The Latin Affair

by Sophie Weston

In the kitchen she grabbed a tea-towel. She had brought several too, and just as well. In the absence of an oven glove one of them would have to serve. She opened the gleaming oven door and a warm, appetising smell rolled out. Well, at least the gas stove had not collapsed while she was in the bath.

  She was easing the casserole out of the oven when the kitchen door banged open. Concentrating, she did not really notice.

  Not, at least, until a voice said blankly, ‘What the hell…?’

  Only the greatest self-possession stopped Nicky from whipping round. As it was her hands tightened so hard on the casserole that she burnt herself through the imperfect insulation of the cloth. She banged the casserole down and shook her singed fingers as she turned to face him.

  It was, of course, Esteban Tremain.

  Nicky’s heart lurched. She felt her colour rise.

  ‘You!’ she exclaimed, glaring.

  Esteban blinked. He looked as if he had been miles away and had suddenly been brought back to the present with a jolt. Not, Nicky thought, a very welcome jolt. There was an unnerving silence.

  Then he said, ‘Nicola Piper,’ on a low note of discovery.

  A look of unholy appreciation dawned. Exactly the sort of look that made Nicky’s hackles rise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ he drawled.

  Nicky’s blush deepened. She ignored it.

  ‘You knew I was here,’ she said hotly. ‘Your secretary arranged it And,’ she added accusingly, ‘she said you were fixed in London.’

  His eyebrows twitched together.

  ‘I was,’ he said briefly. ‘I changed my mind. I have business down here. Should I apologise for being in my own house?’

  Nicky shifted in annoyance. It brought imminent danger to her hastily knotted sash. She felt the thing begin to slip untied and clamped the lapels of the dressing gown across her breast, flustered.

  Esteban Tremain looked amused. That enraged Nicky even more. But there was nothing she could do about it. She felt rather breathless.

  He let his eyes rest on the exposed vee at the top of her dressing gown. It suddenly felt incredibly bare. Involuntarily, Nicky shuddered. It infuriated her. His expression grew frankly speculative.

  ‘You seem to have made yourself comfortable.’

  That was the final straw.

  ‘I am not comfortable,’ Nicky yelled.

  There was a tense pause.

  Then he asked, ‘Do you expect me to apologise for that too?’

  Nicky took hold of her temper. It was an effort. But she was an adult, she was a professional and she was here representing Springdown. Or so she reminded herself.

  ‘I can do without apologies. I do expect reasonable courtesy,’ she said levelly.

  A faint look of annoyance crossed the handsome face. ‘And how have I been discourteous?’

  In the way you look at me. No, she couldn’t say that. It sounded too prim for words, even though it was true. And it should not have been true, thought Nicky rebelliously.

  She was not fifteen any more. These days she could handle male salaciousness. Nine times out of ten it was purely for show. The moment you challenged them they backed down. And on the tenth—well, she could handle that too if she had to. Her chin rose.

  ‘You implied that I was here for my own amusement,’ she said with dignity.

  One eyebrow shot up. ‘Are you saying that you’re here for mine?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, then—’

  Nicky took an impetuous step forward.

  ‘You keep complaining about your blasted kitchen,’ she reminded him. ‘You wanted it all sorted out immediately. If not yesterday. You even insisted it was me that did it, God help me. Well, here I am. But don’t think you can sneer at me. I won’t stand for it.’

  He blinked. ‘I can see that.’

  Nicky narrowed her eyes suspiciously. He was not laughing—well, not openly. She checked on the security of her dressing gown anyway.

  ‘I shall do what I came for,’ she said loftily. ‘And then I shall leave.’

  But it didn’t seem that was what he had in mind at all.

  ‘We will need to talk about that’

  Nicky would have liked to sweep out. But she had a pheasant casserole that was beginning to smell faintly of caramel. It clearly needed attention.

  So she turned her shoulder and busied herself with the dish. She ignored him loftily. But she was well aware that Esteban Tremain did not take his eyes off her. It sent a prickle of constant awareness up and down her spine. Nicky did not like it.

