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The Spaniard's Seduction
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.Widow Cassandra de Montoya has come to Spain with her son for a quick holiday. It’s the perfect chance to introduce her son to his father’s family – but it also means seeing her late husband’s brother, the wealthy, powerfully sexy Enrique de Montoya!Her marriage had been short but now it seemed she’d never be free of the Montoya’s controlling influence, especially because the raging sexual chemistry between her and Enrique is as strong as ever. They’d shared a passionate affair years before…and he has no idea that his nephew is actually his son…!







Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




The Spaniard’s Seduction

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


Cover (#u7417d146-37df-56b7-9280-ca4060ad2caa)

About the Author (#u4a5d80f9-a987-5bf5-a123-4765c85a4bd6)

Title Page (#u3572faea-8366-5202-a128-d0a2cdaf7c4c)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ue7d92631-1f03-5b7e-b3ca-baa4e8dd16f4)


IT HAD rained in the night, and when Enrique stepped out onto his balcony at six o’clock the morning air brought a feathering of goosebumps over his flesh.

Of course it was very early, too early for the pale thread of the rising sun to give any warmth to the day. He should still be in his bed—or rather in Sanchia’s bed, as she had expected—instead of standing here, brooding over something that alone could bring an unwelcome thinning of his blood.

His long fingers curled impatiently over the iron railing. It was still much warmer here, even at this ungodly hour of the morning, than it had been in England, he recalled, not altogether wisely. Despite the fact that early June in Andalusia meant blue skies and long days of hot sunshine, London had been cool and overcast while he was there, making him glad to be boarding the plane to come back home.

Only to find that letter waiting for him…

He scowled. He didn’t want to think about that now. He’d spent far too many hours thinking about it already and it was all too easy to allow his anger to overtake his common sense. The realisation that, if his father hadn’t been so ill, the letter would have been delivered to him filled him with outrage. It was only because Julio de Montoya was in the hospital in Seville that the letter had lain unopened on his desk until Enrique’s return the day before.

His hands tightened on the railing, his fingertips brushing the petals of the morning glory that climbed the pillars beneath his balcony. Raindrops sparkled, creating a rainbow of colour on the pearly-white blossoms, drawing his eyes lower to where a veritable waterfall of jasmine and bougainvillaea spilled their beauty in the courtyard below.

Enrique had always believed his home was the most beautiful place on earth, but this morning it was difficult to empty his mind of intrusive thoughts, destructive thoughts. Even the sunlight glinting on the spire of the church in the valley below the palacio brought him no pleasure today, and he turned back into his apartments with a barely controlled feeling of frustration.

The letter was lying on the floor beside his bed, thrown there after he had read it for the umpteenth time at three o’clock that morning, but he ignored it. Even though the temptation was to pick it up and read it once again, he put the impulse aside and, stripping off the silk boxers which were all he wore to sleep in, he strode into the adjoining bathroom.

He ran the shower hot at first, using its pummelling spray to warm his chilled flesh. Then, after thoroughly cleansing his hair and body, he turned the thermostat to cold. The shock of the ice-cold water sharpened his senses, and, feeling more ready to face the day, he turned off the taps and stepped out.

A pile of towels were stacked on a rack beside the shower cubicle and Enrique wrapped one about his hips before taking another to dry his straight black hair. His jaw was rough, evidence of the night’s growth of beard, and, slotting a towel about his neck, he studied his reflection in the mirror above the handbasin with a critical eye.

He looked as rough as his jawline, he thought grimly, scraping a hand over his chin. His olive skin had a sallow cast and his deep-set dark eyes were hollowed by the dark circles that surrounded them. Narrow cheekbones flared above thin lips that were presently set in a forbidding line, and although women seemed to find his appearance appealing he could see no attraction in his hostile face.

But then, that was what came of burning the candle at both ends, he conceded. He’d flown back from London only the previous morning, and had spent the afternoon in meetings that would have been exhausting at the best of times. Then Sanchia had expected him to spend the evening with her; more than the evening, as it had turned out. Though much to her disappointment he had declined. Nevertheless, it had been after two o’clock when he’d crawled into bed—but not to sleep. The letter had made sure of that, and he scowled again as he thought of it lying there, waiting for him to pick it up, waiting for him to deal with it.

And he would have to deal with it. Soon. Before his father came home from the hospital, which might be in the next few days. When he’d spoken to his mother yesterday evening, she’d been overjoyed to report that the surgery her husband had undergone had proved so successful. Now, with care and a certain amount of luck, Julio de Montoya should have several more years of active life ahead of him. That was so long as nothing untoward happened to hinder his recovery.

Like that letter.

Enrique’s jaw compressed and, after smothering the lower half of his face with foam, he reached for his razor. Dammit, what did that—bruja—hope to achieve? And who was the child—if there really was a child—who had reputedly written the letter? No kin of his, he was sure. Or of Antonio’s. Cassandra had probably invented the whole thing. So what game was she playing?

Cassandra…

His hand slipped and the razor sliced into his cheek. Swearing as blood dripped onto the towel around his neck, Enrique groped for the tap. Then, after sluicing his face with cold water, he waited for the blood to congeal. What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered, letting that letter cause him such grief? He had to get a hold of himself, and damn quick. He’d done it ten years ago and he could do it now. He had no intention of letting that woman ruin his life. Again. She might be Antonio’s widow, but she had no connection with this family. None at all.

The cut had stopped bleeding by the time he’d dressed in loose cotton trousers and a black tee shirt. Deck shoes slipped easily onto his narrow feet and he used a comb on his still-damp hair. Then, despite his unwillingness to do so, he bent and picked up the letter and opened it once more.

It was only a short letter, written in a distinctly childish hand. Had Cassandra used her left hand to write it? It might explain the immature scrawl, the evident effort taken to form the letters. A child of nine could have written it, he supposed, but as he refused to accept its content he couldn’t accept its validity.

The temptation to tear the letter into shreds was appealing. He doubted if even Cassandra would have the nerve to write again, and once it was destroyed he could forget all about it.

But he couldn’t do it. Despite his suspicions, despite the fact that Antonio’s untimely death meant he had no nieces or nephews, a sick kind of curiosity demanded to know what was at the bottom of it.

Even the paper offended his sensibilities. A single sheet of lined notepaper, the kind a stenographer might use to take notes at a meeting, or, more likely, a sheet torn from a child’s notepad, just to reinforce the illusion of innocence.

Innocence!

His lips curled as he spread the page between his fingers and read again the message that had so angered him.

Dear Grandpa,

You don’t know me and Mum says you don’t want to but I don’t believe that. I’d like us to be friends and that’s why I’ve got Mum to bring me to Spain on holiday this year. We’re coming on June 12 and we’re staying in Punta del Lobo at the Pensión del Mar. I know it’s by the sea, but I don’t know if it’s a long way from Tuarega, but anyway you could come to see us. I’m sure Mum would like to see you whatever she says.

With love from your grandson, David de Montoya.

Enrique’s teeth clenched. How dared she call her child de Montoya? he thought savagely. If indeed there was a child, he reminded himself again. But, if so, he had to be some bastard born after Antonio was dead and buried. And Enrique knew—

But that was a path he had no intention of being drawn down. Whatever he knew or didn’t know about Cassandra was not in question here. His only concern was in ensuring that his father never saw the letter, never suffered the pain of knowing that once again Cassandra Scott—de Montoya, dammit—was trying to insinuate herself into his family.

His fingers curled about the cheap sheet of paper, screwing it into a tight ball in his palm. He didn’t want to look at it. He never wanted to see it again. But he had the feeling that, whatever he did, nothing would erase the memory of the words.

He aimed the ball of paper at his wastebin, and then dropped his arm again. If he left the letter there, someone might be curious enough to wonder what it was and unravel it. Unless he was prepared to tear it into pieces and put it into the lavatory, or set fire to it, he would have to dispose of it elsewhere.

Which was what he would do, he decided, neither of the other alternatives having much appeal to him. He refused to consider he might have any unacknowledged motive for hanging onto the missive. It was, after all, the only evidence he had that Cassandra had tried to reach his father.

Smoothing the letter out again, he opened a drawer in his bedside cabinet and slipped it between the pages of his missal. An ironic smile touched his lips at the incongruity of its resting place, but at least he was fairly sure that no one else was likely to find it there.

