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She was silent a moment, not at all mollified. Then, ‘Why Spanish?’
‘Because I’m Spanish.’
‘Oh. What are you doing in Paris?’
He stared at her, letting her see a little of his edge. ‘That’s a lot of questions for a woman who won’t even give me her name.’
‘Why should I? You haven’t given me yours.’
That was true—he hadn’t. And why not? His name was an ancient and illustrious one, but one that would soon come to an end. He was the sole heir and he had no plans to produce another. No, the Velazquez line, the dukedom of San Lorenzo, would die with him and then be forgotten. Which was probably for the best, considering his dissolute lifestyle.
Your parents would be appalled.
They certainly would have been had they still been alive, but they weren’t. He had no one to impress, no one to live up to. There was only him and he didn’t care.
‘My name is Cristiano Velazquez, Fifteenth Duke of San Lorenzo,’ he said, because he had no reason to hide it. ‘And you may address me as Your Grace.’
A ripple of something crossed her face, though he couldn’t tell what it was. Then she frowned. ‘A duke? Cristiano Velazquez...?’ She said his name very slowly, as if tasting it.
He knew she hadn’t meant to do it in a seductive way, but he felt the seduction in it all the same. His name in her soft, sweet husky voice, said so carefully in French... As if that same sense of familiarity tugged at her the way it tugged at him.
But how would she know him? They’d never met—or at least not that he remembered. And he definitely hadn’t slept with her—that he was sure of. He might have had too many women to count, but he’d remember if he’d had her.
‘You’ve heard of me?’ he asked carefully, watching her face.
‘No... I don’t think so.’ She looked away. ‘Where is your house, then?’
Was she telling the truth? Had she, in fact, heard of him? Briefly he debated whether or not to push her. But it was late, and there were dark circles under her eyes, and suddenly she looked very small and fragile sitting there.
He should get her back to his place and tuck her into bed.
‘You’ll see.’ Moving over the seat towards the door, he opened it. ‘Stay here.’
Not that he gave her much choice, because he got out and shut it behind him again, locking it just in case she decided to make a desperate bid for freedom.
He made excuses to the two patiently waiting women, ensured they were taken care of for the evening, then went to find his recalcitrant driver, whom he eventually found in a nearby alley, playing some kind of dice game with a couple of the kids who’d been standing around his car.
How fortunate.
Getting his wallet out of his pocket, Cristiano extracted a note and brandished it at one of the youths. ‘You,’ he said shortly. ‘This is yours if you tell me the name of the woman with the pretty red hair who was spray-painting my car.’
The kid stared at the note, his mouth open. ‘Uh... Leonie,’ he muttered, and made a grab for the money.
So much for loyalty.
Cristiano jerked the note away before the boy could get it. ‘You didn’t give me a last name.’
The kid scowled. ‘I don’t know. No one knows anyone’s last name around here.’
Which was probably true.
He allowed the boy to take the money and then, with a meaningful jerk of his head towards the car for his driver’s benefit, he turned back to it himself.
Leonie. Leonie...
Somewhere in the dim recesses of his memory a bell rang.
Leonie blinked as a pair of big wrought-iron gates set into a tall stone wall opened and the car slid smoothly through them.
