Excerpt of Her Spanish Boss by Barbara McMahon

RACHEL GOODSON counted the Euros once more. The

total hadn't changed. She was 470 Euros away from destitution. Or the use of her bank card which she refused to do. To use it would give away her location. She hadn't come all the way to this little Spanish town to be found so easily by her powerful father. She had meant her final statement. She was leaving home, leaving him and his outrageous demands and his unbelievable betrayal.

She was also leaving behind the man her father had hand picked to marry her. This was the twenty-first century, not feudal times. She would pick out her own husband, thank you very much. And it would not be someone who had more in common with her father than with her. Anger churned when she thought about recent events.

She took a deep breath, sipped her lemonade and gazed at the fishing boats bobbing along the weathered wooden dock. A couple of old men mended nets. The hot sunshine didn't seem to bother them. She would have sought shade.

Her small suitcase rested at her side. Her voluminous purse held all the important items, such as passport, money and credit cards — which she also refused to use. Her father would know as soon as he received the bills where she was if she charged a single thing. For her rebellion to be successful, she had to stay hidden from the powerful men who sought her.

Rachel's rebellion, she thought wryly. Could she pull it off? She had done her best to vanish two weeks ago. So far she had managed beautifully on her own. But her money was running out.

The white buildings behind her reflected the afternoon sun, gleaming in the brilliant light. She'd fallen in love with the little village perched on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea the moment she'd stepped off the bus a short time before. She had already been charmed by the friendly people. Now she delighted in the simple beauty of the setting. And most important, she felt safe with the isolation. This place didn't have the glamour of Madrid, nor the appeal of Majorca. The beach curving around the bay was practically desolate. Definitely not the place her father would think of for his only child.

The hills that rose behind seemed to shelter the town from the rest of the country. To the left, olive groves marched into the distance, their rows neat and symmetrical. To the right the ground was untamed, a tangle of trees, bushes and wild flowers. At the top, almost like a crown, sat a grey stone castillo.

She had not seen any sign indicating a parador nearby, which meant it was privately owned. Too bad, she'd love to spend one night in a castle in Spain.

Her financial situation, however, was more pressing. She needed to see if she could find work. It was unlikely without proper papers, but there had to be someone willing to let her earn some money without the formality of work permits. Maybe a local restaurant needed a waitress, with no questions asked. Or — Or what?

She had never held a paying job. Her experiences had been geared to planning lavish charity events or sharing hosting duties with her father at high-powered business dinners. Since graduating from college several years earlier, she had dabbled with establishing a career, only to be talked out of it again and again by her father. He needed her too much, he'd said. No one else could handle the social aspects of his business as well as she did. If her mother had lived, she could have handled all that.

Anger threatened again at the lies and deception. Her mother had lived. Two weeks ago Rachel had learned the truth. She gripped her glass tightly, wishing she had said even more to the man who had directed her every move until she'd learned of his deception.

He had the gall to expect her to marry Paul Cambrick. An alliance for business gain. No amount of arguments from Rachel had swayed him from his position. The pressure had grown intolerable.

Running away probably wasn't the smartest thing she'd ever done, but she was sure it made an impression on her father. Now she needed to find work to prove she didn't need her father or Paul to live on. She definitely was not going to marry Paul no matter what. If she never saw Paul Cambrick again, it might be too soon. Pompous ass. And threats to cut off her trust fund would be fruitless once she was earning a living.

She gazed at the sparkling water, trying to let her anger ebb. Of course independence had sounded perfect in her bedroom in Malibu. She remembered pacing back and forth, coming up with one idea after another. In retrospect, it would have been far easier to disappear in the States. She could have found work anywhere. Coming to Spain had been impulsive, giving into a long-held dream — and the determination to put as much distance between herself and her father. "Can I get you anything else?" the young waiter asked in rapid Spanish.

"No, thank you. This is fine," she replied, a bit more slowly. He'd been more than friendly since she'd chosen the small table near the edge of the patio. And patient with her California version of Spanish. She could be understood, and understand him, but only if the pace was slow. She had to ask repeatedly for others to slow down since her arrival in Spain.

""Americano?" he asked with a wide grin.

"Si." She wished it wasn't so obvious. Glancing around at all the dark-haired women sitting at other tables at the café, Rachel knew her blond hair stuck out like a beacon. But she could have been German or Dutch, why did he immediately peg her as American?

"Oh, are you here for Señor Alvares's job?" the young man asked excitedly. "We have been wondering when another secretary would arrive. If not soon, Maria will recover and return."

She blinked, wondering if she'd understood the rapid Spanish correctly. "Where is Señor Alvares?" Could it be this man wanted an American secretary? No way, her luck couldn't be running that good.

He pointed to the castillo on the hillside. The harsh grey granite seemed indomitable, rising loftily above the trees and shrubs that partially hid it from the town.