That still didn’t solve the problem of what he was going to do about it, he reflected later, after the maid had served him strong black coffee and warm brioche at a table set beneath the arching canopy of the colonnade. At this hour it was extremely pleasant eating breakfast outdoors, and normally this was the time of day when Enrique reviewed the work that had been done the previous day and consulted his managers’ reports of work in progress. As his father’s deputy—and in recent weeks the nominal head of the de Montoya corporation— Enrique took his responsibilities seriously. It was infuriating to think that this morning his thoughts were constantly bombarded by the knowledge that it was already June the fifteenth and Cassandra—and possibly her son—were only thirty miles away at Punta del Lobo.

Had the boy—if there was a boy—already found out how far it was from Punta del Lobo to Tuarega? Was it conceivable that Cassandra might go so far as to come to the estate?

Unable to sit still with such a prospect for company, Enrique picked up his coffee and walked restlessly across the courtyard to where a stone nymph cooled her heels in the waters of the fountain. He paused beside the stone basin and tried to calm his thoughts with the sight of the cream waterlilies that floated in the pool. The palacio circled three sides of this central courtyard, the fourth edged with purple azalea and scarlet oleander, whose mingled perfumes found little favour with him this morning. A warm breeze blew up from the valley, tumbling the drying strands of his thick hair over his forehead, and he thrust them back with impatient fingers.

Dammit, why now? he wondered, taking an absent mouthful of his coffee. After almost ten years, why choose this time to break her silence? Was it possible she’d read about his father’s illness? Did she think the old man might be more—approachable now, having been faced with his own mortality?

It was possible. Indeed, it was the only explanation that made any sense. Putting aside the unlikely premise that this boy, David de Montoya—he baulked at using that name—had written the letter, what else did he have? So what did he intend to do about it?



Cassandra stood on the sand, shading her eyes as she watched her son playing in the water. He’d made friends with a German boy who was also staying at the pensión and they’d spent the past couple of hours competing with each other on the plastic floats they’d hired from the beach attendant. This cove was the ideal place for children, and, although she’d had misgivings when she’d booked the holiday, there was no doubt that they were both benefiting from the break.

But it was already nearly five o’clock and Cassandra could feel her shoulders prickling in spite of the layering of sun-screen she’d applied and reapplied during the afternoon. Three days was not long enough to become completely acclimatised, and, although her skin wasn’t as sensitive now as it had been when they’d arrived, she knew better than to risk getting burned.

David didn’t have that problem. His skin already possessed a stronger pigment, and, even though she’d insisted on his wearing some protection, he didn’t seem to be affected by the sun. Which wasn’t unexpected considering his ancestry, Cassandra thought wryly. Not even nine years spent in a cool northern climate could significantly alter the pattern of heredity, and his skin was already acquiring a deeper tan.

Which she couldn’t hope to emulate, she reflected, brushing the sand from her arms with slim fingers. She rarely tanned, her pale skin turning pink or red, depending on the circumstances, and then reverting to a creamy white again as soon as the heat subsided. But at least she didn’t suffer the ignominy of freckles, even if her unruly mass of hair was more red than copper.

She glanced about her and noticed that the beach was emptying fast. Most people were making their way back to the hotels and pensiónes that dotted the hillside below the small town of Punta del Lobo, and Cassandra mimed to her son that it was time they were leaving, too. The beach was used almost exclusively by tourists and, like her, Cassandra guessed they were all looking forward to a cool shower and a change of clothes before venturing out for the evening meal.

Because of David, Cassandra ate earlier than many of their fellow guests. Europeans often had dinner at nine or even ten o’clock in the evening, but as David was invariably up at dawn, by ten o’clock Cassandra was wilting, too.

Still, it was nice to eat at one of the outdoor cafés or tapas bars that thronged the small square, and Cassandra looked forward to the glass of wine she usually allowed herself with the meal. Well, she was on holiday, after all, she defended herself, bending to pick up her beach bag and the towels lying on top of it. It had taken long enough, goodness knew, for her to feel sufficiently confident to make the trip.

She straightened and looked about her once again. Despite the fact that this bay was at least an hour’s drive from Tuarega, she couldn’t completely dispel the apprehension that gripped her when she was alone like this. This was the de Montoyas’ territory, after all, and it wouldn’t do to forget it.

Not that she truly expected to see anyone she knew. None of them knew they were here and she was a fool to anticipate anything unexpected happening. It would be too much of a coincidence if any member of the de Montoya family turned up in Punta del Lobo. She was worrying unnecessarily.

All the same, when David had once again broached the idea of them coming to Spain on holiday, she had demurred. She supposed he’d been six or seven years old when he’d first asked if they could go to Spain, and it had been comparatively easy at that time to find excuses not to go. This year she hadn’t been able to put him off, and, telling herself that Spain was a big country, she’d given in.

She’d had second thoughts, of course, when David had chosen Andalusia, but she’d had to admit that it was one of the most attractive areas in the brochure. And, not wanting to provoke more questions, she’d swallowed her inhibitions and booked it. Despite her fears, no one at the pensión had questioned their identity. After all, Punta del Lobo was not Cadiz. She was sure they would be safe enough there.

Her father thought she was mad, of course. But then, Mr Scott had always maintained that she should never have told David his father had been a Spaniard. Though how could she not? she argued. His name was so distinctive. It was only now, as David got older, that she could see her father might have had a point.

But not now, please God, she mused, as her son ran up to her, spraying her with seawater. Horst was with him and Cassandra smiled at the German boy with genuine warmth. Horst’s parents had gone to Seville for the day, but the boy had wanted to stay with David and Cassandra had agreed to look after him. He was a nice boy and far more biddable than her son.

No surprise there, then…

Cassandra cut herself off. She had no intention of getting into the reasons for that; no desire to remind herself of the generations of proud arrogant genes that ran in his blood. God knew, it was hard not to think about it every time she looked at him, but somehow, over the years, she had managed to subjugate all her bitterness where her son was concerned.

And she couldn’t imagine life without him; that was part of the problem. The fear that one day the de Montoyas might find out she had had a son was an ever-present anxiety, but after nine years she was becoming a little less apprehensive. One day, maybe, when David was fully grown and able to make his own decisions, she might tell him who his father had been. But that was far in the future and not something she even wanted to contemplate at this moment.

‘Do we have to go?’

David had picked up his towel and was rubbing it vigorously over his hair. Cassandra smiled and handed Horst his towel before replying, ‘I’m afraid so. It’s getting late. Haven’t you noticed? We’re practically the last people on the beach.’

David grimaced. ‘So?’ he said, arching an imperious brow, and just for a minute Cassandra was reminded of his father’s ruthless face.

‘So, it’s time we were getting back to the pensión,’ she declared tersely, angry with herself for putting that connotation on him. It was because they were here, because of what she had been thinking, she realised, hiding her irritation. It wasn’t David’s fault that she was on edge.

‘It has been a good day, Mrs de Montoya,’ said Horst, his precise English almost better than David’s. ‘It was most kind of you to let me stay.’

‘No problem,’ said Cassandra, jockeying her son into putting on his shorts. ‘We were happy to have you, weren’t we, David?’

‘What? Oh, yeah.’ David grinned, and he and Horst exchanged a high-handed slap. ‘I like showing him what a ditz he is when it comes to board racing.’

‘Ditz? What is that, a ditz?’ queried Horst, and then grinned himself when he realised the joke was at his expense. ‘Jerk,’ he said succinctly. ‘I will not tell you what I could call you if your mother was not here.’

‘Feel free,’ taunted David, and, giving the other boy a push, he darted off along the beach.

Horst followed him, and pretty soon they were rolling and tumbling together, with a complete disregard for the clothes they had just donned.

Cassandra sighed, and after returning the two boards the boys had left to the attendant she started after them, easily overtaking them with her long-legged stride. Her ankle-length voile skirt was showing the effects of sand and seawater, too, and she draped David’s towel about her shoulders to protect her smarting shoulders as she reached the cliff path.

The boys went up ahead of her, David the taller and therefore the quicker of the two. He was already a good-looking boy and she could imagine what a heartthrob he was going to be when he was older. So long as he didn’t do what his father had done, she mused sombrely. That was one problem she did not want to have to deal with again.

The Pensión del Mar was situated near the top of the cliff path, a narrow-fronted building with a striped awning protecting its pristine white façade. Cassandra had been favourably impressed with its appearance and with the service offered which, considering what they were paying, was considerably cheaper than similar accommodation back home. The proprietor, Señor Movida, was a charming man, too, and he was doing everything he could to make their stay a happy one.

