by Allen, Jewel
Isa frowned. “Hablas inglés?”
María shook her head. Isa suppressed her dismay and motioned for her to come in so she could do whatever it was that maids in billionaire castles did.
Within minutes, María turned into a whirling dervish, pulling back window drapes, fluffing up pillows, straightening up the bed curtains. She flung open a vintage green wardrobe and descended upon Isa’s suitcase with methodical energy. Soon, she had arranged all her belongings into color-coordinated piles and on hangers, enough to impress Marie Kondo herself.
“Gracias, María,” Isa said. The maid beamed and left her.
Isa chafed with impatience. Every single minute she spent here, she wanted to work at the book.
She would bide her time. Oh, but that bed looked inviting. Maybe, she could take a little nap to ward off jetlag.
Or better yet, she could go out on the grounds and take photos. She unpacked her SLR and slung it around her neck. And then she went down to the front of the house, her eyes straying with curiosity at the west wing. She wondered if that was where Alejandro was hiding out.
“Can I help you with something?”
She nearly jumped at the sound of Horatio’s voice. He was standing in the rotunda. She could have sworn he wasn’t there a minute ago.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I was just on my way out.”
Under his suspicious glare, she moved on.
Chapter Ten
Isa opened the wardrobe to consider what to wear. And then she remembered that Alejandro couldn’t see, so maybe it didn’t matter. Still, she put some care and thought into it. She decided on an orange sundress that enhanced her fair complexion and dark brown hair.
There was a knock on the door. It was Horatio. “Miss,” the butler said, “dinner is served.”
“Thank you, Horatio.”
“Oh, and please know. The master likes being punctual.”
“Of course.”
What exactly could make her late? Too many roses to be plucked in the garden on her little promenade before dinner?
María came to check on her. There wasn’t anything Isa needed done, but to make María feel needed, she asked her what she thought of her dress in her rudimentary Spanish. María beamed and giggled, fingering the fabric of her skirt. And then she said something that Isa thought pretty much translated into, “The master will like it.”
If she could have asked, “But he’s blind, isn’t he?” she would have.
With María happily dispatched, Isa went down to the first floor of the castle. Along the way, she looked at the paintings on the wall. Generations of regal-looking Spaniards in royal dress and military regalia. Dogs and horses in scenes. Bullfights and flamenco dancers. The Spanish culture permeated each and every painting. She wanted to know more about each scene. She may have to research a book beyond Alejandro’s.
She wasn’t that ambitious. She was okay with getting his first. Any other books would be icing on the cake.
The stairs diverged into two directions, the other wing being Alejandro’s forbidden section. She glanced at it briefly, then turned, resolute, down the hall.
She heard the clinking of silverware and followed it into a room with an arched doorway. Light spilled out into the hall, promising good things, but nothing could have prepared her for the sheer opulence of the space.
The dining room was the size of a hotel ballroom, with old-world wall murals of people picnicking and enjoying themselves. Isa was familiar with Spanish art, having taken a World Art class in college, and the style of the paintings here reminded her of Francisco Goya’s style. The colors were vibrant, as though someone came through with a chemical and made everything gleam.
Tall velvet drapes flanked windows that were open to the spring day. She could smell that distinct orange blossom scent. A long table stood in the middle of this grandeur, laden with multiple candelabras and place settings with gold chargers and polished silverware. At the end of the table sat Alejandro.
He wore a suit that fit him impeccably. She touched the fabric of her skirt, aware only of him as he stood, his jacket unbuttoned and falling open to a blue shirt. If she didn’t know that he was blind, she’d have thought he was gazing at her intently.
To the outside world, this could’ve been a date. But of course, she knew that this was all part of business.
He touched something on the table.
“Good,” he said, “I like punctuality.” When his hand moved again, she could see it was some sort of a gadget. To tell time?
As she took the seat to his right, she retorted, “What do you do to tardy guests?”
“I make them clean the horse pen.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But that would delay dinner even more.”
“I have them do it the next day.”
She glanced at him, with the freedom afforded of knowing he couldn’t see her. In the candlelight, his face was obscured by shadows, but they couldn’t mask his attractiveness.
“Horatio says you went out to the garden today with a camera slung around your neck.”
Isa couldn’t help but feel that there were numerous eyes in the household. “Yes, I did.”
“And? Did you find anything interesting?”
“I loved the gardens.”
“Ah, yes. Are the spring flowers in bloom?”
“They are.”
“I wish...I wish I could see them again.”
“Is Eales not curable?”
“Unfortunately not in my case. Rarely, a hemorrhage develops behind the eye, and I won the lottery.”
Isa noted the way his eyes were generally unfocused. “Glasses can’t help?”
“They simply magnify the grayness.”
Two maids came out then, each respectively with their food and drink. Isa asked for water. He drank wine with his meal.
