him replacing his earlier, toxic anger. Yes, she was a possible antidote for his foul mood.

"Dios mío!" he whispered. Her raven hair bounced in the light breeze. He noticed flashing emerald green eyes as she neared him, and, strawberry-colored lips. The self-assured sway of her hips and her flat midriff set his blood on fire. He admired her beauty while she stomped down the sidewalk towards him, oblivious of anyone but herself. He could tell she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings from her unwavering stride. She could be on some sort of mission, he assumed. Perhaps she'd discovered the infidelities of her lover and was on her way to confront him, Marco thought with a wicked smile. Why else was she in such a furious rush? After all, a woman as beautiful and sexy as her couldn’t possibly be single. He stepped in front of her. He didn’t understand what inspired his spontaneous reaction. He wasn’t one to get in the way of a woman in a rush. All he knew was that he wanted to slow her down and, find out the reason for her troubled disposition.

"Buenas tardes," he greeted, before realizing that her hypnotic effect forced him to speak in his native tongue. Something he didn’t usually do in a foreign country. Then again there was a first time for everything. "Good afternoon," he added quickly.

The woman walked right into him and stumbled. Her soft body slammed against his hard, muscled one. His skin tingled as he breathed in her scent. He wrapped his arms around her before she fell and held her against him. Such a stark contrast, he thought, day and night. Light and dark. Hot and cold. And instead of thanking him for saving her from falling, the green-eyed beauty stung him with a soft slap.

"Que demonios!" Marco grabbed her hands, appreciative of their softness. "Is this how you say thank you?"

"For what?" the woman demanded. "You jumped out in front of me to distract me and you expect me thank you?" Two spots of red rose high in either side of her cheek bones.

"I did not jump out in front of you," Marco corrected, watching amusedly while she tried to wrench her hands free form his secure grasp. "I intended to greet you." He smiled at her graciously.

"You?" She hissed, shooting him a look of total disdain, "intended to greet me? Did I invite a greeting in any way? Do I even know you?"

He blinked. His smile faded. His blood cooled. "You should have watched where you were going," he reminded her, loosening his hold on her hands. "Technically, you walked into me."

"Look, I am in a hurry. I do not have time to stand here arguing here with you?" Her voice shook as if she was trying really hard not to cry. She pulled herself free from his embrace and stepped backwards.

"There is no need to argue, Querida." A part of him softened. Instinct almost forced him to pull her into his arms and comfort her. Who’d upset this beautiful creature?

She blinked furiously and her eyes flashed again. Is it a warning or anger? he wondered as the need to hold her in his arms and comfort her strengthened with every moment.

"I am not your Querida," she whispered through clenched teeth, "You better watch your tongue. Now if you will excuse me." She glared at him.

He studied her for a few seconds. Most women melted in his presence. They cooed and smiled and batted their eyelashes flirtatiously. Unlike this little vixen standing in front of him. Still, he could do the gentlemanly thing and be polite to her.

"Maybe I can help," he offered in a soft voice. "Perhaps I can drop you off at your destination?"

“What?" Her eyes blazed. She pointed a finger at his face. "Are you trying to proposition me?"

"Proposition you?" he repeated, shocked. He raised his hands in mid-air, stunned at her assumption. "Querida, I assure you that isn’t my intention at all. I am simply trying to help you. I am a decent man."

"Why do you want to help me?" she folded her hands across her chest.

"Because I can," he replied with a small sigh. "Perhaps I could take you out for coffee and properly introduce myself to you seeing as we got off to a shaky start." He smiled.

Her eyes widened. She extended her arm and pointed in his face again. A deeper, primate part of him stirred at her gesture.

"Maybe that line works on other women, but it won't work on me," she said.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his custom made, black, Armani pants and shook his head.

"I know all about men like you," the raven-haired vixen continued, wagging her finger, "you think you can sweet-talk a woman, take her out for coffee and expect sexual favors in return." Her face reddened with each passing second. “Well, I have news for you. I am not some dumb bimbo waiting for a man to wine and dine me so get that fantasy out of your head.”

"You really got it all wrong," he replied softly, removing his hands from his pocket. How had an innocent encounter on his part transformed into this heated confrontation?

"No, I haven’t. You men are all the same."

Did she have to punctuate every sentence with her wagging finger? "I assure you I never intended to proposition you." He pressed his lips together before he muttered anything else. How dare she compare him to any common man? He was extraordinary. Heck he'd survived a childhood so bleak others would have given up and openly welcomed death. The lonely years he'd spent at a run-down orphanage flashed in his mind reminding him of the disgusted, pitiful way the rest of the community looked down on him during his dark times. He'd risen from the ashes and soared. Yet here stood the Queen of Winter comparing him to the rest of world's men. Tsk. Tsk. The women he'd wined, dined, and bedded assured him of irresistible attraction, his impeccable manners in the bedroom and, his incredible love-making skills. Oh, she was so incredibly wrong. Her one accusation altered his temperament in the most tantalizing way. Yes, she was right about one thing though. Her temper certainly fueled his desire and if she continued arguing with him he might just proposition her.