To Cassandra’s relief, the small Fiat that the Kaufmans had hired was parked on the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, which meant that Horst’s parents were back. In fact, Herr Kaufman was standing in the doorway to the pensión, watching for his son, and Horst bounded ahead to greet his father.

‘Lucky dog,’ muttered David enviously, and Cassandra cast a startled look his way.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said Horst is lucky having a father,’ declared David gruffly. Then, before his mother could make any response, ‘I wonder if there’s been any post for us.’

‘Post?’ Cassandra blinked. ‘Do you mean a letter? Who would be writing to us? We just spoke to your grandfather last night on the phone.’

David shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, not altogether convincingly, and Cassandra knew a sudden chill. But then Herr Kaufman was coming towards them and she was forced to put her own doubts aside.

‘Thank you for looking after Horst, Mrs de Montoya,’ he said warmly, his eyes moving appreciatively over her slender figure so that she became intensely conscious of her damp skirt. ‘Has Horst been good?’

‘He’s been very good,’ Cassandra answered swiftly, wondering if she was only imagining the avidity of his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’

‘It was most enlightening,’ replied the man, nodding. ‘We visited many of the palaces and museums. Not something my son would be particularly interested in, I think.’

Cassandra forced a smile. ‘I think not,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t imagine David being interested in old buildings either.’

‘I might be,’ protested her son, but Herr Kaufman wasn’t listening to the boy.

‘Did you know that your name, de Montoya, is quite a famous one in Andalusia?’ he asked conversationally. ‘We have been reading some literature about this area, and it seems the de Montoya family is well-known both for the quality of the fortified wines they produce and for the magnificent bulls they breed on their estate just north of here. I do not suppose you are related to them, Mrs de Montoya?’

‘No,’ said Cassandra quickly, aware that David was now listening to Herr Kaufman with unusual interest. She gestured towards the pensión. ‘Is that likely?’ she asked, trying to make a joke of it, and then felt the fizzy soda she had consumed in the middle of the afternoon rise into her throat.

A man had just emerged from the building behind Horst’s father and she felt the colour drain out of her face. Almost convulsively, she clamped a desperate hand on David’s shoulder. The boy objected, but for once she was unaware of him. Her eyes were riveted on the newcomer. It couldn’t be, she thought sickly. But it was. Enrique de Montoya had paused in the doorway of the pensión and was presently surveying the scene that greeted his cold dark eyes with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt.

Dear God, how could this be? she fretted weakly. She’d told no one but her father that she was coming here, to this particular address. People knew she was holidaying in Spain, of course. Her boss at the bookshop where she worked knew, for example. She’d had to tell him what she was doing when she’d arranged for the time off. But he wouldn’t have told anyone. No one here, anyway. Certainly not the de Montoyas.

Her mouth dried. He looked just the same, she thought painfully: just as proud, just as arrogant, just as condescending as before. And just as attractive, though her attraction to him had been as crazy as that of the rabbit to the snake. He’d used that attraction, too, ruthlessly, and then expected her to do exactly as he’d wanted.

‘Is something wrong?’

Herr Kaufman had noticed her pale face and Cassandra hoped with a desperate longing that it was only a terrible coincidence that Enrique was here. He’d seen them, but perhaps he hadn’t recognised them. Well, her actually. He’d never seen David, didn’t even know of his existence.

She had to get away. The urge to run was irresistible, and, without considering what David might think of her sudden change of plan, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.

‘I’ve got a headache,’ she told Herr Kaufman swiftly. ‘It must be the sun. David, come with me. I need some aspirin. We’ll just pop along to the farmacia—’

‘Oh, Mum!’ David was predictably awkward. ‘Do we have to? We’ve just got back from the beach. I want a shower.’

‘David!’

‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance,’ broke in Herr Kaufman, possibly seeing a chance to compensate her for looking after his son. ‘I’d be happy to go to the farmacia for you.’

‘Oh, no. I—’

But it was too late. Before she could formulate a convincing excuse, one which would allow her to escape before Enrique recognised them, a tall shadow fell across their little group. And a voice, one which she would have sworn she’d forgotten, cut into their exchange.

‘Cassandra?’ Even the way he said her name was horribly familiar. ‘It is Cassandra, is it not? I am not mistaken?’

As if Enrique de Montoya would ever admit to being mistaken about anything, thought Cassandra wildly, forced to tip her head back to look up at him. He knew exactly who she was, and before she could do anything to protect her son Enrique’s dark eyes had moved almost dismissively to the boy at her side.

‘And this must be—David,’ he continued, only to suck in a strangled breath when he saw the boy.

David! Cassandra blinked. How had he known her son’s name? But before she found an answer to this, she saw the devastation his identity had wrought in Enrique’s stunned expression. Yes, look at him, she wanted to scream accusingly. See what you did; see what you’ve lost!

But of course she didn’t do anything of the kind. The de Montoyas were too polite for that. Besides, Herr Kaufman was still there, looking at Enrique with considering eyes, glancing from him to Cassandra and back again with obvious enquiry. He was probably wondering what someone who looked like Enrique de Montoya—who dressed like Enrique de Montoya—could have in common with a rather dishevelled English housewife. Enrique’s three-piece suit and grey silk shirt were obviously designer-made, whereas Cassandra’s clothes had never been particularly stylish, even when they were new.

‘You are a friend of Mrs de Montoya?’ It was the German who spoke, although David was close on his heels.

‘Do you know my grandfather?’ he demanded, and even as Cassandra was absorbing the shock of learning that her son knew something about this Enrique found his tongue.

‘I—yes,’ he said through clenched teeth, the look he cast at Cassandra full of emotions she couldn’t hope to identify. ‘I— I am your—’ His harsh voice was strained. ‘Your uncle,’ he got out tightly. ‘Enrique.’ He took a laboured breath. ‘I am—happy to meet you at last.’

‘You are Enrique de Montoya? The Enrique de Montoya?’

Herr Kaufman was persistent, and although Cassandra could hardly blame him for being curious, she wished he would show some discretion.

Enrique was gradually recovering his composure, however. She could see it in the way he straightened his shoulders and looked at the other man with bleak assessing eyes. He’d weathered the blow she’d dealt him and now he was exercising damage control. He had no intention of allowing anyone else to see his real feelings, and his thin lips lifted in a cold smile.

‘I have that privilege,’ he said now, in answer to the other man’s question. ‘And you are?’

‘Kaufman,’ said the German eagerly. ‘Franz Kaufman, señor.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you.’

Enrique hesitated long enough to make the other man uneasy before accepting the gesture. ‘How do you do?’ he responded, and then turned back to Cassandra.

‘Are you really my uncle?’

David had been silent long enough, and at last Franz Kaufman seemed to realise he was intruding. ‘If you will excuse me, Horst and I must go and see if my wife is ready to go into town,’ he declared, and Cassandra saw Enrique’s brow arch in acknowledgement.

He’d probably thought the other man was with her, she brooded bitterly. God, she wished he was, she thought, forgetting her own discomfort with Kaufman’s familiarity earlier. But she wished she had some weapon to use against Enrique, something to hurt this man who had attempted to destroy her life.




CHAPTER TWO (#ue7d92631-1f03-5b7e-b3ca-baa4e8dd16f4)


THE silence after Franz Kaufman’s departure was deafening. Enrique guessed it was up to him to answer the boy’s question, but for all his appearance of calm he was as taut as a violin string inside.

God! He’d been so sure he knew what he was doing when he’d decided to come to the Pensión del Mar and confront Cassandra with her sordid little deception. So sure it was the only thing he could do to keep her away from his father. Instead, he was left with the distinct suspicion that he should have left well enough alone.

‘I—yes,’ he said, after deciding there was no point in denying their kinship. ‘Antonio de Montoya was my brother,’ he conceded obliquely, aware that Cassandra was looking almost as sick as he felt. ‘You are David, I presume?’

Before the boy could answer, however, Cassandra grasped her son’s arm and pulled him round to face her. ‘What have you done?’ she demanded harshly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘What have you done?’

The boy had the grace to blush at his mother’s obvious distress. ‘I told you there might be some post for us,’ he mumbled, trying to drag himself away from her. ‘I didn’t know—he—was going to turn up, did I?’

No, he hadn’t known that, admitted Enrique to himself. But perhaps he should have suspected that such a bombshell would secure more than a casual response.

Unless… Unless the boy had assumed that his paternal grandfather knew of his existence?