  Sexual tension, she told herself. Nothing personal and nothing that won’t go away if you don’t feed it. Not surprising in the circumstances. Just don’t acknowledge it and it will evaporate.

  Nicky had had a lot of practice at ignoring sexual tension and she knew what she was talking about. But this was a first in her experience. She was very conscious of her nakedness under the old velvet; the damp hair that was falling out of its pins to send drips down her nape along her bare spine; his eyes on both…

  She did her best to ignore him and concentrated on tasting: the pheasant needed mustard, thyme, more wine…

  Esteban clearly did not like being ignored. He strolled over, standing so close that he might as well have been touching her. Nicky could feel an electric response all along her flesh. Unobtrusively, she took hold of the front of the dressing gown again, ensuring it stayed in place. It left her with only one hand to season and stir the food but it made her feel safer.

  Esteban was not looking at her, however. He had picked up the wine and was inspecting the bottle critically.

  ‘You never got this from my cellar.’

  Nicky was indignant at this slur on her professional ethics.

  ‘Of course not. I brought everything with me.’

  ‘Impressive.’ He put the bottle down. ‘Who is he?’

  Nicky was tasting the dark gravy.

  ‘Who?’ she said absently.

  His voice was light but there was an undertone of anger when he said, ‘The guy all this is for.’

  Nicky froze. Then, very slowly, she put down the ladle, and turned to face him.

  ‘I—beg—your—pardon?’

  ‘It’s quite a package. Gourmet dinner. Good wine.’ His twitched his nose and gave her a sexy, slanting smile. But his eyes were not smiling. ‘Scented bath,’ he finished softly.

  Nicky increased the grip on her dressing gown until her hand shook with tension. The look she sent him held acute dislike.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So—it all adds up to a lover.’ There was an edge to the casual voice. ‘Lucky man.’

  Nicky’s head went back as if he had hit her. It was all too horribly reminiscent of that scene on the Calico Jane. Why, why had she chosen this week of all times to rerun that particular bit of memory?

  Esteban did not seem to notice her reaction. He was smiling. It was not a nice smile. ‘Is he upstairs now? Or are you still waiting for him to get here?’

  His tone was tolerant but Nicky had the fleeting impression of fierce anger. It was swept away in anger of her own, as great as any she could remember.

  Shaking with it, she said dulcetly, ‘Why would it matter to you?’

  His eyes narrowed. Quite suddenly he stopped even pretending to be amused. ‘It’s my house.’

  ‘Very territorial,’ she mocked.

  He took a step forward. It brought him close. Too close. Nicky found she was arching backwards over the countertop to get away from him.

  ‘And it’s my time,’ he said. ‘I assume I will be getting a bill for this service?’

  She stayed mocking but it was an effort. ‘Not at all. With the compliments of the management—’

  She broke off. For a moment the mask flicked aside and Esteban Tremain looked absolutely murderous. Nicky pulled herself together. This was no way to placate a dissatisfied client. She dropped the mocker
y. ‘There will be no bill.’

  Their eyes locked. To her fury, Nicky felt herself still straining away from him. It was pure instinct.

  And then the unthinkable happened. The tense are of her body finally put too great a strain on the knotted tie at her waist. Suddenly aware, Nicky tried to grab it. Too late. The dressing gown fell open and then, before she was aware, slid off shoulders still slippery from her oiled bath.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she cried.

  Esteban’s eyes flared wide. There was an instant’s disbelieving silence.

  ‘Spectacular.’ There was an odd note in his voice, as if he was not as unmoved as he wanted to be.

  Nicky decided she hated him. For a paralysed moment she could not move. That steady gaze seemed almost to have stopped time. It was like a touch. Like a caress. Like a memory from ten years ago.

  And then his eyes lifted and gazed straight into hers. Nicky felt the ground fall away. She made a small panicky sound. At once his eyelids dropped, masking his expression. It was as if a current had been switched off. Nicky swallowed. She felt as if she had been let off something she dreaded. With clumsy fingers, she hauled the dressing gown back up her arms and clutched it across her breasts, hard.