He lifted his hands politely to assure he had no such intention despite the sexual heat spreading through his body.

"Don’t say another word," she warned, "or . . ."

He didn’t want to upset her further. It was best to simply walk away.

“I am sorry for disturbing you,” he apologized. “Please forgive me.”

***

Although he'd been born and raised in Spain, he'd spent the greater part of his life travelling abroad. He'd completed his tertiary education in England and launched his first airline in the United States of America. He was only in South Africa for a few weeks, to claim what was rightfully his and leave victorious — not to get caught up in a web of scandal. He shook his head. He didn’t need that kind of complication in his life. Especially before he met the trustee who'd name the price for his reacquisition of Villa de Sancha-Castille. He jumped into his rented Ferrari and sped off to his temporary home.

His hotel suite overlooked an untouched section of the Indian Ocean. It wasn’t as lavish as suites in New York or London, but it was good enough. Marco admired the view from his open plan lounge. He'd wanted a view like this so that he wouldn’t forget his ultimate goal during his brief stay here. Only the Villa De Sancha-Castille offered an equally splendid view of the Indian Ocean. The clear blue sea glistened like a jewel in the summer sun. This was the perfect weather to chill out on the beach, as the youngsters in these parts were fond of saying. He threw his coat on a chair. His shirt followed. If all went well he'd be admiring the Indian Ocean from Villa de Sancha-Castille in a few days. If? He paused his thoughts. There was no if about him about acquiring the Villa. His family's honor depended on it. And he knew damn well that the current heir to the property, Jamie Kane, was broke. He'd done his homework, his research and come up with an offer that nobody in their right frame of mind would refuse. And lastly, Salvador Marcos Sancha-Castille always got what he wanted. It was that attitude that helped him work his way out of the slums and into Wall Street. Long nights of hard work didn’t faze him. People who thought their friendship with him meant a lifetime of privileges irked him.

He unzipped his pants, removed his socks and shoes, and headed into the shower. He was ready for next week's meeting with Kane's trustee. By the end of next week's meeting, the Villa would be his. The only thing standing in his way was a mysterious clause Kane's grandfather explicitly included in his will when he'd bequeathed his property to Jamie. The trustee, Eric Anderson, wouldn’t divulge any details. His investigators had managed to unearth that exclusive little detail after months of long nights and hard work.

"I assure you, Sir, there is absolutely no way we can sell the property to you," Eric said during last week's telephone conversation.

"I've heard rumors that there is a possible exclusion to the clause," Marco replied.

"I assure you that there is nothing of that sort." Eric sounded flustered and ended the call not long after, "Mr. Kane was quite specific about the conditions relating to the Villa. It simply cannot be sold."

Marco smiled to himself beneath the sharp jets of water beating down on him. Next week's meeting would reveal the truth. The current condition of his grandfather's palatial holiday home on South Africa's east coast, KwaZulu-Natal, broke his heart. His temper shifted. No, this was not the time to get emotional. Once he regained ownership of the Villa, he'd allow himself the opportunity to feel anger and whatever else he wanted. For now, he needed to focus. Focus on forgetting about the afternoon and the raven-haired hellcat he'd encountered outside the Villa. He shook his head. Where did that come from? More specifically, how dare she invade his mind? She wasn’t of any importance to him — not after the way she'd brushed off his apology. The women he bedded were far more well-mannered and cultured than the feral like woman who'd slapped him. She even possessed the eyes to match her smoldering temper. He preferred gentle, feminine creatures that smiled and respected men. In turn he cherished their beauty and showered them with passion beyond their wildest imaginations. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the ill-mannered woman he'd met outside his grandfather's Villa wasn’t that type. Although he could well tame her in his bed if she allowed him. He could seduce her too, he thought with a small smile, if he ever ran in to her again. Nothing was impossible for Marco Sancha-Castille. He pictured her mane of hair spread on his pillow, her gleaming eyes flashing with a warning of a different kind, her rose bud mouth uttering his name, her soft, tender lips against his. . .

Estupendo.

He'd grown hard over a woman he didn’t even know. He didn’t need her or any other woman. Not now. He could not afford any distractions. He needed a clear mind before Monday's meeting. His priority was buying the villa back. The restoration of the physical building would also serve to reinstate his family's lost pride and honor.

His thoughts strayed to Jamie. The unfortunate young man who couldn’t hold onto the Villa even if his life depended on it. Marco would see to it that the young man was comfortably compensated. His people hadn’t been able to dig out much information about the Villa's current owner. Not that it affected him in any way. Jamie Kane didn’t know what to expect in next week's meeting. Marco intended keeping things that way. It was best to catch him off guard. One thing Marco was sure of was that he wasn’t leaving the trustee's board room without the Villa safely in his pocket.