She looked at it, various scenarios flashing in her mind. Maybe she couldn't spend the night at the castillo, but could she spend a few days there? What kind of secretary did the man need? She didn't have a formal background in secretarial work in English, much less Spanish. And she was having a bit of trouble conversing in Spanish, but once she'd been here a little longer, she was sure she'd pick up the different nuances. Still, she had a lot of organizing experience. Could deal with difficult vendors, meet deadlines. How hard could the work be?

"How does one get to the castillo?" she asked, already determined to give it a try. Answer the phone, make appointments, do some typing, she could handle it all. The worst he could say would be no. If luck was on her side, maybe she could get a temporary job to tide her over until she figured out her next step.

Twenty minutes later Rachel was flying up the mountainous road in an old cab that probably had been in service before she was born. The driver looked old enough to have invented cars. He drove with abandon, gesturing to sights as they rounded one hairpin turn after another. The view grew more spectacular the higher they went. Not that Rachel could focus on the view — she was holding on for dear life.

Luck was definitely with her on the ride, she thought, trying to keep from sliding from side to side on the worn vinyl seat. They hadn't crashed headfirst into another vehicle. There were none descending. They hadn't flown off the edge of the road, either, though it was touch and go a couple of times.

At one bad turn, the driver crossed himself, falling silent for a moment. Rachel wondered if she should be frightened — rather more frightened than taking her life in her hands by getting into this cab in the first place. But before she could decide, they rounded another turn and he began his rapid spiel again.

She caught most of what he was saying, expounding on the beauties of the town, the wonders of Spain and old glories. Was he practicing to be a tour guide?

They rounded another bend and Rachel gasped at the magnificence of the stone castle before her. It was not huge, but large enough to be impressive. It was in excellent repair. The grounds were simple, green and lush, but without the ornamental formality she had seen in other castillos. There was no one in sight, nor any cars. Was anyone home? She hadn't even considered that in her impetuous decision.

The cab stopped before the steps leading to the ornately carved double front doors. The driver turned and grinned at her, holding out his hand.

She paid him, grabbed her bag and slid across the seat. Still staring at the granite edifice, she heard the cab drive away. She had debated having him wait while she asked for an interview, but decided she'd be in a stronger position to get that interview if she had no means of return readily available. Señor Alvares would have to interview her if only to fill the time until a taxi could be summoned.

If he were home.

Why hadn't she thought of that before? What if no one was here? She'd not be able to use a phone, which would mean a long hike back to the café if that was the case.

"Positive thinking, that's the key," she murmured, mounting the steps and ringing the bell to the right of the doors.

Endless moments slipped by. Rachel was conscious of birds twittering in nearby trees. The soft soughing of the wind through the branches was pleasant. The late afternoon heat was starting to get to her, however, despite the breeze. She turned and looked at the view of the Mediterranean spread out before her as far as she could see. Awe- inspiring. The spanking white buildings of the village contrasted with the blue at the edge of the sea. There was a quiet kind of hush around the castle. For a moment she thought of Heathcliff and the moors. A brooding silence seemed to pervade the grounds despite the bright sunshine and birdsong.

She tried the bell again. A moment later the left door was opened. "Si?" A woman with a kerchief over her head and a duster in one hand looked at her.

"Señor Alvares, por favor," Rachel said, glad her voice wasn't quaking like her knees. She hoped there was a job and she could get it. Bluff your way through, she told herself, raising her chin.

"Uno momento." The woman shut the door. Astonished, Rachel stared at the dark wood. How rude!

She leaned on the bell again. It was flung open a moment later. A tall man gazed down at her, his frown intimidating. Rachel stared back. Tall, dark and dangerous was her first thought. He was easily six inches over her own five feet seven inches. His dark hair brushed the top of his collar. His dark eyes were narrowed as he assessed her. His face was planes and angles, with not a spark of warmth anywhere. His size and demeanor would be enough to scare anyone off.

Except someone in desperate straights who needed a job.

"Señor Alvares?" she asked brightly.

"Whatever it is you are selling, we don't want it.

Leave or I'll call the guardia," he growled, moving to shut the door a second time.

Rachel stepped forward and pushed against it, obviously taking him by surprise. She quickly sidestepped into the entry foyer and swallowed. Tenacity was one of her strong points. Her father usually called it stubbornness.

"I've come to see Señor Alvares. If you are not he, please let him know I'm here," she said arrogantly. She had no idea who this man was, but being assertive might be the only way she could get an interview. She wanted the job more and more, if only to prove she could get it.

"Who are you?" he asked, his stance more rigid.

"And what are you doing here?"

"Rachel Goodson. I'm here about the secretary's job."

"I have a secretary," he said bluntly. She looked at him in surprise. "Señor Alvares? How do you do? I heard in the village you needed a new secretary. An American secretary. I'd be perfect for the job."

He pushed the door shut. Instantly Rachel wished he had not. She was alone with this stranger, in a remote location. Where had the maid gone? No one else really knew she was here. Would the cab driver even remember bringing her here after a day or two? Would the maid known she'd come into the house?