‘Did you really expect we might ignore your letter?’ he asked now, supremely conscious of Cassandra standing stiffly beside her son, her whole being emitting the kind of hostility he’d never thought to have to face again. It was hard to remember that she had brought this on herself. It wasn’t his fault that she’d chosen to keep her son’s existence from them.

‘No.’ David swung round, evidently relieved to be distracted from his mother’s fury. ‘I knew you’d want to see me. I told Mum ages ago that I wanted to meet my Spanish grandfather, but she said you weren’t interested in us.’

‘Did she?’ Enrique couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘But she told you how to get in touch with us, no?’

‘No!’ Cassandra was incensed. ‘I wouldn’t do such a—’

But David’s excited voice overrode her protest. ‘No, Mum didn’t tell me anything. I got your address from my dad’s passport,’ he explained proudly. ‘Mum keeps it in a box upstairs.’ He gave his mother a defiant look as she tried to interrupt him. ‘You do,’ he insisted, clearly deciding he might never have another chance to defend himself. ‘You know you do. Along with all that other stuff: Dad’s wallet and letters and things.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘I’m sorry.’ Although he didn’t look it. ‘I found the box when I was looking for—for something else.’

‘What?’ Cassandra’s demand promised retribution, and David hunched his thin shoulders.

‘My catapult,’ he muttered, and she stared at him.

‘You were looking for your catapult in my wardrobe?’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘It’s true.’ David was defensive now. ‘I’d already looked in your knicker drawer and—’

Cassandra uttered something unrepeatable, and despite the seriousness of the situation Enrique felt his lips twitch with uncontrollable mirth. There was something so ludicrous in talking about catapults and knicker drawers when moments before his whole life had shifted on its axis.

But his humour must have shown in his face because Cassandra turned on him, her anger dispersing any pretence of courtesy he might have made. ‘You find it funny?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Well, of course, why would I expect anything different from you? No doubt you find the whole thing hilarious. You and your father can have a good laugh about it when you get home. Which I suggest should be sooner rather than later. Whatever you may think, there’s nothing for you here.’

Enrique sobered. ‘You think not?’ he asked succinctly, and knew a momentary satisfaction when anxiety replaced the fury in her eyes. ‘I beg to differ.’

Cassandra held up her head, and he had to admire the way she overcame her obvious dismay. ‘I think we’ve said all there is to say,’ she insisted tensely, but Enrique shook his head.

‘Not nearly,’ he responded coolly. ‘And I have to tell you that the only reason I am here is because my father is in the hospital in Seville. He had what they call a triple bypass—yes?—ten days ago. Had he not had this operation, he would have received David’s letter himself.’

Cassandra was obviously taken aback at this explanation, but although her lips parted she didn’t say anything. It was left to David to express his concern and to ask if his grandfather would be home soon. ‘We have to go home in less than two weeks,’ he explained earnestly. ‘Do you think he’ll be back before then?’

‘It doesn’t matter whether he will or not,’ declared Cassandra, proving that whatever Enrique had thought she had had nothing to do with the letter. ‘I have no intention of allowing you to associate with—with the de Montoyas, David. We’ve managed without their involvement in our lives for the past nine years. I have no desire to change the status quo.’

‘But I have,’ cried David indignantly, a sulky curve pulling down the corners of his lips. Lips which were distinctly like his own, noticed Enrique unwillingly. ‘They’re my family, just as much as you and Grandad are.’

Enrique had never thought he would ever feel sorry for Cassandra, but he did then. Her face, which had been flushed with anger, became almost dangerously pale, and the hand she lifted to push back the heavy weight of her hair was trembling.

‘But they don’t want you, David,’ she said, her voice breaking under the strain. ‘Do you?’ She looked at Enrique with eyes he was uneasily aware were filled with tears. ‘Do you? Dammit, tell him the truth, can’t you?’



It was after eight o’clock before Enrique got back to Tuarega. It hadn’t been that late when he’d left Punta del Lobo, but he’d spent at least an hour driving aimlessly along the coastal road, trying to come to terms with what he’d learned.

God! His hands tightened on the wheel of the Mercedes. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened. At no time had either he or his father imagined that the woman who had married his brother and who had been widowed less than twenty-four hours later could have conceived a child. And yet she had. There was no doubt that David was a de Montoya.

But she hadn’t known a thing about the letter. Her reaction had proved that. As the boy had said, he’d taken it upon himself to write to Julio de Montoya. The letter had been posted before he and his mother had left England.

He groaned.

Of course, it was tempting to shift all the blame onto Cassandra. She should have known what her son had done. He was only nine years old, por el amor de Dios. How difficult could it be to keep track of his movements?

But he also knew that he was not speaking from personal experience. And just because the sons and daughters of his close friends were fairly biddable that was no reason to suppose all children were the same. Indeed, he thought wryly, it could be argued that David was already exhibiting facets of his de Montoya heritage.

At the same time he felt a searing sense of injustice that Cassandra had kept the boy’s existence from them. And that, without David’s intervention, they might never have learned that Antonio had had a son.

Yet could he wholly condemn her for it? After what had happened—after what he had tried to do—she probably thought she’d had every right, after Antonio was killed, to cut the de Montoyas out of her life.

But, God, his father was going to get such a shock. If he’d known of the boy’s existence, Enrique knew he would have moved heaven and earth to gain custody of the boy. Whatever he’d thought of Cassandra, whatever he’d done to try and stop their marriage, David was his grandson. His only grandson to date. And, where Julio de Montoya was concerned, blood was everything.

Which was probably one of the main reasons why Cassandra had kept the information from them, Enrique acknowledged shrewdly. She knew better than anyone how ruthless his father could be—how ruthless he had been in pursuit of his father’s wishes.

But he didn’t want to think about that now. This was not the time to be feeling the twinges of conscience. He had to remember how Cassandra had seduced Antonio away from his family, his duty, and the girl he had been engaged to marry. She hadn’t shown any conscience, any remorse, not even when—

He took a deep breath. No. He would not get into his own role in the affair. The fact that it had ended in tragedy was enough to warrant any sense of outrage he might feel. Cassandra had destroyed so much: Antonio’s honour, his loyalty, his future. Was it possible that his brother had found out what a faithless bitch his new wife was and that was why he’d crashed the car as they drove to the south of England on honeymoon?

No! Once again, he couldn’t accept that. If he did, it would mean that Antonio had found out what Enrique and his father had tried to do. Surely, in those circumstances, Cassandra would have wanted him to know, would have wanted him to suffer as she was surely suffering now.

His jaw compressed. Thankfully he had succeeded in hiding the extent of the devastation David’s appearance had had on him. As far as Cassandra was concerned his shock had been short-lived, swiftly superseded by the anger he’d felt at her deception. No doubt she believed him to be entirely without feeling, and perhaps it was better if it stayed that way. But how the hell was he going to tell his father?

He shook his head. It would have been so much easier ten years ago. Then, Julio de Montoya had been a strong and dominant man, perfectly capable of handling any situation, with a merciless disregard for anyone who got in his way. He had ruled Tuarega with a rod of iron, and that was why he had found it so hard to accept when Antonio had defied him and insisted he wanted to marry the English girl he’d met while he was at college in London. Julio would have done almost anything to stop that marriage, even to the extent of sending his elder son to England with orders to use any means at his disposal to prevent it.

Enrique’s nostrils flared with sudden self-derision. That he hadn’t succeeded had always been a source of bitterness between himself and his father. He doubted Julio had ever forgiven him entirely for his failure, but his father had never known what had really happened, why Enrique had returned home without achieving his objective.

He could have stopped the wedding. If he’d told Antonio the truth, he was fairly sure his brother would have called it off. But he hadn’t said a thing. Because he’d been too ashamed of what he’d done; because he’d had only disgust for his part in it. He’d flown back to Spain knowing that Cassandra had won.

But had she? Now he was not so sure, and he despised himself for his weakness where she was concerned.

It was dark as he drove up through the valley where his family had lived for hundreds of years. Lights glinted from narrow windows in the village and the floodlit spire of San Tomás’s church was a reassuring sight. It was easy to believe that nothing changed here, that the ghosts of his ancestors would see and recognise the sights and sounds of other centuries in the immediacy of the twenty-first, but he knew better. There had been many changes, most particularly during General Franco’s years as president. But fortunately the political climate in this rural area had never mirrored that found in the cities, and as he accelerated past the fields and paddocks where his toros bravos, or fighting bulls, were grazing, he felt a sense of pride in his family’s achievements.