He dressed in a pair of custom-made Calvin Klein jeans, an equally expensive matching t-shirt and, Nike sneakers. He paused in front of the mirror. The reflection bore no resemblance to the eight-year-old child who'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Destiny had reduced him to an orphan in the blink of an eye. He was old enough to remember his family's loss and the two summers spent at the Villa de Sancha-Castille.

Kane's grandfather was responsible for his unfortunate childhood and the events leading to his parent's double suicide. His mouth tightened. He'd see to it that every surviving member of the Kane family bore the brunt of his revenge. But tonight, he'd enjoy himself, meet his childhood friends, indulge in the best the resort-like east coast offered and maybe, spend the night in the arms of a . . . hellcat. How would she respond to him in bed? Perhaps she'd claw his back and, bite his shoulders. Or would she take charge and ride him into submission? He wouldn’t put it past her and maybe he'd even fulfill her fantasy — only after he'd satiated his own desire for her.

Damn it, Marco. What is wrong with you? How can you possibly want a woman who insulted you? He pondered over the answer on his way out. Women did not belong in his life. He could entertain them for one night, two nights, a month at the longest. After that they became clingy, sentimental, and demanded things he'd vowed to never think of. Like marriage, a family, babies . . . the things that brought countless men throughout the world ongoing stress and pain. He'd already decided he didn’t want any sex until after Monday's meeting. So why did his mind continuously stray to the sexy woman dressed in black? He looked forward to the late afternoon. His old friends arranged an evening of food and entertainment at a private race track on Millionaire's Mile, a prime coastal stretch — home to Kwa-Zulu Natal's wealthiest residents. They'd discussed the benefits of an adrenaline rush via a lengthy conference call last night and agreed to burn some rubber tonight on their private race track. He, Philippe, and Roberto had known each other since that fateful day his life fell apart. They'd grown up as brothers bonded by the loss of their families, in dingy orphanages and, stuck up for each other in school. They'd studied their asses off to earn scholarships and then gone on to build their empires. Not bad for a trio of orphans nobody wanted, Marco thought. Phillipe chose architecture and owned a million-dollar construction company. And as was the trend these days, Phillipe also hosted his own television show on risky renovations that aired throughout the world. Few entrepreneurs could compete with Roberto's software and mobile applications development empire. Roberto took the social media world by storm and continued to grow his business with each new day. Their friendship only strengthened over the years and deepened their bond. Their tastes also evolved. Expensive drinks now replaced the hot chocolate they'd once revered. They didn’t see each other as often but they often communicated through emails, phone calls and instant messaging. Not one of them had married yet. Which was exactly the way they wanted things to be. Marco smiled as he pulled up in front of the race track, imagining the greeting that awaited him.

Philippe opened every one of their precious evenings with champagne and a toast — "Here's to our victories, in the boardroom and in the bedroom."

"Get your ass out of the car and in here." Roberto leaned out of the window on the third floor and grinned at his best friend, a bottle of beer in one hand.

"I was about to," Marco called back. He locked the car and proceeded inside the restaurant they'd hired for the rest of the evening. The country styled ambience, soft lighting, open views of the ocean and rough brick walls reminded him of his new home in Spain. Although he'd grown accustomed to designer clothes and expensive sports cars he still appreciated simple luxuries, wide open spaces and serene views when entertaining. Much like his late grandfather's family gatherings at the Villa.

"How are things with you?" Roberto asked once they'd hugged and exchanged pleasantries.

"Good," Marco lied. He didn’t want to tell his friends just yet that he'd failed to secure a meeting with Jamie Kane. Or that he'd been slapped by a leggy raven-haired witch earlier.

Philippe popped open the champagne ending their conversation. It didn’t matter where in the world they were. These moments together were much needed and intensified their bond. Plates of flame grilled meat, spicy baked beans, salads, and chutneys filled one of tables. The cushioned, wooden chairs were sturdy and comfortable enough. Evenings such as this one did not require waiters. They preferred to serve themselves. The lessons their early years taught them would never be forgotten.

"Here's to our victories —" Phillipe began.

"In the bedroom," Roberto continued with a smile.

"And in the boardroom," Marco finished. Eric Anderson's boardroom.

"How's the new yacht?" Roberto asked Marco.

Marco grinned. "Fabuloso. And yours?"

Roberto winked. "Huge. Yours has nothing on mine."

Roberto and Philippe burst into laughter. Marco watched them unable to fully join in on the moment. Damn, his desire to acquire the Villa was affecting him far more deeply than he'd admitted.

"When were you planning to let us in on your latest secret?" he asked, fixing his gaze on Philippe, before his friends noticed anything amiss with him.

Phillippe poured himself a shot of brandy. "I bought myself a little island."

"Privacy issues for your little indiscretions," Marco teased, sipping his champagne. He really wasn’t in the mood to drink tonight. Then what are you in the mood for? He asked himself while his friends laughed at his little joke.

Taming a wildcat.

He gulped down the remaining champagne.