  Fortunately the countertop had stopped it sliding all the way to the floor. So at least she did not have to humiliate herself by scrabbling at his feet to gather it up. But that was not much of a consolation. Not when Esteban’s eyes lingered with blatant appreciation on the shadowed cleft between her breasts which the clutched garment still revealed.

  Nicky said bitterly, ‘You could at least pretend to be a gentleman.’

  His eyes glinted. ‘And what does that mean? Pass you a saucepan to hide your modesty?’

  Nicky redoubled her grip on the gown. She glared. ‘You could stop—staring.’

  Esteban propped himself against the kitchen table and folded his arms.

  ‘I could,’ he agreed cordially. ‘Give me one good reason why I should.’

  ‘It’s not kind,’ she flashed.

  He pretended to give it serious consideration. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Not good enough. I’ve never claimed to be kind.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ Nicky muttered.

  ‘Well, then.’ He shrugged.

  Nicky met his eyes with a shock. The current was on again. Her face, her whole body felt hot. Hurriedly, she levered herself away from the countertop.

  ‘I am going to get dressed,’ she announced.

  His smile flickered into life again. ‘Shame,’ he murmured.

  Nicky recognised deliberate provocation. She ignored it.

  ‘I shall get dressed,’ she repeated. ‘Then I shall finish cooking the supper.’

  Esteban was all politeness. ‘And who gets to eat it?’

  Nicky looked at him with dislike. ‘You. Tonight if you like. Or I can put it in the game larder for tomorrow. The deep freeze isn’t working.’ Her idea suddenly returned. ‘Except that—’

  He interrupted. Back on form, thought Nicky sourly.

  ‘You mean you cooked a meal and no one was supposed to eat it?’ He sounded incredulous.

  Nicky shrugged. Carefully.

  ‘I’m putting the machines through their paces. What happens to the resulting meal is immaterial.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather a waste?’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s more ethical than what you had in mind,’ she said with satisfaction.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘And what exactly do you think I had in mind?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ Nicky pointed out. ‘I know. You accused me of inviting a boyfriend to join me here.’

  If she had hoped to discompose him, she was disappointed.

  ‘The word I used,’ he said deliberately, ‘was lover.’

  Nicky flushed to the roots of her hair. Embarrassment warred with indignation. Indignation won. But only just.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ she said grimly.

  Esteban was watching her. He looked intrigued suddenly. ‘And?’

  ‘I resent the professional slur’ Nicky said with precision. ‘Which is the same whether you thought I was entertaining a simple friend or the Emperor Nero.’

  He let out a surprised crack of laughter. One wicked eyebrow went up.

  ‘No lovers?’ he asked outrageously.

  Nicky was literally speechless.

  ‘You’re between candidates?’ he pressed.

  Oh, he was a barrister all right. Nicky felt as if she was on a witness stand, being grilled. She glared.

  It had no effect on Esteban at all. Of course, he must be used to his victims glaring at him in impotent fury.

  ‘Or one of the new Puritans?’ he pursued ruthlessly.

  ‘No,’ Nicky choked.

  ‘No, I thought not,’ he agreed. ‘It would be a terrible waste. Besides, I saw you with a man who was definitely no Puritan.’

  Nicky remembered the way he had sized up Ben in the showroom. ‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt your social life,’ he had said, sneering. But she was not explaining her brother to him, or anything else for that matter. In fact Nicky was not going to say any more to Esteban Tremain than she absolutely had to.

  She said sweetly—and untruthfully—’Of course, I’m sorry to disappoint you. But before you get any more exotic ideas let me point out that this is what I always do when I’m testing a kitchen.’

  Esteban clearly thought he had won that particular exchange. He smiled like a satisfied tiger.

  ‘And you bring your own dressing gown to do it.’ He looked her up and down eloquently.

  Nicky gave him a glacial smile. ‘I bring everything. The dressing gown in the kitchen is, I admit, a mistake.’