But that was short-lived. Thinking of his family reminded him that he had promised to ring his mother this evening. She was staying at the apartamento in Seville while her husband was in the hospital there and Enrique had said he would ring no later than seven o’clock. It was long past that time now, and he was ashamed to admit that for the past few hours he had given little thought to his responsibilities.

His mother would be sure to think that he’d forgotten, or that he simply didn’t care. Since Julio’s illness Elena de Montoya had become over-sensitive, looking for slights where none were intended, as if she was afraid that her husband’s incapacity somehow affected her authority. Perhaps she feared that if Julio died Enrique would no longer have respect for her, which was ridiculous.

Still, it was true that since Antonio’s death she had come to depend on him more and more. Julio’s heart attack some months ago had only increased her demands on his time, and, although Enrique knew it was only to be expected in the circumstances, it wasn’t always easy to balance his own needs with those of his parents.

Enrique brought the powerful car to a halt beside the arched colonnade that had once fronted a coach house and which now provided garaging for the estate’s many motor vehicles. Years ago, Enrique’s grandfather had kept a shining Hispano-Suiza here, and he remembered being allowed to ride in the front of the car on special occasions. He also remembered the punishment he’d received when the old man had found out he had taken the car out alone. He’d been afraid he’d never be allowed to have a car of his own.

But now was not the time to be having memories about the past. He knew it was seeing Cassandra again, meeting the boy, remembering what had happened ten years ago, that was responsible for his reminiscing about happier times. But the past wasn’t going to help him now. Somehow he had to decide what he was going to do about the present, and, although he intended to ring his mother, there was no way on earth he could tell her where he had been.

Or what had happened, he conceded, nodding to the man who had emerged from the building to take charge of the car. As he strode across the forecourt to the magnificent entrance of the palacio his mind was already busy finding excuses for his tardy behaviour.

Hardly noticing the intricately carved doorway, with its wrought-iron façade, he strode through a high-ceilinged entry that was distinctly Moorish in design. With a carved ceiling and tiled walls, this was the oldest part of the palacio and displayed its heritage in a dozen different ways. Enrique had always believed that Tuarega owed its name to the wild tribe of the Sahara, whose influence had spread beyond the shores of North Africa. But, whatever its history, there was little doubt that it owed its origins to the Saracen invaders who had occupied this part of Spain at the time of the crusades.

Generations of Spanish conquerors had followed them, of course, and much of the present building had been erected in more recent centuries. But the palacio had retained its atmosphere of light and coolness and space, successive craftsmen sustaining the delicacy of design that had characterised its Muslim architecture.

The courtyard, where he had eaten breakfast that morning, was immediately ahead of him, but Enrique turned left before reaching the outer doors, mounting a flight of marble stairs to an upper landing. One of the palacio’s many retainers stopped him to ask if he had eaten, but Enrique wasn’t interested in food. First he had to ring his mother, then he had to try and take stock of what his options were. And what he was going to do about them.

Cassandra had given him no latitude. As far as she was concerned he was sure she would prefer to consign him and all his family to hell. She hadn’t even let him talk to David, with or without her presence. She’d dragged the boy away into the pensión, probably hoping that she never had to see him again.

Which was decidedly naïve, he conceded grimly, thrusting open the door into his apartments and consigning his tie to the nearest surface. Whatever his own feelings in the matter might be, there was no way he could ignore the fact that David was his nephew. His parting words to the boy—that they would meet again, and soon—had been met with a cold ‘Over my dead body!’ from his mother, but Enrique was not deterred. Whether Cassandra chose to make this easy or not was of no interest to him. David was a de Montoya. Sooner or later he would have to learn what that meant.




CHAPTER THREE (#ue7d92631-1f03-5b7e-b3ca-baa4e8dd16f4)


CASSANDRA propped her chin on her hands and stared wearily across the table at her son’s sulky face. She ought to be really angry with him, and she was, but she couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit of sympathy, too.

After all, it wasn’t his fault that she’d never told him the truth about his de Montoya relations. She’d always avoided any discussion of her late husband’s family, hoping, pointlessly as it had turned out, that David would accept the fact that they and his mother just didn’t get on. It wasn’t as if he was short of an extended family. Cassandra’s two sisters were both married with children of their own. David had aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as his maternal grandfather to call on. Foolishly, she had thought that would be enough.

Clearly, it hadn’t been. Like his father before him, David was far too intelligent to accept her prevarication. But to go through her things, to seek out Antonio’s passport and write secretly to Julio de Montoya without even telling her what he’d done… Well, she didn’t know how she was going to forgive him for that.

She sighed, wondering what the chances were of them getting an earlier flight home. Not very good, she surmised, remembering how full the plane had been on the journey out. Besides, she’d paid for a two-week holiday package and if she wanted to change the return date she would obviously have to pay extra for their seats.

Not an option she wanted to consider. She had already spent over her budget in coming here and she was loath to ask her father to bail them out. That, too, would entail more explanations than she was prepared to face at present.

‘Are you going to maintain this ridiculous silence for much longer?’ she enquired at last, forcing her son to look up from the scrambled eggs and bacon he had ordered in spite of her protests. A fried breakfast was far too heavy in this climate, in her opinion, but David had not been in the mood to compromise. ‘Because if you are,’ she added, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

David emptied his mouth of food, took a gulp of orange juice, and then regarded her with accusing eyes. ‘Do I get a choice?’ he enquired insolently, and Cassandra knew a totally uncharacteristic desire to smack him.

‘I won’t be spoken to like this, David,’ she said, folding her napkin and placing it beside her plate. She, herself, had eaten nothing, and the sight of the greasy food was enough to turn her stomach. ‘I realise you think you have some justification for acting this way, but you’ve got no idea what a nest of vipers you’re uncovering.’

‘A nest of vipers,’ scoffed her son, around another mouthful of egg. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you ask me, you’re just jealous because Uncle Enrique liked me.’

Jealous!

Cassandra’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You think so?’ she said, the urge to wipe the smug look off his face becoming almost overwhelming. ‘And what would you know about it?’

‘I know Uncle Enrique is nice, really nice,’ declared her son staunchly. ‘Gosh, you were so rude to him, Mum! It’s a wonder he even wants to see me again.’

Cassandra pressed her lips together, feeling the unwelcome prick of tears behind her eyes. Oh, yes, she wanted to say, Enrique de Montoya wants to see you again. Now that he knows I have a son, he’ll do everything he can to take you away from me.

But, of course, she couldn’t tell her son that. She couldn’t be so cruel. Apart from anything else, it was unlikely he would believe her. In David’s world, people were exactly what they appeared to be; they said what they thought. They didn’t lie or cheat, or use any means in their power to destroy someone else. Why frighten him unnecessarily? He would learn soon enough that the de Montoyas would do anything to gain their own ends.

‘Anyway, I think you should tell him you’re sorry when you see him again,’ went on David, scraping up the last of his eggs with his fork. He looked up, his dark eyes a haunting reminder of the past. ‘We are going to see him again, aren’t we, Mum?’

Cassandra hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve decided to cut the holiday short,’ she said, even though she hadn’t decided any such thing until that moment. ‘I’m going to find out whether we can get a flight home later today—’

‘No!’ David sprang up from his seat in dismay, and the family of holidaymakers at the nearby table turned curious eyes to see what was going on. ‘I won’t go,’ he said, not caring what anyone else thought of his behaviour. ‘You can’t make me.’

‘Sit down, David.’

Cassandra was embarrassed, but her son was beyond being reasoned with. ‘I won’t sit down,’ he declared. ‘I want to see Uncle Enrique again. I want to see my grandfather. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Sit down!’

This time Cassandra got half out of her seat and, as if realising he wasn’t doing himself any favours by making it impossible for his mother to face her fellow guests, he subsided unwillingly into his seat.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said Cassandra, her voice thick with emotion, ‘you’ll do exactly as I tell you. You’re nine years old, David. I have every right to demand that you do as I say.’

David’s expression was sulky, but Cassandra was relieved to see that there were tears in his eyes now. ‘But why are you being so awful?’ he exclaimed huskily. ‘You always said you loved my father. Was that just a lie?’

‘No!’ Cassandra gave an inward groan. ‘I did love him. More than you can ever know.’

‘Then—’

‘But your father wasn’t like the rest of his family,’ she continued urgently. ‘He was—sweet; gentle. He—he was prepared to risk the wrath of his own family just so we could be together.’

David frowned. ‘Are you saying they tried to stop you getting married?’

Cassandra’s stomach lurched. ‘Something like that.’

