Page 75 of Virgin's Stolen Nights with the Boss

He held up a brown bottle. One that would not be welcome in the Romero bodega.

Yikes!

But she nodded and watched as he went to find a glass.

‘A wine glass will do, if you don’t have the correct—’ she started to say, but then halted as he handed her a very small glass...the type the English would use.

If my brothers could only see me now!

‘Why are you smiling?’ Elias asked.

‘I just...’ She took a sip of her drink.

Perhaps he saw the slight pull of her lips. ‘Not to your liking?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s adequate,’ she said, then realised how rude that must sound. He couldn’t know that the mixed blend was like sandpaper to her skilled palate. ‘I mean...’

‘Carmen, it’s fine.’ He smiled and took a sip of her drink himself. ‘Oh, that’s awful.’

He accepted her. Carmen felt it then.

He didn’t know her name, but he knew who she was, and he simply accepted her ways. She could not explain what a gift that was.

Unlike the sherry, dinner was incredible.

A candle in the centre of a beautifully laid table made her ask, ‘Your housekeeper?’

‘Yes,’ he said as he pulled out a chair for her and then brought in dinner—a gorgeous paella with the perfect crust at the bottom.

‘You made this?’ Carmen queried. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She scooped out a mussel. ‘It’s almost as good as mine.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and they drank the delicious Malbec she had brought.

‘So...’ He looked at her. ‘Am I allowed to ask where you’re from?’

‘Jerez,’ Carmen said. ‘It’s in the south of Spain and it’s very beautiful.’

‘And you have always loved horses?’

‘No,’ Carmen admitted. ‘I started riding at four, but it was not until I was a teenager that I felt confident. Honestly, I was terrified of them!’

‘So did your father want you to ride?’

‘No,’ she said, scooping up the sauce with crusty bread. ‘Did you make this bread as well?’

‘I can’t take the credit for that.’

She was utterly certain Elias had used the same restaurant as her, but was in no position to say!

‘So, he didn’t push you to ride?’ he asked.

‘No. He wanted me to start dance classes.’ She took a breath and decided that this she could tell him. ‘My father had sent my mother some photos of me—I think I was four—and she called him and said I needed dance lessons because I was fat...or, as my father would say,cute. Anyway, I thought she was going to come and teach me flamenco, and I was so excited. But, no. She wanted me to take lessons from someone else. I was so upset that I chopped off my hair and said I wanted to learn to ride instead.’

‘But you actually wanted to dance?’

‘Maybe I did. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder.’

‘You dance with your horses,’ he said. ‘I know because I’ve seen you...’

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