"Any news on the Villa?" Roberto asked.

He tensed, recalling his earlier encounter with the leggy beauty outside the Villa, then shook his head. "It's almost as if it is the best kept secret this side of the world."

Phillippe laughed. "Well, you're the one who's fond of saying, everything happens for a reason. Perhaps you were not meant to know any more than you do now."

"Perhaps," Marco agreed, "or else I might have forcefully taken the Villa away."

"What time do the races begin?" Roberto asked, changing the topic.

"In two hours or so," Phillippe answered. "We should start eating."

Marco nodded, following his friends to the buffet styled table. Lucky the choice of cuisine was light on the stomach. He couldn’t race on a heavy gut.

"I've invited a few chicas." Phillippe’s eyes shone once they were seated, plates heaped.

"A few. It's more like an army," Roberto teased.

Marco raised his eyebrows. "Can they race?"

Roberto chuckled at his question. "No seas tonto."

"I'm not being silly at all, Rob. It's a logical question. There's a race and I want to know if there are worthy competitors. That is all."

"They're worthy enough for my bed." Phillipe winked.

Marco shook his head. "I have no desire to indulge in sex."

"What?" Roberto asked, shocked. "Since when does Salvador Marcos Sancha-Castille have no need for sex?"

"Especially since you're the one who's always defending the health benefits of sex," Phillipe reminded him.

"Since I need to be focused," Marco replied, rearranging the food on his plate. Images of the hellcat he'd kissed earlier flashed in his head. The sweet taste of her lip gloss filled his mouth.

"Sex is great way to focus," Roberto teased, "Seduce one of the Kanes and get them to hand over the property to you."

Marco shook his head, but the wildcat's imprint remained. "I know of only one Kane. And it's a man."

"Oh, I don’t see you getting lucky there," Roberto replied with a light laugh and continued eating.

Phillip laughed. Marco focused on rearranging the food on his plate and hoped it would drive the Ice Princess's face out of his mind.

***

"How dare he touch me?" Jamie stomped down the street and didn’t turn around. "I ought to charge him, sue him." To do that she needed his name, some sort of identification. She spun around. And there was no sign of the tall, golden-eyed stranger with the physique of an ancient God. Her heart raced at the thought of him. His scent clung to her nostrils filling her body with the smell of him. She recalled his strength when he'd held her and shivered. Everything about him suggested that he was a man who possessed a woman. She'd sensed it in his grasp, in his brief kiss and in his voice. But Jamie Kane wasn’t the type of woman who easily fell for a man. No matter how sexy and good looking he happened to be.

She glared at the Villa. It remained a constant source of stress and insult in her life. How much more would the Villa continue mocking her? She tore her gaze off the run-down building and furiously headed to her modest, two-bedroomed apartment a few minutes away. She banged the creaking door shut behind her. She unzipped her dress and tossed it on the patched, second-hand couch. The day turned out quite differently from what she'd planned — relaxing on the beach, reading a book, and forgetting about her troubles for a while. She didn’t want to be reminded of the monumental bankruptcy she faced just for a few moments. Villa de Sancha-Castille needed urgent repair. Only a handful of guests had checked in at the Villa in the last few months. And it was more than halfway through the year. The bank rejected her latest loan application. She'd run out of options. Unless she didn’t book out the Villa for the rest of the year, she faced bankruptcy. Her salary wasn’t enough to meet her personal expenses and the expenses of the Villa. Why, oh why, had she inherited Grandfather's debt-ridden burden? Could life get any worse?

Damn. Having no family had its disadvantages but being born a woman sucked even more. If only there was a crazy old millionaire aunt she could turn to for some financial assistance. Unfortunately, the only family she knew off wanted nothing to do with her. Jamie refused to cry at that last thought. She kicked off her hi heels and stomped into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and stared at the almost empty shelves. Pretty soon she'd have nothing to eat, she thought, pouring the last of the orange juice and tossing the empty bottle into the trash can. She drank the juice, rinsed the glass, and made her way to her bedroom. She sank onto the soft bed while her mind went over today's events in sequence.

She'd awoken this morning with every intention of spending her day's leave on the beach, reading a book and forgetting about her unfortunate plight for a few hours. Alistair Campbell, the latest bank manager she'd approached had interrupted her plans with a single phone call. She'd ditched her plans expecting good news.

"There's no hope for those ruins," Alistair Campbell, the bank manager at Grundley's Reserve Bank informed her just after lunch. "I suggest you get rid of it."

"Absolutely not!" What was the point in explaining that to a sourpuss who didn’t understand she was bound by strict stipulations and couldn’t sell the Villa even if her life depended on it?

Alistair was unfazed by the sudden hardness in her voice.

"A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be short of willing business partners," he'd gone on to say with a suggestive leer.

"Only a drain rat like you can come up with such a disgusting solution," she'd replied. She stormed out of the bank manager's stuffy office and onto the street.

I'd have received a loan if I was a man, she thought, staring at the broken ceiling fan. The world may have evolved but most people were still sexist idiots.