‘So when you said you didn’t get on with Dad’s family, what you really meant was that they didn’t get on with you?’

God, Cassandra really didn’t want to talk about this.

‘I—suppose so,’ she agreed tensely.

‘But that doesn’t mean they don’t want to know you now,’ protested David, his eagerness showing in his face. ‘Dad died, what? Ten years ago?’

‘Nearly.’

‘So…’ He shrugged. ‘They’ve obviously changed their minds. Why else would Uncle Enrique come here to meet us?’

‘Because of you,’ cried his mother fiercely, realising too late that she had spoken a little too vehemently. ‘I mean,’ she said, modifying her tone, ‘naturally they want to meet you. You’re your father’s son.’

‘And yours,’ put in David at once. ‘And once they get to know you—’

‘They’re not going to get to know me,’ said Cassandra desperately. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? I never want to see any of the de Montoyas again.’

David’s face crumpled. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do mean it.’ Cassandra felt dreadful but she had to go on. ‘I know you’re disappointed, but if we can’t get a flight home, I’m going to see if it’s possible for us to move to another pensión along the coast—’

‘No!’

‘Yes.’ Cassandra was determined. ‘I’m prepared to compromise. I know you’ve been looking forward to this holiday, and I don’t want to deprive you of it, so perhaps we can move to another resort.’

‘I don’t want to move to another resort,’ protested David unhappily. ‘I like it here. I’ve made friends here.’

‘You’ll make friends wherever we go.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘But—’

‘But what?’

David shook his head, apparently deciding he’d argued long enough. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, and then looked considerably relieved when Horst Kaufman and his parents stopped at their table.

The German family had been having breakfast on the terrace and now they all smiled down at David and his mother.

‘Good morning, Mrs de Montoya,’ said Franz Kaufman cheerfully. ‘It is another lovely day, yes?’

‘Oh—yes.’ Cassandra managed a polite smile in return. Then, noticing their more formal clothes, ‘Are you going off for the day?’

‘Yes. We are going to Ortegar, where we believe there is a leisure facility for the children.’ It was Frau Kaufman who answered, and Cassandra couldn’t help but admire their grasp of her language. ‘A water park and such. We wondered if you would permit David to come with us?’

‘Oh.’

Cassandra was nonplussed. She hardly knew the Kaufmans and the idea of allowing David to go off with them for the day was not something she would normally countenance. But, she reminded herself, she was going to spend the day trying to change their hotel arrangements, and going off with Horst and his family might be just what her son needed to put all thoughts of the de Montoyas out of his head.

‘Can I, Mum? Can I?’

David was clearly enthusiastic, and, putting her own doubts aside, Cassandra lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘I— I don’t know what to say.’

‘We would take great care of him, of course,’ put in Franz Kaufman heartily, patting David on the shoulder. ‘And as he and Horst get along together so well…’

‘We do. We do.’

David gazed at her with wide appealing eyes, and deciding that anything was better than having him dragging after her all day, making his feelings felt, Cassandra sighed.

‘Well, all right,’ she agreed, earning a whoop from both children. ‘Um—where did you say you were going?’

‘Ortegar,’ said Frau Kaufman at once, and Cassandra frowned.

‘Ortegar?’ she said. ‘Where is that exactly?’

‘It is along the coast. Near Cadiz,’ answered Franz a little impatiently. ‘Maybe twenty miles from here, that is all.’

And probably twenty miles nearer Tuarega, thought Cassandra, moistening her lips. She knew that because she had scanned the map very thoroughly before agreeing to David’s choice of destination.

Her heartbeat quickened. David’s choice of destination, she realised unsteadily. Goodness, how long had her son been planning to write to his grandfather?

‘I’ll go and get ready,’ said David eagerly, and she wondered if he suspected what she was thinking. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ murmured Cassandra, getting up from her chair and giving the Kaufmans another polite smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

‘We will be waiting out front.’ Franz Kaufman nodded his approval, and Cassandra was left with the uneasy feeling that she had been out-manoeuvred by her son again.

David had already bundled a towel and his swimming trunks into his backpack by the time she reached their room. He had evidently raced up the stairs and she tried not to wonder if he was desperate to get away.

‘Do you need any money?’ she asked, picking up a discarded tee shirt from the floor, but David only shook his head and edged towards the door.

‘I’ve got four hundred pesetas. That’s enough,’ he said quickly, and his mother stared at him.

‘That’s less than two pounds,’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t know how much it will cost to get into the leisure park.’

‘You can pay Herr Kaufman when we get back,’ said David impatiently. ‘Come on, Mum. They’re waiting for me.’

Not that urgently, thought Cassandra unhappily, but she had given her word. ‘All right,’ she said, accepting his dutiful peck on her cheek. ‘Be good.’

‘I will.’ David headed out of the door with a triumphant grin on his face. ‘See you later.’



Sanchia’s red sports car was just pulling up outside the palacio when Enrique came out of the building. Sanchia herself, tall and dark and exotically beautiful, emerged from the vehicle, smoothing down the narrow skirt of the green linen suit that barely skimmed her knees.

Once his brother’s fiancé, Sanchia had swiftly recovered from that fiasco. Within a year, she had married a distant relative of the Spanish royal family, and when her elderly husband died leaving her a wealthy widow, she had immediately transferred her affections to her late fiancé’s brother, making Enrique wonder if that hadn’t been her objective all along.

But perhaps he was being conceited, he thought now. Sanchia had been heartbroken when Antonio had married an Englishwoman and had then been killed almost before the ink on the marriage licence was dry. She had turned to him then, but he hadn’t imagined that her plea for his affection had been anything more than a natural response to the circumstances she’d found herself in. After all, Sanchia’s family had never had a lot of money and it must have been quite a blow when her wealthy fiancé abandoned her less than three months before their wedding.

In any event, Enrique had made it quite plain then that he was not interested in taking up where his brother had left off. He liked Sanchia well enough, he always had, but the idea of taking her to bed because his brother had let her down was anathema to him. He had been grieving, too, and not just because his brother was dead. He had let Antonio down, and he’d found it hard to live with himself at that time.

Now, things were different. Sanchia had been married and widowed, and he himself was that much older and more willing to accept that life could all too easily deal you a rotten hand. The relationship he had with Sanchia these days suited both of them. He doubted he would ever get married, despite what his father had had to say about it, and, although Sanchia might hope that he’d change his mind, she was not, and never could be, the only woman in his life.

Which was probably why he felt such an unexpected surge of impatience at her appearance this morning. His thoughts were focused on what he planned to do today and Sanchia could play no part in that.

She, of course, knew nothing of the events of yesterday. Even though there’d been a message from her waiting on his answering machine when he’d got back last night, he hadn’t returned her call, which probably explained her arrival now.

‘Querido!’ she exclaimed, her use of the Spanish word for ‘darling’ sounding warm and intimate on her tongue. She reached up to kiss him, pouting when her lips only brushed his cheek, before surveying his casual appearance with some disappointment. ‘You are going out? I was hoping we might spend the day together.’

‘I am sorry.’ Enrique was aware that his navy tee shirt and cargo trousers were not his usual attire, but they were less likely to attract attention in a holiday resort than the three-piece suit he’d worn the day before. ‘I have got—some business to attend to.’

‘Dressed like this?’ Sanchia twined her fingers into the leather cord that he’d tied at his waist. ‘I cannot see you visiting one of your clients in a tee shirt.’

‘Did I say I was going to visit one of my clients?’ asked Enrique rather more curtly than he had intended. He disentangled her fingers from the cord and stepped back from her. ‘It is a personal matter,’ he appended, feeling obliged to give her some sort of explanation. ‘Really. I have got to go.’

‘Is it another woman?’ she demanded, and just for a moment he felt a surge of resentment that she should feel she had the right to question his actions.

But then common sense reasserted itself. Why shouldn’t she feel she had some rights where he was concerned? They had been seeing one another for months, after all.

‘Not in the way you mean,’ he assured her, his thin smile hardly a reassurance. Then, belatedly, ‘Perhaps I can ring you later?’

Sanchia’s lips tightened. ‘You are not going to tell me where you are going?’

‘No.’ There was no ambivalence on that score.

Her mouth trembled now. ‘Enrique…’

His irritation was totally unwarranted, and he despised himself for it. But, dammit, he wanted to get to Punta del Lobo before Cassandra had time to disappear again. ‘Look,’ he said reasonably, ‘this does not concern you—us. It is—something to do with my father. A confidential matter I have to attend to.’