There was a huge platter of paella, with succulent seafood, a stew brimming with vegetables and, the maid explained, Iberian pork (thin slices of ham), plus little tapas or side dishes as she was beginning to notice the Spanish meal could not do without. There were tapa plates of oysters and shrimp with little cubes of potatoes that melted in her mouth. She made a little sigh of contentment with each bite. Alejandro cocked his head as though he were listening.
“You should try the ham, Isabella,” he urged.
“You can call me Isa,” she said.
“Isa.” Her nickname rolled pleasantly on his tongue.
Her skin prickled with the sensuous sound of his voice, heightened further by him reaching over and trailing a finger on her arm, for just a breathless second.
“Frankly, I prefer Isabella. Like Queen Isabella, one of my ancestors.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Does that make you royalty?”
“Well, I’m not a direct descendant, so I can’t claim her throne. Still, I do I have a castle.”
“You spoke about your mom. What about your dad? Is he still alive?”
Immediately, his mood changed. It was as though a storm brewed. He drew his brows together. “Unfortunately.”
She made a mental note: Dad is a touchy subject and then tried a different tack. “Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”
“’I love Lucy’ reruns.”
Isa stared at him, then guffawed. “Seriously?”
He nodded, a smile playing on his face, making him seem more approachable. “I idolized Ricky Ricardo. I wanted to dress like him, sound like him.”
“You kind of do, come to think of it.”
“Do I?” He looked pleased. “I also went to UCLA. For one year. One year I’ll never get back.” He shuddered.
“Because it was California?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Because they had a horrible art program.”
She wished she had a recorder. These were the kind of tidbits Isa hoped would show up in his book.
“I don’t want to write that book,” he blurted out, as though reading her mind.
He
r heart sank. She had been optimistic, but he had been fair, so she could respect that. She said nothing, trying to not wallow.
“But I will,” he finished.
“What?” Her fork clattered to her plate. She picked it up again, her ears buzzing.
“I don’t want to lay myself open to everyone, but I suppose if you think my story is worth two million dollars, then I’ll cooperate.”
She closed her eyes and impulsively covered his hand with hers. “Thank you.”
His hand stiffened at her touch. Against his darker skin, her hand looked pale. She pulled away quickly. She definitely needed to stay professional.
He spoke again. “I reserve the right to abort the project if it gets to be too... distasteful.”
“It will be hard, yes—”
“Not to mention invasive.”
“Are you backtracking again?” She bristled. “You really must commit to something, Alejandro Diaz! ”
He remained motionless. “I don’t owe you anything.” He pushed his chair back and stood, anger emanating from him in waves. “You came to my home and begged to be taken in, and this is how you repay me?”
He sneered. “I’ll commit to something, all right. We will go over my life story and I will make sure you regret ever badgering me for it.”
After he charged out of the room, the chandelier continued to shake up above.
Chapter Eleven
Alejandro retreated into his studio. He was a beast slinking into his lair. He hated what Isabella—Isa—triggered in him. Fear and self-loathing for what he had been.
Especially since his aversion for the book got in the way of his attraction for Isa.
His body still hummed from the feel of her exquisite skin under his fingertips...her gentle touch on his hand. Her voice, hushed like a moonlight secret. That perfume that had him leaning forward to take her all in.
And he had thought to pursue her. He winced at his ineptness.
Someone knocked on his door and he nearly snarled his knee-jerk response. “What do you want?”
“Sir,” Horatio said. “I brought you your dinner.”
“Take it back. I’m done eating.”
“As you wish,” Horatio said. There were clicking noises from lights being switched on and Horatio walking about the room. “You are sitting in the dark.”
“I pay you a lot of money to state the obvious apparently.”
The light came on, which illuminated the shapes around him. Alejandro felt the familiar pressure on his chest, of being trapped in a world where he could no longer see distinct lines or colors. No one, not even Horatio, knew what he was going through. And his father... he was speaking the truth to Isa when he said he was better off dead.
“Sir, Miss Drake wonders if she could go into Sevilla.”
“She’s free to come and go. She’s not my prisoner.”
“I just thought...” Horatio paused. “Never mind, sir.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Horatio, so I don’t have to pry it out of you.”
“You could take Miss Drake into Sevilla and enjoy an evening together.”
Alejandro bristled. “Like a date!”
“Well, yes, when a man and a woman go and enjoy a fun activity together, usually, that is called a date.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would Miss Drake relish my company now? I’ve been a beast. Also, she is merely obligated to tolerate my company. After all, her career success hinges on the completion of my book.”
“She watches you as though she finds you handsome.”
Alejandro bristled. “I used to care a lot more for appearances. Since losing my sight, I realize appearances are simply vacuous and shouldn’t matter.”
“If you’ll but give her a chance to get to know you and get close to you—”
Alejandro cut him off. “I don’t see why you’ve made it your business to hitch me to anyone, let alone my publisher, of all people.”
“Well, for one, she’s lovely, not just on the outside. For another, I think you need someone who can accompany you the rest of your days. I imagine as you lose your sight, It has become increasingly lonely for you.”
Alejandro ground his teeth. “I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Perhaps you need a muse again. You haven’t painted in a long while.”