Besides, getting rid of the Villa wasn’t that easy. Her Grandfather's will had legal stipulations that she couldn’t go against. And one of them was that she couldn’t sell the place. She was stuck with it until the day she died. She'd fall into ruin along with the once magnificent Villa. Eric Andersen could arrange for a loan. Jamie knew that much. But he'd refused her on the grounds that "she was fresh out of college and did not have the necessary exposure to such intricate business dealings". Grandfather had also left behind a treasure chest of valuables that could be used as surety for a loan totaling at least a million bucks. For some reason, nobody — not even the trustees could touch it. The contents of the will were a secret. Perhaps Grandfather expected her to marry someone. She shuddered. No, Grandfather couldn’t have been that crazy.

"I bet things would've been different if I'd been born a man," she told her reflection in the mirror. Yes, things would most certainly be easier. And people would actually listen to her. Like the clients who still owed her money for running mega successful online marketing campaigns. Her online marketing business would have been a success if she demanded money up-front from clients. Maybe then she'd have enough money to pay off Grandfather's debts and repair the Villa. But they ignored her calls and emails, and she didn’t have money to take on a lawyer to demand her payment. She took on a job instead. She threw on a baggy t-shirt and yoga pants. Pretty soon she'd be forced to move out. Of course she could move into the Villa. The master bedroom, though in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, was habitable. She'd spent her college years in worse residences. She'd survive living in the Villa until she worked something out. If she managed to work something out.

Her phone burst into song. Jamie glanced at the screen. Anna's name flashed on the screen. Her friendship with Anna survived high school, teenage crushes, adulthood, and financial woes.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hey, Jamie, what are your plans for tonight?" Anna asked.

Jamie shrugged. "Nothing. I've had a crap day."

Anna laughed on the other end. "Let's un-crap it." Jamie imagined her naught expression. "Boy, do I have plans for us."

"Us?" Jamie repeated.

"Yes, me, you and, Katie," Anna replied. "There's a race tonight. And guess what, rumor has it that there's a trio of hot, Latino hunks around."

Latino? Her temper flared immediately. Her mind flashed back to the arrogant Latino she'd run into earlier. His Spanish expressions gave away his nationality. Her blood heated up. He sure thought a lot of himself, bumping into her and then propositioning her. Goosebumps prickled her skin. The brief encounter lasted less than a few minutes, but she recalled every moment – the feel of his body against hers, his warm, firm lips, and his unmistakable strength.

Stop it, Jamie. He was just like all the other men she'd known. Her father who'd abandoned her — a coward who couldn’t face up to his responsibilities. Her teachers who told her girls couldn’t be world leaders and scientists. Her trustee who wouldn’t come clean with her on the secret clauses Grandfather included in his will. And the two-faced bank manager who didn’t trust her enough to grant her a loan.

Perhaps it was her recent foray into esotericism that brought the Spaniard into her path. All this thinking about a wealthy savior who'd bail her out of the bankruptcy she'd inherited. His expensive suit, silk shirt, heavy gold watch and thick gold chain with a cross pendant suggested wealth. As did his self-assured gaze and the confidence with which he'd held her.

"Jamie? Are you there?" Anna's voice drew her back to the present.

"Yeah, I am." She sighed.

"So are you coming or not?" Anna asked, "It will be a great chance for you to network. Maybe you will even meet more clients and by that I mean, paying clients."

Jamie sighed. Anna was right. Any opportunity was good enough to network. "Which track?" Jamie asked half-heartedly.

"Millionaire's Mile private race track." Anna squealed. "I'm sure the place will be crawling with drop dead sexy hunks."

Jamie shook her head. "Is that all you think about?"

"Well it has been a while since I got any action between the sheets." Anna giggled.

Jamie was about to decline Anna's offer. Until she replayed what her friend had said. Sex. Yes. That was the answer to her problems right now. Sex was a natural solution to stress. Right? She'd read that somewhere. Cosmopolitan? Elle? Maybe that was what she needed tonight. Hot sex with a stranger. It wouldn’t solve her financial crisis but at least it would keep her mind of the Villa for a few hours.

"Me too." If luck favored her then she'd meet a few millionaire investors and also bed one.

"I'll pick you up in an hour," Anna said before ending the call.

The Latino stranger continued haunting her. The more she thought about him, the more her blood boiled. He'd kissed her. Her face flamed. What kind of man just kissed a woman in this day and age? Heck she ought to report him to the police. Only, she realized, she didn’t even know his name. She shook her head. She wouldn’t allow him to get away if she ever ran into him again. His rugged face, his bow shaped mouth and golden eyes were etched into her memory. God help him if he ever ran into her again. What will you do? She questioned herself, kiss him or slap him again? Dammit! Why did her hormones always add in the sexual factor? Her phone rang disrupting her thoughts. She glanced at the screen. She didn’t recognize the number and let the call go through voicemail.