Sanchia’s jaw dropped. ‘Your father has been having an affair?’

‘No!’ Enrique was horrified that she should even think such a thing.

‘But you said it did involve another woman,’ she reminded him, and Enrique wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

‘I also said, not in the way you mean,’ he declared shortly. ‘It is just—’ Dios, what could he say? ‘—an unexpected complication.’

‘That involves a woman?’

‘Only indirectly.’

That, at least, was true, although Enrique could feel his stomach tighten as he thought of confronting Cassandra again. Dios, he hated that woman, he thought savagely. If only he could tell Sanchia how he really felt, she would have no further cause for concern.

‘Muy bien.’ She pivoted on her high heels and, waiting for him to fall into step beside her, she started towards her car. ‘But you will ring me later this morning, sí?’

‘Make it this afternoon,’ said Enrique, suppressing a sigh. ‘If I cannot reach you at home, I will call your mobile.’

‘Which will not be switched off as yours was last night,’ remarked Sanchia waspishly, inspiring another twinge of irritation. Dammit, when had they got to the point where every move he made had to be justified?

‘I will ring,’ he assured her, making no promises of when that would be. He swung open the door of the scarlet convertible. ‘Adiós!’




CHAPTER FOUR (#ue7d92631-1f03-5b7e-b3ca-baa4e8dd16f4)


CASSANDRA trudged back to the lodging house with a heavy heart. She had wasted the whole morning waiting to see her holiday representative to try and get David and herself transferred to an alternative pensión, but she was no further forward.

The trouble was, the kind of accommodation she and her son could afford was in short supply and, without paying a huge supplement and moving to a hotel, they were stuck. The young rep who was based at the nearby Hotel Miramar had been very polite, but after spending the morning dealing with other holidaymakers’ complaints, she was naturally puzzled by Cassandra’s request. Particularly as the only excuse she could offer for wanting to leave the Pensión del Mar was because Punta del Lobo was too quiet. The girl had probably thought she was used to frequenting bars and nightclubs, thought Cassandra unhappily. And what kind of a mother did that make her appear to be?

It was all Enrique de Montoya’s fault, she thought resentfully. If he hadn’t turned up and ruined what had promised to be the first really good holiday they had had in ages, she wouldn’t have had to tell lies to anyone, or now have to face the prospect of David’s disappointment when he discovered their options had narrowed. As far as she could see, she only had one alternative: to bring the date for their homeward journey forward. Whatever it cost.

And, as she approached the pensión, she was forced to admit that it wasn’t just the de Montoyas’ fault that she was in this position. David had to take his share of the blame. All right, perhaps she should have been more honest with him right from the beginning, but surely he had known that what he was doing was wrong? Wasn’t that why he had kept the letter a secret from her?

She turned in at the gate of the pensión, tipping her head back to ease the tension in her neck, and then felt a quivering start in the pit of her stomach. As she looked ahead again, she saw a man rising from the low wall that bordered the terrace, where chairs and tables offered an alternative to eating indoors. The striped canopy, which gave the Pensión del Mar its individuality, formed a protective shade from the rays of the midday sun, but it also cast a shadow that Cassandra at first thought had deceived her eyes. But, no, she was not mistaken. It was Enrique who had been sitting there, waiting for her, like the predator she knew him to be.

But, as always, he looked cool and composed, his lean muscled frame emphasised by a tight-fitting navy tee shirt and loose cotton trousers. Despite herself, she felt her senses stir at his dark, powerful masculinity, and it was that much harder to steel herself against him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, taking the offensive before he could disconcert her, and he gave her a retiring look.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded, looking beyond her, and she was inordinately grateful that the Kaufmans had taken David out for the day.

‘He’s not here,’ she said, deciding to let him make what he liked of that. ‘You’ve wasted your time in coming here.’

Enrique’s eyes grew colder, if that were at all possible. He was already regarding her with icy contempt, and she was unhappily aware that again he had found her looking hot and dishevelled. But after a morning sitting in the open foyer of the Miramar, which was not air-conditioned and where she had not been offered any refreshment, she was damp and sweaty. Her hair, which she should really have had cut before she came away, was clinging to the nape of her neck, and her cropped sleeveless top and cotton shorts fairly shrieked of their chainstore origins.

But what did it matter what he thought of her? she asked herself impatiently. However she looked, he was not going to alter his opinion of her or of David, and, even if she’d been voted the world’s greatest mum, the de Montoyas would still be looking for a way to take David away from her.

‘Where is he?’ Enrique asked again, and this time she decided not to prevaricate.

‘He’s gone out with friends,’ she replied, making an abortive little foray to go past him, but he stepped into her path.

‘What friends?’ His dark eyes bored into her. ‘The Kaufmans?’

‘Got it in one,’ said Cassandra, acknowledging that Enrique never forgot a name. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

Enrique said something that sounded suspiciously like an oath before his hard fingers fastened about her forearm. ‘Do not be silly, Cassandra,’ he intoned wearily. ‘You are not going anywhere and you know it.’

She didn’t attempt to shake him off. It wouldn’t have done any good and she knew it. But perhaps she could get rid of him in other ways and she widened her eyes challengingly at him as she opened her mouth.

But the scream she’d been about to utter stuck in her throat when he hustled her across the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, his words harsh against her ear. ‘Make a scene and I may just have to report Señor Movida to the licensing authorities.’

Cassandra stared at him. ‘You can’t do that. Señor Movida hasn’t done anything wrong.’

‘I am sure my lawyers could come up with something, if I paid them enough,’ retorted Enrique unfeelingly, propelling her around the corner from the pensión to where his Mercedes was parked. ‘And you, I am equally sure, would not risk that.’

Cassandra trembled. ‘You’re a bastard, Enrique!’

‘Better a bastard than a liar, Cassandra,’ he informed her coldly, flicking the switch that unlocked the car. ‘Please get in.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Enrique regarded her with unblinking eyes. ‘Do not go there, Cassandra. You are only wasting your time and mine. We need to talk, and you will have to forgive my sensibilities when I say I prefer not to—how is it you say it?—wash my linen in public?’

‘Dirty linen,’ muttered Cassandra, before she could stop herself, and Enrique’s mouth curved into a thin smile.

‘Your words, not mine,’ he commented, swinging open the nearside door and waiting patiently for her to get into the car. And, when she’d done so with ill grace, unhappily conscious of her bare knees and sun-reddened thighs, he walked round the back of the vehicle and coiled his long length behind the steering wheel. Then, with a derisive glance in her direction, ‘Do not look so apprehensive, Cassandra. I do not bite.’

‘Don’t you?’

Now she held his gaze with hot accusing eyes and then experienced a pang of anguish when he looked away. Was he remembering what she was remembering? she wondered, despising herself for the unwelcome emotions he could still arouse inside her. God, the only memories she should have were bitter ones.

His starting the engine caught her unawares. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she cried, diverted from her thoughts, and he lifted his shoulders in a resigned gesture.

‘What does it look like I am doing?’ he enquired, glancing in the rearview mirror, checking for traffic. ‘You didn’t think we were going to sit here and talk?’

‘Why not?’

‘Humour me,’ he said tersely, and although Cassandra was fairly sure that nothing she said or did would change his mind, she bit down on her protests. Why should she object when he was leaving the pensión? She might even be able to persuade him not to come back.

Or not.

‘I’m not going to Tuarega with you,’ she blurted suddenly, and Enrique gave a short mirthless laugh as he pulled out of the parking bay.

‘I have not invited you to do so,’ he observed drily, and she felt the flush of embarrassment deepen the colour in her cheeks. ‘I suggest we find a bar where it is unlikely that either of us will meet anyone we know.’

‘Don’t you mean anyone you know?’ she snorted, and he gave her a considering look.

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not to me,’ she assured him coldly. ‘I just want to get this over with.’

Enrique shook his head. ‘We both know that is not going to happen,’ he replied flatly. ‘You should not have written to my father if you wished to keep your selfish little secret.’

‘I didn’t write to your father,’ Cassandra reminded him fiercely. ‘I wouldn’t do such a thing.’

‘No.’ He conceded the point. ‘I believe that now.’

‘Now?’ Cassandra was appalled. ‘Do you mean you had any doubts?’

Enrique shrugged. ‘I had my reasons.’

‘What reasons?’ Cassandra stared at him, and then comprehension dawned. ‘My God, you did think I’d written the letter, didn’t you? You honestly thought I’d want anything from you! Or your father!’