The truth attacked Alejandro like a mangy dog, on his jugular, where he could live and die by it. He hated the truth but Horatio was right, as he sometimes could be.
But Alejandro would just as soon die than admit weakness.
“For a moment, I toyed with the thought that Isa could be my muse. My antidote to this falling darkness. Until I remembered why a woman wouldn’t have me.”
“Why wouldn’t any woman have you?” Horatio asked softly.
Alejandro could taste the bitterness in his mouth. “Alicia didn’t.”
“What you and she had wasn’t strong enough to withstand the...storm you unleashed upon her after your diagnosis.”
“It was inexcusable, yes.” A pang of guilt assailed him as he thought of those dark days.
“She had as much to do with it as you did. I always did think she had a weak constitution. You need a woman who will stand up to you.”
“Enough.” Alejandro gritted his teeth. “You don’t need to keep coming to my defense. I don’t pay you enough for that.”
Horatio fell silent, then, “What shall I tell Miss Drake?”
“About what?” For a panicked moment, Alejandro wondered if Horatio was referring to his philosophy about women.
“About the car, sir.”
“She can go.”
“I shall have the car ready in an hour. Does that give you enough time, sir?”
Alejandro frowned. “For what?”
“For you to enumerate her charms in your mind and decide she’s worth an evening out.”
Despite Horatio’s impertinence, Alejandro smiled to himself. Miss Drake and her charms, indeed.
An evening out in Sevilla with the intriguing Miss Drake beckoned like a flame to a moth.
A fatal temptation.
Alejandro growled, “Hand me something breakable so I can lob it at you, will you?”
“I’m on my way out, sir.” Footsteps echoed on the marble floor, and then the door shut with a gentle click.
Alejandro sat in a piercing quiet that did not calm him.
He felt for a brush and wielded it in his hands and opened a tube of paint. By feel, he dabbed a color that he couldn’t see with his paintbrush and applied it onto the canvas, the familiar texture smooth in its application. He trembled as he felt the sensation. He could not see the color nor the thickness, but he could make out that there was something there. He felt a frisson of triumph to prove Horatio wrong, but he couldn’t rub it in to his butler without admitting he had been wrong. As the minutes progressed, he continued to paint but irritation rose within him. He couldn’t tell where one stroke started and where it left off. He didn’t even know what he was aiming for, if anything.
Alejandro grimaced and set his brush down onto the lip of an easel. With a clatter, it fell to the floor.
What was he thinking, that he could just get back into this without any changes to his style? He didn’t want to be one of those artists who claimed to paint abstract. He could, he supposed, but he still needed to know with deliberate purpose, what the entire painting would look like.
With a groan, he covered his face with his hands. He probably was smearing paint onto his skin, but he didn’t care. He had been a failure as a child, later as a man, and now, the only other identity he could aspire to—artist—that had been taken from him too.
He needed to get out of the castle, out where he could forget himself.
He had an hour to decide if it would be with the tempting Isa.
Chapter Twelve
Isa dressed for the evening in black slacks and a violet blouse that complemented her dark hair. She studied her reflection, all five foot three of her, her tho
ughts involuntarily going to Alejandro. She wondered idly how tall he was. His personality made him seem larger than life, but she was curious where she would be compared to him. What would it be like if they stood side by side, and he reached over and put his arm around her, his touch burning through her sleeve? What would it be like if he were to turn her towards him and bend over to kiss her...?
Thoughts she really shouldn’t have for a book client.
Especially a client who obviously hated her.
After his blow-up at a dinner that quickly went downhill, she wasn’t sure what was to happen with her stay. She just knew she needed to get out of the castle for the evening, to remind herself that she was a decent human being. How foolish of her to return her rental. She hated depending on Alejandro, but she had assumed she could take advantage of his largesse for the infrequent trips into the city.
She went downstairs, hoping against hope not to run into him. When she didn’t, she breathed a sigh of relief but also felt a bit of disappointment. Without any other human presence, the castle appeared dark and forbidding, even with all the lights that this billionaire could muster.
Horatio had told her to meet her ride in the front. The chauffeur would take her, even though she protested that she didn’t want to be such a bother.
Horatio’s lip twitched as he explained, “Let him earn his keep, madam.”
So she would live it up and help the castle staff have meaningful jobs.
She stepped out into the soft Sevilla evening. The sun hid behind a few clouds, which only diffused the beauty of the sunset. Alejandro’s estate blazed in a final surge of oranges and yellows. Alejandro’s Bugatti waited at the massive, circular driveway. She was surprised to see it there, but figured that a chauffeur could drive her in that as well as in any other car.
The driver’s door opened, and her breath caught in her throat.
Alejandro got out, dressed in a white shirt, a dark jacket and slacks, without a tie, the top button of his shirt opened at the throat.
Handsome. Debonair. Sexy. Like a dark prince come to take her away.
“Hello,” she said faintly.
He walked around the back, his finger casually trailing the polished metal and opened the passenger door for her.