"I might as well get ready for tonight," she told herself. No amount of worrying in the world was enough to change her situation with the Villa or the stranger who'd unnerved her.

Jamie sat on the edge of her bed and contemplated what to wear. It was an age-old question that plagued women the world over. But for someone who survived on the bare necessities that extended to her wardrobe, it was a serious concern. Especially if she hoped to mingle with millionaires tonight — and run into one she could have mind-blowing sex with and forget about everything for a few lust-filled moments. She settled on a flare denim skirt and a tight, black vest that didn’t need a bra. She completed her look with a pleather, bomber jacket and thigh high boots. She wore her black hair loose and applied deep, red lipstick. There wasn’t much need for more makeup. Well, if she planned to fall asleep in the arms of a sexy stranger, she wasn’t going to have much time to remove her makeup, was she?

***

Anna arrived in an exactly an hour. Jamie stared open mouthed at her.

"Did you forget to put your clothes on?"

Anna laughed and struck a pose. Her red-gold curls framed her oval face accentuating her sharp, green eyes and regal nose. Her skimpy gold shorts revealed her butt cheeks and the bra top she wore did little to cover her breasts. "This is how you lure a millionaire into your bed," she whispered. Sky high heels completed her dangerously revealing attire.

"You’re crazy," Jamie said.

"Life is too short not to take chances. Anyway you don’t look too bad yourself," Anna complimented with a wink. "If I was you, I'd hike that skirt up a little."

Jamie shook her head. "Where’s Katy?"

"Her boyfriend caught a cold." Anna rolled her eyes. "You know how men get. So she stayed behind to take care of him."

Jamie laughed.

"We should get going," Anna suggested, "I thought we should go out for drinks first — you know just to loosen up a bit and relax before we get in on the action."

"Sounds like a good idea." Jamie followed Anna to her beat up ford hatchback. The back window was taped up with plastic from a recent near-robbery.

"Promise me, you will have fun tonight, Jamie. I know how hard things have been for you lately." She squeezed Jamie's hand before unlocking her car. "Trust me, sex has a way of relieving stress like you wouldn’t believe."

That is exactly what I need, Jamie thought, sitting inside the car. She was grateful when Anna played her favorite CD on the way to Stealers, Anna's favorite bar. Jamie shivered a little when Anna parked outside the bar. The parking lot wasn’t as full. Undoubtedly the regulars were at Millionaire's Mile.

"Are you cold?" Anna asked.

Jamie shook her head. "No, it’s just that I haven’t been to the bar in a while." Heck the last and only time she'd set foot inside a bar was at Anna's insistence back in university. She'd worked part-time jobs back then and never found the time to party. Fun and Jamie usually never went in the same sentence. Or even on the same page.

Anna laughed. "Oh, Jamie. It isn’t that bad. Trust me once you’re inside you will forget the rest of the world exists."

Jamie nodded and followed Anna inside the bar, conscious of dozens of pairs of eyes following their every move. She was used to drawing attention from clients and business partners. Not this kind of lustful attention. She was grateful when they left half an hour later.

***

Phillippe’s excellent renovation skills was evident in the floor layout. He’d converted the bottom floor private bar and poker room into a night club. It was a stark contrast to the country-styled restaurant they'd dined in upstairs. Marco studied the scene from the elaborate second floor landing. Waiters moved around replenishing drinks. Expensive lighting lit the club in daylight. Exclusive, imported tiles covered the floor. The waitresses flashed their little scraps of underwear beneath their tiny white, frilled dresses every now and then. Music thumped in the back ground. A popular DJ, flown in especially for tonight's occasion, welcomed the guests. A few women were already gyrating suggestively on the raised dance floor. They'd begun arriving from 8 p.m. Marco sighed, scanning the sparse crowd. Outside, the once quiet parking lot hummed with activity. The atmosphere was tense with anticipation. The first race was due to begin in a few minutes. So what was he looking for? Not what, who, he corrected himself, fixing his gaze on the busy entrance. A leggy blonde dressed in leather pants and a sequined bra sauntered in through the steel framed entrance. She was followed by a red-head in a mini-skirt. Frustration welled up inside him. A waiter offered him a drink. Wine, caviar, whiskey – none of these things could fill this strange, burning void within him.

"No, thank you." Not just yet. He begged the Heavens to make her to show up tonight. He hardly expected her to dine in a tame environment – one where she would have to keep her hands delicately on her lap until food was served. No. The hellcat wouldn’t survive in a controlled space. She needed to snarl and lash out at anyone she dared, anyone who showed the slightest interest in her. What kind of woman was she? A witch? A sorceress? Or, he thought wickedly, the devil's Angel. Whatever she was, she definitely didn’t fit the type he usually met. And perhaps that's why deep in his heart he knew she wouldn’t show up here tonight no matter how much he begged the Gods to bring her here. Still thoughts of her intrigued him, haunted him, and taunted him. He wondered why she'd been so upset.

