SAVAGE AFFAIR Margaret Mayo Rhiannon was happy in her life She had become tired of repelling the cunning advances of fortune hunters after the daughter of a rich hotelier. Now she enjoyed operating the elegant little hotel in the Canary Islands. But quite unexpectedly the defences of her heart were invaded by a mysterious stranger. From the moment she first saw him, she became aware of a deep, dangerous passion stirring within her. Only when the true identity of Pasqual Lorenzo Giminez came to light did the aching love turn to cold hate. Why then, even when she found herself trapped with him against her will, should she still yearn for his touch? CHAPTER ONE THE LIGHT was fading fast, making it difficult to see clearly, but Rhiannon never took her eyes off the unknown man. He had to be a man. No woman could carve her way through the water quite so fiercely and determinedly. She sat with her back against a rock, confident that by the time he came out darkness would render her invisible. She was so used to having the beach to herself at this time of day that finding someone here was intriguing. At length he rose from the water, his shape silhouetted against sky now almost as dark as the sea. He was tall, with wide shoulders and narrow hips, and as he turned to look across the bay she observed a flat taut stomach and muscular chest. There was an arrogant lift to his chin, he had a high noble forehead, and the sinking sun cast a bronze sheen over his statue-like body. When he headed directly towards her Rhiannon froze. Had he seen her after all? She held her breath, wishing she had made her presence known instead of sitting here like a Peeping Tom, mentally crossing her fingers that he would walk straight past. She closed her eyes, as if by so doing she could banish him, then gave an involuntary cry as he stumbled over her outstretched leg. 'What the devil?' His Spanish voice was loud and angry and she glanced up to see his powerful body towering over her. Before she could speak one firm hand grabbed her shirt and hauled her to her feet. She felt like a fish dangling from an angler's hook. 'Put me down!' she yelled, answering in his own language, kicking and punching, but not seeming to hurt him. He was strong, very strong, and almost a foot taller than she. She could see a gleam in his eyes and a ruthless thrust to his jaw. In response to her plea he let go her shirt, but his hands fell instead to her shoulders. And then as his eyes raked her face she felt the tenseness go out of him. He smiled and his teeth gleamed white in the darkness. 'I'm sorry if I startled you,' she said quickly. 'I was watching you swim and -' 'It was suddenly too late to make your presence known?' he finished for her. 'I can understand that.' His low throaty tone sent a shiver crawling down her spine. It had a sensual sound to it, and despite the fact that she could not properly see him, that she did not know who he was or anything about him, she felt an instant and unwarranted physical awareness. 'I'm glad you're not angry.' Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him, and she tried to ignore the sudden racing of her heart. 'I was afraid you'd think I was prying.' His fingers began slow circling movements over her shoulderblades. 'I was curious, perhaps, but nothing so sordid as that.' And he moved lower, and lower; to her waist, to her hips, urging her against him. 'Why didn't you come and join me?' Frissons of alarm surfaced, only to be ignored, outweighed by an answering need. 'I had no inclination to swim,' Rhiannon said faintly, puzzling over her extraordinary response to a complete stranger. It occurred to her that she might be heading for trouble. Who was he? What was he doing here? The beach wasn't actually private, but as a general rule was used by hotel guests only. She pushed her hands against his chest, aware of cool, damp, hair-roughened skin, aware of superior muscular strength—but overriding this, aware of a powerful sexuality that under no circumstances could be denied. He released her instantly, the merest frown visible, his smile reassuring. 'I'm frightening you? I'm sorry. It's just that I feel I know you already.' He traced the outline of her face with gentle finger- tips—her cheekbones, the fine arch of her brows, her fractionally too large nose, the softness of her lips. Rhiannon suffered his touch, forcing herself not to respond, even though every nerve in her body leapt. She looked away from his hypnotic eyes and saw the faint circle of a full moon, ready and waiting for the sun's final departure. Was that the explanation for her behaviour? She'd heard a full moon did strange things to some people. But she was a sane, normal person, not given to flights of fancy or irrational behaviour. Was this irrational? Or was it simply a basic chemical reaction that could happen to anyone? She moistened her lips and looked back at him. He was watching her. 'Did you win?' he asked softly, his lips curved upwards in a caring smile. Her brow creased. 'Win?' How she wished he would move away! A war of nerves was going on inside her. 'You were obviously fighting a mental battle?' Wryly she nodded. 'You were debating whether I was a sex maniac or a healthily sexy male?' 'Is there a difference?' she quipped, his flippancy putting her suddenly at ease. 'Oh, yes.' He cupped her face, his thumbs moving in a tantalising caress across her lips, his eyes also on her mouth. 