  ‘Not at all. I look on it as a bonus.’

  She gritted her teeth and refused to blush.

  ‘Thank you. How flattering,’ said Nicky, not meaning a word of it.

  ‘I never flatter.’

  He moved towards her. Nicky stood her ground, her eyes warning him.

  She said curtly, ‘I had a thought in the bath. So I came down to check the fuses in the plugs on the machines. But as you’re so smart you’ll already have done that before complaining, right?’

  ‘So you’re an electrician as well.’

  Esteban looked at her with admiration. Nicky was quite certain it was mocking. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to dance with temper. ‘Fine,’ she said, finally losing it. ‘You find the screwdriver. You do it.’

  She stalked past him without another look.

  The bath water was cold, of course. She pulled on her grubby clothes rapidly, muttering to herself. How on earth could she have been so stupid as to let Esteban Tremain see how he was getting to her?

  It had to be because she had let herself think about what happened all those years ago. She could not imagine why she had done so. It must have been seeing Ben that had brought it all back. It was nonsense to think it could have anything to do with Esteban Tremain, no matter how autocratic his manner. It was not his autocratic manner that she remembered about Steve.

  In spite of the central heating, the room was getting chilly as the dark closed in. Nicky went back to her bedroom and rummaged in her overnight case for a loose wool jacket. She dragged it on and turned back to the chest of drawers, seeking her image in the spotted mirror that stood on top of it.

  She was fluffing out her drying hair absently when her eye fell on the photographs. There were several: a studio portrait of a beautiful woman with wistful eyes in an oval silver frame; a tall military-looking man in formal clothes at a wedding; a posed group of men, clearly a team of some kind; several informal pictures of people, dogs, children, boats…

  Boats. And one particular picture.

  Nicky stopped fluffing her hair and picked it up. She could hardly believe her eyes.

  It looked like a holiday snap. It showed three people on the deck of a catamaran. They were holding up champagne flutes in a toast and laughing. One was a specta
cularly beautiful woman. The two men were in shorts, shirtless, their bodies gleaming with health. All three were wearing sunglasses as they looked into the camera.

  Nicky looked at the taller man and felt a flicker of panic. I don’t believe this, she thought. And then, But of course I do. Only I’m not ready for it.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she turned the leather picture frame over. It was there on the back, in neat script. ‘Glen Tandy III, Gibraltar. Francesca Moran. Fernando Arauho. Esteban Tremain.’

  She turned it back. She had thought she would never forget that face.

  Well, her conscious mind had not recognised him without those alienating tinted glasses. But something had. Something visceral had been plucking at her ever since she’d heard his voice on the phone. Why else were all these hateful memories stalking her? Usually she suppressed them without difficulty.

  Nicky looked again at the photograph in her hand.

  The taller man, laughing on the deck of his boat, was Esteban Tremain. That was what it said on the back of the snap. And anyway she could see it, in the set of the shoulders and the arrogant tilt of the head.

  But he was also a man called Steve. And he had ruined her life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NICKY sat down hard on the side of the four-poster bed. She felt cold with shock. For ten years the man had haunted her. And when she saw him again she did not even recognise him? She could not believe it.

  But then she thought about it.

  That was not true, was it? Or not the whole truth. She had recognised him all right. At some deep, unconscious level she had known. From the first day, when he had looked at her across the showroom, a part of her had known. Even in the distance that dark figure had set a chord of memory thrumming.

  Why else had she kept so far away from the Hallam Hall contract? Oh, of course you could say it was chance, that she was doing other things for other clients. But the truth was that she had not even asked a question or glanced at a plan until he’d rung. Then, and only then, she had picked up the file. Was there a single other Springdown client about whom she knew so little? Had taken care to know so little about, Nicky admitted now.

  ‘Oh, God.’ The strangled sound was wrenched out of her.

  How could it have happened? You would have thought it was impossible. A crazy coincidence across the distance of ten years and a quarter of the world. Nicky did not believe in coincidence.