"Marco, there you are." Phillipe placed one hand across his shoulder and led him to a table on the far end. Extravagant crystal lights hung in glittering drops from the ceiling.

Marco sighed silently. I might as well spend quality time with my brothers, he told himself. Tomorrow they'd jet off to different corners of the world to close more business deals. He could think about the hellcat then, possibly even hunt her down and try to make up for their earlier, disastrous meeting.

"Marco – where were you hiding?" Roberto questioned once they were all seated.

Marco shrugged. "I was checking out the place."

"And what do you think?" Phillipe asked.

"It's –" he didn’t want to insult his amigo's efforts. "Amazing." Americans used that word a lot —now he understood why. It helped when one was at a loss for words. Or obsessed with a stranger who hadn’t even acknowledged him.

Roberto stopped a waiter and ordered three martinis. Marco stared at the drink once it was in front of him. It wasn’t what he needed now. So what do you need? A tiny voice asked.

A mane of black hair flashed in his mind. His blood stirred. Of course. The cat-eyed enchantress was responsible for the unquenchable hunger inside him. It was she who'd infused his dull day with life. And only she could appease his insatiable thirst. Six hours had passed since their encounter, and he remembered it as if had occurred a few seconds ago. The passing time only intensified his need for her. His mouth watered when he recalled the sweet taste of her lips. He nearly gave himself a hard on imagining her in his arms. Not just holding her — he wanted to kiss her hard until she groaned against him. He didn’t want to give that beautiful mouth any chance to talk. Better to keep her occupied — moaning his name and groaning in pleasure. He wouldn’t give her any reason for tears. No, he'd insist she tell him everything that lead to their tempestuous meeting then he'd deal with the person who'd brought tears to her beautiful eyes. He'd allow her to vent her frustration on him, do whatever she wanted with him to ease her wild temper. He hardened instantly as an image of her straddling him formed in his mind.

"Marco?" Roberto's voice cut into his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

He'd missed the toast. Undoubtedly his friends proposed a toast to making the most of the scintillating evening ahead. Marco raised his glass to his lips. "Yes," he replied before taking a sip. No amount of alcohol would satiate him tonight. He had to find her. Whoever she was, wherever she was. He wouldn't rest until she was in his bed, under him, writhing and groaning and biting his shoulder.

"Who is she?" Phillipe teased, "the one who's got you smiling like a kid?"

Marco raised his eyebrows. He was smiling? he hadn’t even been conscious of it. "Nobody." It was a lie. It was somebody. Someone who's dared slap him and lit an insatiable need deep inside him. "Liar," Roberto stated. "We all know how you react when you got a woman on your mind."

Marco shook his head. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"What's her name?" Phillipe stopped a waiter for another drink.

What was her name? Marco wondered. Was she a Jane. No that name didn’t suit her. Emily. Nope. Jessica, Lucy, Kathryn. No. No. No. He was certain the woman who haunted his mind didn’t have a plain name.

"I will let you know once I find out," he assured his friends.

Phillipe and Roberto burst into laughter.

"So you’re meeting women on a need-to-know basis now, eh?" Phillipe winked.

"When in Roma," Marco replied with a small smile.

Phillipe didn’t pursue the topic. Instead his gaze strayed to a leggy brunette heading to their table. "I'm going to get to know a few ladies tonight. Excuse me." Phillipe winked before leaving in the company of the woman.

Roberto soon followed suit with a barely dressed blonde.

He scanned the club. More than a dozen eyes watched him, appraising him, willing him to seek them out. He ignored them. The one who was brave enough to approach him was the one he'd dance with. Just dance. Nothing more. Unless her eyes were a fiery blend of the forest and her mouth tasted of sweet strawberries.

"Good evening." He cast all thoughts of the vixen aside and focused on the woman in front of him.

He couldn’t help the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach when he looked into the golden eyes of a freckled, redhead. He admired her guts though. It took a certain amount of courage for a woman to make the first move on him. It took an even more courageous breed to slap him.

"May I have this dance?"

"Si." He nodded. He led her up the steps to the dance floor and tried his best to concentrate on dancing.

She asked him about the weather. He replied in Spanish and didn’t bother translating as he held her around the waist and danced. His heart wasn’t in it though. Instead his mind wandered to a raven-haired stranger. He pictured her dancing with him, eyes flashing while he held her firmly; pulled her tight against his body . . . he'd hold her tight. Especially her hands. He wouldn’t allow her another chance to raise those hands on him. No, not unless she planned to caress him and touch him all night. Of course he wouldn’t stop her from clawing his back either while he filled her.

"I'm Casey," the woman in his arms introduced herself.

Of course, this was how normal, mild-tempered women struck up a conversation —with an appropriate introduction. "Marco," he replied uninterestedly.

"Nice to meet you." She giggled, moving closer to him.

