A Spanish Awakening. KIM LAWRENCE

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      Megan stared at his patrician profile in disbelief. Was the man for real? ‘It already is personal. It got personal the moment you k … k … you kissed me! ‘

      ‘I too have excellent reflexes.’

      Lips compressed, she directed her gaze on her hands clenched primly in her lap, thinking, Do not go there, Megan. ‘I just bet you do,’ she snarled, watching her knuckles blench white.

      She flashed him a look of exasperation. ‘Is it so impossible for you to believe that I can’t stand the sight of you?’

      ‘I believe that your reaction to me is not mild, and neither, for the record, is mine to you.’ Before she could analyse the message within his cryptic utterance he continued,

      ‘But I was referring to your comment … something along the lines of—“like anyone would believe that.” Why would anyone not believe that we are lovers?’

      Megan slung him an irritated look. ‘I have a brain and I like to be exclusive. Also I look nothing like a Barbie doll.’

      ‘Ouch! So much for sisterly solidarity! You really should not judge by appearances, Megan.’

      ‘You’re right, I’m the superficial one.’

      His grin flashed and her own smile faded. It would be an exaggeration to call the spiky atmosphere warm, but she was conscious that a worrying element of intimacy had developed.

      Megan could have done without knowing he could laugh at himself; it made despising him all the more of a struggle. She needed out of this car and fast! God only knew what had possessed her to get in to begin with.

      Like you don’t know?

      Ignoring the unhelpful contribution of the knowing voice in her head, she cut short the inner dialogue and said, ‘Look, you can drop me at the first hotel we pass, if that’s not a problem?’ If it was a problem she could always jump out of the moving vehicle. It could not be a more painful experience than this conversation.

      ‘Without feeding you first?’ He shook his dark head in reproach.

      ‘That really isn’t necessary. I ate breakfast,’ she lied brightly. ‘And it isn’t lunchtime.’ She glanced at her watch and realised it was barely nine-thirty. It felt as though she had been in the car for hours.

      His dark brows twitched into a straight line above his hawkish nose. ‘You are very hung up with time,’ he drawled.

      ‘And you must be a very unique billionaire businessman if you have time to snack and watch the grass grow,’ she retorted tartly.

      ‘I work, but I am not a slave to routine.’

      ‘Congratulations on being a free spirit, but I’m still not hungry.’

      ‘You think your time would be put to better use counting the minutes until the planes start flying again? You’re stuck here—I suggest you make the most of it. Madrid is a beautiful city, though being a native I must admit to some prejudice on the subject,’ he conceded with a fluid shrug. ‘Do you like architecture, history …?’

      ‘Why—are you offering to be my guide?’ She leaned back in her seat and thought, Gotcha, as she wondered how long it would take him to discover a very full diary.

      It might amuse Emilio Rios to buy her breakfast, he might even feel he was obliged to do so because of her manipulative parent’s request to look after her, but spending an entire day with her would definitely not be his idea of an efficient use of his time.

      ‘Why not?’

      The cynical smile playing about her lips vanished. ‘I wasn’t being serious!’ She watched his brows lift in response to the horrified vehemence of her tone and added, ‘And even if I did want to sightsee, by the time I check my emails my dad will have found me one or two things to do,’ she promised, flashing a wry smile.

      ‘Then don’t check your emails.’

      The simple logic made Megan blink as she stared at him as though he were from another planet. ‘You might be your own boss, but I’m not. My dad does not have a great opinion of slackers.’

      ‘And are you a slacker?’ he wondered, making his interest sound academic.

      Megan’s response was not academic, it was indignant. ‘I am not!’

      One corner of his mouth lifted and the amusement extended to his dark eyes. ‘You are the boss’s daughter—that must give you a certain amount of latitude.’

      ‘Being the boss’s daughter means I have to prove I can do more than paint my nails—’ She turned her head, a suspicious frown forming on her smooth brow. ‘Are you trying to wind me up?’

      His grin flashed. ‘Yes, the ruffled-feather look suits you.’ His eyes dropped to her emotionally heaving bosom. ‘Realistically, Armstrong isn’t going sack you to prove his egalitarian credentials, is he?’

      ‘If I didn’t pull my weight he might. But …’ she gave a shrug and conceded ‘.probably not.’

      ‘Because you’re his daughter.’ He raised a brow in response to her laugh and came to a halt as the second set of lights ahead changed. ‘Not because you’re his daughter? ‘

      Her eyes connected with the dark-eyed glance that flickered her way. ‘While I’m working for him, to some extent he still controls my life.’

      A small silence followed this unemotional explanation as Megan considered a situation she had been thinking about a lot of late.

      ‘So if he sacked you he’d lose that power? ‘

      Megan nodded, turning her head his way as she agreed with this analysis. ‘Exactly.’ It wasn’t until her glance flickered his way and she saw his expression that she realised what she was discussing and more importantly with whom!

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