Enrique didn’t answer her and she was left with the shattering discovery that his opinion of her hadn’t changed one bit. He still thought she was a greedy little gold-digger, who had only latched onto his brother because she’d known what his background was.

Pain, like a knife, sliced through her, and she reached unthinkingly for the handle of the door. In that moment she didn’t consider that they had left the small town of Punta del Lobo behind, that the car was in traffic and that they were moving at approximately sixty kilometres an hour. Her only need was to get as far away from him as possible as quickly as possible, and even the sudden draught of air that her action elicited only made her feel even more giddy and confused.

She didn’t know what might have happened if Enrique hadn’t reacted as he had. At that moment she didn’t care. But, with a muffled oath, he did two things almost simultaneously: his hand shot out and grasped her arm, anchoring her to her seat, and he swung the big car off the winding coast road, bringing it to a shuddering stop on a sand-strewn verge above towering cliffs.

‘Estas loco? Are you mad?’ he demanded, and she realised it was a measure of the shock he’d had that he’d used his own language and not hers. Then, when she turned a white tear-stained face in his direction, his eyes grew dark and tortured. ‘Crazy woman,’ he muttered, his voice thick and unfamiliar, and, switching off the engine, he flung himself out of the car.

He went to stand at the edge of the cliffs, the warm wind that blew up from the ocean flattening the loose-fitting trousers against his strong legs. He didn’t look back at her, he simply stood there, gazing out at the water, raking long fingers through his hair before bringing them to rest at the back of his neck.

Perhaps he was giving her time to regain her composure, Cassandra pondered uneasily, as sanity reasserted itself. But she didn’t think so. Just for a moment there she had glimpsed the real Enrique de Montoya, the passionate man whose feelings couldn’t be so coldly contained beneath a mask of studied politeness, and she suspected he had been as shocked as she was.

Nevertheless, however she felt about him, there was little doubt that he had saved her from serious injury or worse. He’d risked his own life by swerving so recklessly off the highway, taking the car within inches of certain disaster, just to prevent her from doing something which, as he’d said, would have been crazy.

What had she been thinking? She trembled as the full extent of her own stupidity swept over her. What good would it have done to throw herself from the car? What would it have achieved? If she’d been killed—God, the very thought of it set her shaking again—who would have looked after David then? Whose claim on her son would have carried the most weight? She didn’t need to be a psychic to know that in those circumstances her own family would have been fighting a losing battle.

So why hadn’t Enrique let her do it? Or was that what he was doing now? Reproving himself for allowing a God-given opportunity to slip through his fingers? No. However naïve it might make her, she didn’t think that either.

She took a breath and then, pushing open her door, she got out of the car. She steadied herself for a moment, with her hand on the top of her door. Then, closing it again, she walked somewhat unsteadily across to where he was standing. The wind buffeted her, too, sending the tumbled mass of her hair about her face, but she only held it back, her eyes on Enrique’s taut profile.

‘I’m—sorry,’ she said after a moment, but although she knew he’d heard her, he didn’t look her way.

‘Go back to the car.’ The words were flat and expressionless. ‘I will join you in a moment.’

Cassandra caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘You’re right,’ she said, forced to go on. ‘What I did was crazy! I could have killed us both.’

Now Enrique did look at her, but she gained no reassurance from his blank expression. ‘Forget it,’ he told her. ‘I have.’

Cassandra quivered. ‘As you forget everything that doesn’t agree with you?’ she asked tremulously. ‘And everyone?’

Enrique’s features contorted. ‘I have forgotten nothing,’ he assured her harshly, and she shrank from his sudden antagonism.

‘Then how do you live with yourself?’ she was stung to reply, and with a muffled epithet he brushed past her.

‘God knows,’ he muttered in his own language, but she understood him. He headed for the car. ‘Are you coming?’

The bar he took her to was in the next village. A whitewashed building on the road, it was open at the back, spilling its customers out onto a wood-framed deck above a pebbled beach. Further along, a black jetty jutted out into the blue water, and several small fishing smacks and rowing boats were drawn up onto a strip of sand. Old men sat mending their nets, and, judging by the clientele in the bar, this was not a venue for tourists.

Contrary to what Enrique had said earlier, the bartender knew exactly who he was, and it was obvious from the man’s manner that he welcomed his customer. Cassandra guessed, nonetheless, that he was curious about who she was and why Enrique should choose to bring her here, but he knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he escorted them personally to a table on the deck that was shaded by a canvas canopy, and enquired politely what he could get them to drink.

‘Wine?’ suggested Enrique, looking at Cassandra, and at her indifferent nod he ordered two glasses of Rioja. ‘It is served from a barrel here,’ he explained as the man walked away, and Cassandra guessed he was only behaving courteously for the other man’s benefit.

‘What is this place?’ she asked, taking her cue from him, and Enrique glanced towards the jetty before looking at her.

‘San Augustin,’ he said in the same civil tone. ‘I used to come here a lot when I was younger. While I was a student, I worked behind the bar for a while until my father found out.’

‘And stopped you?’ suggested Cassandra unthinkingly, and he nodded.

‘My father said a de Montoya should not—well, it is not important what he said,’ he appended shortly. ‘It is many years now.’

‘Yet the bartender remembers you.’

‘I did not mean it is so many years since I was here,’ he explained. ‘José and I, we know one another quite well.’

Cassandra began to smile and then pulled her lips into a straight line again. She was starting to relax with him and that was not good. She had no doubt it would suit him very well, but she had to remember why he had brought her here and it wasn’t to exchange anecdotes about the past. Well, not that past anyway, she amended, with a sudden spurt of hysteria.

The bartender returned with their wine and a large plate of what she realised were tapas. But not the mass-produced tapas that were available in the bars in Punta del Lobo. Something told her that this was the real thing, the fat juicy olives, spiced with herbs, the batter-dipped prawns, the bite-sized pieces of crisply fried fish bearing little resemblance to what she’d seen so far. They smelled wholesome, too, and in other circumstances the cheese that was oozing out of the paper-thin rolls of ham would have made her mouth water.

‘Is good, señor?’ the man enquired, obviously having heard them speaking in English, and Enrique inclined his head.

‘Muy bien, José,’ he responded in his own language. Very good. ‘Gracias.’

The bartender smiled and went away, and Enrique indicated the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Hardly,’ said Cassandra, reluctantly taking a sip of her wine. She hoped it wasn’t too intoxicating. She’d had nothing to eat that day and her stomach was already bubbling with apprehension. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

Enrique hesitated. She noticed he wasn’t interested in the food either and, like her, he seemed quite content to concentrate on his wine. His hands, brown and long-fingered, played with the stem of his glass, and she was mesmerised by their sensitive caress. It reminded her far too acutely of how those fingers had felt gripping her wrist, grasping her arm, stroking her naked flesh…

She took a laboured breath as somewhere nearby a guitar began to play. Its music, poignant at times, at others vibrantly sensual, tugged at her emotions, fanning the flames of memories she desperately wanted to forget. She should not have come here, she thought unsteadily. She was still far too vulnerable where he was concerned.

‘I think you know why we have to talk,’ Enrique said at last, his eyes intent. ‘David is a de Montoya. You had no right to keep that from us.’

Cassandra pursed her lips. ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

‘What? That he is Antonio’s son? Of course.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

Enrique lay back in his chair, giving her a sardonic look. ‘Cassandra, do not play games with me. We both know that he is the image of his father at that age.’

‘Is he?’

‘Do you wish me to produce a photograph as proof? No, I did not think so. The boy shows his Spanish blood in every way. His eyes, his colouring, his mannerisms. His honesty.’

Cassandra stiffened. ‘His honesty?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Oh, right. You’d know a lot about that.’

A muscle in Enrique’s jaw jerked angrily. ‘Do not bait me, Cassandra. What is it they say about glass houses? It is not wise to throw stones, no?’

Cassandra rested her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders and curling her fingers behind her ears. It would be so easy to burst his bubble, she mused, so easy to explode the myth that David was Antonio’s son, but it was seldom wise to give in to temptation, as she knew only too well. Much better to wait to allow the situation to develop, to keep that particular revelation up her sleeve. She had reason to believe that she might need it.

‘All right,’ she said, allowing him to make what he liked of that, ‘perhaps I should have informed your father when David was born. But I had every reason to believe that he—that all of you—wanted nothing more to do with me.’

Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘So you decided to take your revenge by keeping the boy’s existence a secret from us?’




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