Marco mustered up his best smile trying to keep his pace with the music. Why did the DJ suddenly slow down the music? He grimaced when Casey rested her face on his chest. Oh, she was so not his type. Too young, too innocent, too dazed by his deadly good looks and sexy accent. She didn’t smell the same and he doubted her mouth tasted of strawberries. Judging from her breath, Casey wasn’t shy to indulge in a drink or too. No. He wouldn’t kiss her even if her life depended on it. Casey glanced up shyly at him when his hand slipped down her back. Had she mistook it for a caress? He was well aware of the effect he had on woman regardless of their age. Lately, he'd come to take his devastating charm on woman for granted. Until he'd been slapped to his senses by a woman with the attitude of an angry war God. No, Goddess. She was probably a descendant of Mars. Or Thor. Maybe she was a love-child of the legendary Gods roaming free on earth determined to sexually torment men like Marco Sancha-Castille.

"Ouch," Casey yelped softly.

Why wouldn’t she object? He'd held her in a vice grip, preventing from swaying against his body. Perhaps his subconscious had willed him to do so to prevent her from touching him.

"Sorry," he apologized, letting go off her. Disappointment enveloped him when he snapped back to the present and met a golden gaze instead of a heated cat-eyed one. His hands dropped to his sides as images of waist length, raven hair faded into a strawberry bob. And freckles replaced the creamy smooth skin of the hot-tempered beauty he'd kissed outside the Villa. Why did the wild tempered woman affect him so? Heck, he hadn’t experienced something like this since he'd hit puberty. It was worse than any teenage infatuation he'd survived.

I cannot continue with this façade. Who was he fooling? He wondered, pulling away from her and striding off the dance floor.

"Marco, wait."

He slipped onto the now crowded dance floor. Once he reached the far end, where he'd shared drinks with his friends, he desperately sought an exit. A button embedded in the wall caught his eye. Marco slammed it and the wall slid open. He stepped out onto an open balcony and pressed the button on the other side. The night was starless. Lightning lit up the sky every now and then. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Stray raindrops fell onto the ground. A storm was definitely on the way. How appropriate. His body worked up a storm recalling the seductive angry witch and the weather chose to match his emotions. His hunger for her intensified.

I should have stopped her from walking away. I should have taken her out for coffee, offered her my shoulder to cry on.

He wondered where she was now. Was she still crying? Or shad she found a way to move past her earlier anger? He inhaled the fresh night air infused with a touch of brine. Ah. Beatitud. The pure air reminded him of home.

A wave of homesickness washed over him. A few days more, he assured himself. He had no intention of returning to Spain without transferring the Villa back to his family name. He couldn’t relax, unwind, or have fun until he'd claimed the Villa back.

Really? The woman with the raven hair and emerald eyes taunted. Is that all you’re after.

Dios mío. He was losing his mind. Going totally demente for a woman he'd only seen, not even properly met. How dare she invade his head? Who did she think she was? First she'd told him off, looked down on him from the lofty heights of her burning anger and then she'd slapped him. Perhaps he'd grown so accustomed to woman vying for his attention, flirting with him, offering their bodies in exchange for a few moments with him that this afternoon's encounter left him stupefied. Yes. That had to be it. As much as the feisty little Querida annoyed him, she was also a refreshing change from the women he'd met and bedded. The more he thought about her, the more she fanned the flames of his desire. His need for her multiplied. Damn it. This wasn’t a schoolboy infatuation. She'd lit a blazing fire inside him that nobody, but she could put out. It wasn’t just about her attitude or her slap anymore. This was something more. Lust at first sight. He inhaled a deep breath. Admitting his insatiable lust for the woman filled him with fleeting peace.

Where was she now? He wondered. Lying breathless in the arms of her lover. Jealousy stabbed him. Why? He wondered surprised. What man could resist such a feisty tempered woman in the body of a seductress? She was the ultimate sensual package for any man. He imagined her in bed clutching the bed sheets while he owned her, sunk deep inside her until he filled her, possessed her, consumed her. He pictured her clawing his back, denying him the right to kiss her. Oh yes, that was more like her in bed. She didn’t strike him as the type of woman who moaned and moved just to keep her man happy. She'd either give a man everything or nothing. Like the slap she'd generously given him.

He stared at the race track. The first race was almost under way. A group of bikers revved their Harleys and Hondas. Girls draped the bikers like pashminas. His gaze flitted across the scenario. He'd recognize her in a crowd, from a distance. Few women possessed her raw sensuality, her undeterred confidence, her primitive warrior need to slap a man. She was the type of woman who reveled in shameless independence. Marco had no objection to that.

A streak of lightning flashed above, lighting her up for him to see. She looked up into her partner's face and smiled. Something inside him spring to life. She hadn’t smiled for him. She hadn’t touched his arm lightly or whispered. Instead she'd accused and slapped him. It was time to confront her, ask her why. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He respected women too and, enjoyed their company so what was it about him that angered her? And, what was so special about the biker? Marco was an expert on the track. And in bed. Which did she prefer? He spotted a fire escape and didn’t waste time using it. He was about to find out.

***