'If I were a sex maniac I wouldn't be standing here like this. All I want is a kiss.' He bent his head and she lifted hers, and the contact was explosive. Whether it was the romance of the night or because he was a mysterious stranger, Rhiannon did not know. But his kiss was like none other—gentle and yet insistent, erotic but not frightening, persuasive, experienced, seeking a response. A few seconds only she hesitated before her hands slid around the smooth firmness of his back. His tongue probed and searched and she moved sensually against him, moaning softly in the back of her throat, freely returning his kisses. It was unlike her to respond like this to a man she did not know, but it was like a coming together of kindred souls, as though this was the man she had been waiting for all her life. He left her mouth and her head fell back as he burned a fierce trail down her throat. Pushing aside her shirt, he nibbled an achingly throbbing breast, and then suddenly she was free. 'This is all wrong,' he said gruffly. 'I want to spend time with you, get to know you, not rush you like this. Let me get dressed, then we'll sit and talk and you can tell me about yourself.' 'I'm sorry, I can't.' Rhiannon's face was pained. This was the first time in a good many years that she had met a man who genuinely interested her. 'I have to go. I've been here longer than I intended already.' 'But I will see you again?' He disappeared behind the rock against which she had been sitting—how ironic, thought Rhiannon, that she had chosen this very spot. And then he emerged again zipping up a pair of tight, patched jeans. 'I don't know,' she frowned. It was crazy, not like her at all—and yet there was something about him. She too would like to learn more. At least he was gentleman enough not to take advantage. There was no reason to be afraid. 'I'll be here tomorrow,' he smiled. 'Same time. If you don't come, I'll understand.' He scooped up his shirt and tossed it over his shoulder. Rhiannon studied the carved beauty of his face, the straight nose, the jutting brows, the expressive eyes which looked black in this light but could be any colour, the wide mobile infinitely kissable mouth. In the darkness he looked aloof, he looked hard and untouchable, ruthless even, and she had for a brief space seen this side of him. But for an instant only. A mutual desire had been born. Fires raged in him now as they did in her. She smiled softly, stood on tiptoe and touched his lips with her own, then ran lightly across the sand without a backward glance. It was not until she reached Yurena and the sanctity of her room that she allowed herself to think of him again. She took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. Her eyes widened. She looked—beautiful! And yet never in all her life had she considered herself anything other than plain. Her shoulder-length auburn hair, tousled by her flight, framed her face attractively. Her green eyes were shining, her cheeks flushed, her parted lips soft and dark. There was an air of expectancy about her. She looked like a girl on the brink of falling in love. Touching the tip of her tongue to her lips, she wondered what madness had invaded her. This was not the first man to kiss her. She had not reached the age of twenty-four without her fair share of boy- friends. And yet—he was different. He was all man, for one thing— mature, self-confident, arrogant even. It was difficult to put an age to him, but she would guess in his mid- thirties. He spoke Spanish with the typical sing-song accent of a Canarian, and yet he hadn't looked a typical Spaniard. Or was it the half- light that had played tricks on her? She looked forward to seeing him again, and that in itself was surprising, since she had deliberately cut all men out of her life and immersed herself in running the hotel. There had been a reason for it. Even since her parents had won a small fortune on the football pools back home in England six years ago, she had been bombarded with proposals of marriage. Boys buzzed round her like bees round honey, and even Jonathan, whom she had thought herself in love with, had let her down, making plans for what they would do with the money she was sure to be given. When her parents announced that they were thinking of buying a small hotel in the Canary Islands, she had been all for it, and as excited as they when the time came to go. But men were the same the whole world over, she discovered. The nubile daughter of a couple of rich hoteliers was a prime target, and she got sick and fed up with rejecting their advances. They had been on Cerrillo for only twelve months when her mother died, and Rhiannon and her father were devastated, talking about returning to England. But a hotel was something her mother had always wanted, and never been able to afford before their win, and they both knew she would wish them to carry on. So Rhiannon took a hotel management course in London, her father meantime running the place with the help of a temporary manager, and now she was virtually in complete charge. Tony Howarth had lost some of the enthusiasm that had carried him and his wife through their first year and was content to let his daughter make all the decisions. It suited Rhiannon, she was able to immerse herself in her work and forget about men and sex and marriage—until tonight. Stifled emotions flooded back with a vengeance, making her realise what she had missed these last years. 'Rhiannon?' A tap came on her door. Her father? She clapped her hands to her cheeks. She had completely forgotten their nightly ritual of drinks on the balcony when she gave him a run-down on what had happened during the day. But if he saw her like this questions would be asked, ones she was not prepared to answer at this stage. 'I'm sorry, Daddy. Give me five minutes, I'm just about to take a shower.' And she needed one. She needed to wash that man right out of her hair, as the song went. There mustn't be one trace of him left when she joined her father. Her five minutes stretched into ten. She stood beneath the cooling jets of water, letting them play over her skin as the unknown man's hands had earlier. It was like reliving those moments, and she quivered from head to toe. Who was he? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Where had he come from? Their hotel was the only one on this unspoilt island, and he wasn't one of their guests.