The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride by Chantelle Shaw Page B

bundle her long hair into a topknot, but stray tendrils had escaped to curl around her flushed cheeks, giving her the appearance of a grubby urchin rather than a mature woman of the world.
    She had a feeling that she was standing at the bottom of a steep learning curve, she thought heavily when the lift doors opened and she followed Javier into his apartment. From the outside the apartment block appeared to be an old historical building that complemented the architecture of the nearby Palacio Real. But inside the layout and decor were modern and minimalist. The rooms were light and airy, with pale wood floors and huge windows that allowed sunlight to flood in.
    It was very much a bachelor pad, Grace decided as she studied the neutral coloured walls and furnishings. Splashes of colour had been artfully added with crimson and purple cushions and rugs, while in the kitchen the granite worktops and stainless-steel appliances were the epitome of designer chic.
    The apartment, rather like its owner, was expertly crafted but soulless. For a moment she longed to be back at Littlecote with its comfortable, chintz chair covers that her mother had once chosen—in the far off days before her illness had wreaked its terrible price—and her father had refused to ever change for something more up to date.
    But Littlecote was being sold, and she had nowhere back in England to call home, apart from the guest house in Eastbourne that Aunt Pam had bought after she’d sold her bar in Malaga, where her father would stay until he was well enough to pick up the threads of his life.
    â€˜What’s the matter now? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Javier’s harsh voice intruded on her thoughts, and Grace hastily blinked back her tears.
    â€˜I was thinking about my father, hoping he’s all right,’ she said thickly. ‘When will the charges against him be dropped? Soon, I hope.’
    â€˜My legal team are already working on it, but you have to understand that his case is in the hands of the British justice system. There’s only so much my lawyers can do.’
    â€˜Well they’d better do it quickly, because your wedding ring isn’t going on my finger until my father is free from the threat of prosecution.’
    â€˜ Dios , you have a disrespectful tongue,’ Javier growled darkly. Never had he been spoken to in such a manner. He was used to giving commands, not receiving them. And how dare this tiny, insignificant woman, the daughter of a thief, lay down the law to him?
    He was tempted to tell her that the deal was off. He would find himself a wife elsewhere—the gutter if necessary. Anyone would be better than this she-devil, even though she did have the face of an angel. He would have no problem in finding another woman to agree to his marriage proposition—his wealth ensured that, he brooded cynically. But Grace owed him. It was Angus Beresford’s fault that Carlos had doubted his abilities to run the bank, and it was only fitting that a Beresford should be punished—an eye for an eye, and in this case a year of Grace’s life, in return for her father’s freedom.
    â€˜I give respect where it’s due,’ Grace said with a sniff that warned him he fell way below her standards. For a second Javier’s anger threatened to overwhelm him. Over the years he had learned to control his hot temper, but Grace Beresford brought out the worst in him and he glowered at her. She was five-feet-nothing of stubborn determination, but beneath her bravado he sensed wariness and real fear.
    Did she think he would hurt her? The thought was not a pleasant one and Javier’s mouth tightened. He had never laid a finger in anger on a woman in his life. As a boy he’d seen grown men use their fists on their women and he had abhorred their violence. Grace might irritate the hell out of him, but he would never cause her physical harm.
    Abruptly he swung away from her,