Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction

by The Spaniard's Seduction (lit)

  She certainly hadn't expected him to suggest that they left for Spain that afternoon. They'd had lunch at his hotel, but, after gaining her consent to his request for her to return to Spain with him, he'd been anxious to get away.

  He'd had a private jet waiting for them at Stanstead Airport. Cassandra had only had time to phone her father and give him the briefest of explanations, asking him to relay the news to Henry Skyler, before leaving.

  But, before she could do anything, she realised the big car was slowing and Julio opened his eyes as they turned between the stone gateposts she'd glimpsed earlier. Ahead of them, she could see the dark stone walls of a strange building, and her stomach prickled with nerves. What now? she wondered ap­prehensively. Where were they? Why had Julio brought her here?

  He was struggling to sit up now. He had slumped against the squabs since they left Seville, but now he endeavoured to straighten his stiff spine and bring some feeling back into his cramped limbs.

  Then he caught Cassandra looking at him, and his dark eyes widened in obvious enquiry. 'Is something wrong?'

  'Where are we?' she demanded, aware of the tremor in her voice. 'This isn't Tuarega.'

  'Bien, it is Tuarega land,' replied Julio, with a lift of his shoulders. 'I thought I told you. Enrique has been—how do you say it?—covered up here at La Hacienda since he came home from the hospital, no? He does not care for any com­pany.'

  Cassandra blinked. 'Covered up?' she echoed blankly. Then comprehension dawned. 'Oh, you mean—holed up,' she cor­rected him tensely. Then, glancing up at the forbidding aspect of the dwelling, 'You mean, this is Enrique's house?'

  'La Hacienda,' he agreed, a little impatiently. 'With your permission, I will bid you farewell here.'

  'What?' Cassandra stared at him. 'You're leaving me here? Alone?'

  'You will not be alone,' replied Julio implacably. 'Enrique is here. And Mendoza. Mendoza will see that you have ev­erything you need.' But—'

  'Cassandra, I am depending on you to save my son's sanity. Believe me, I would not have asked for your help unless— unless there was no other alternative.'

  Unless he was desperate, thought Cassandra bitterly. Could he have made it any plainer? She was only here because ev­erything—and everyone—else had failed.

  The car had stopped and now a door opened and a shaft of light fell across the bonnet of the limousine. Carlos Mendoza stood in the doorway, clearly expecting them. Like his em­ployer's, his face bore an expression of concern, and Cassandra only paused to cast another doubtful look at Julio before accepting Salvador's hand to help her out of the car.

  Carlos came down the steps. 'Bienvenido a La Hacienda, señora,' he said, his smile warm and sincere. 'Do you have a bag?'

  'No bags, Carlos,’ replied Cassandra ruefully, turning back to look at the car. 'Adios, señor.'

  'Hasta mañana, Cassandra,' responded Julio de Montoya, leaning out of the limousine. 'Until tomorrow.'

  Salvador slammed the car door and went around to take his seat behind the wheel, and Cassandra waited until the vehicle had started to move away before looking again at the house. She was feeling weak and inadequate, and she had no idea why Enrique's father thought she might have more success with his son than he had.

  'Es por aqui, señora,' said Carlos gently, urging her up the steps and into the building. ‘This way.' He paused to close the heavy door behind them. ‘You had a good journey, no?'

  Cassandra shook her head. 'I suppose so,' she said, looking about her a little dazedly. They were in a marble-floored entry, where a curving staircase with a wrought-iron banister wound to the upper floors of the house. Beside the staircase, long mirrors hung opposite one another, and a huge bowl of purple orchids was reflected over and over again in their lamplit depths. 'I—where is Enrique?'

  'You wish to eat. señora?' asked Carlos, without answering her. 'Maria—she has left you a small—um—comida, si?'

  'Maria?'

  Cassandra looked at him and he spread his hands. 'Maria is—la criada, señora,' he replied awkwardly, and she frowned.

  'The—the maid?' she ventured at last, trying to remember the little Spanish she had learned and he nodded in some relief.

  'Si', the maid, ‘señora,' He paused, gesturing through an archway beyond the curve of the staircase. 'Par aqui.'

  Cassandra hesitated. Then, 'Enrique,' she said firmly, hav­ing no interest in the food he was offering. 'I'd like to see him first.'

  'Señora —'

  Carlos spoke guardedly, his diffidence revealing a wealth of uncertainty. Cassandra guessed that, although he had been forced to accept Julio's decision to bring her here, he was by no means convinced of its wisdom.

  But, before he could say any more, someone else interrupted them. 'Why?' enquired a voice that was both unbearably cold and undeniably familiar and Cassandra lifted her head to find Enrique standing looking down at them from the head of the first flight of stairs.

  Cassandra's lips parted in dismay. This was not the way she'd hoped to announce her arrival. It was obvious from the hostility in Enrique's tone that he had known nothing of his father's meddling, and her mouth dried at the realisation that he could just turn around and refuse to speak to her.

  And he needed to speak to someone, she thought worriedly. Whatever his motives, Julio hadn't exaggerated his fears for his son's well-being. Enrique looked grey; emaciated. In three short weeks his skin had lost the glow of health, and his loss of weight was evident in the cream knit sweater and draw­string sweats that hung on his lean frame.

  'I—how are you?' she got out awkwardly, trying desper­ately not to show how concerned she was.

  Enrique's lips compressed into a thin line. 'What are you doing here, Cassandra?’ he asked at last, his long fingers curl­ing and uncurling about the iron balustrade. 'How did you get here? Who told you where I was?'

  'Does it matter?' Cassandra caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced briefly at Carlos. Then, returning her attention to the man at the head of the stairs, 'Urn—can we talk?'

  'Oh, please!' Enrique's tone was sardonic now. 'I do not think you and I have anything to talk about.' He paused. 'I imagine it must have been my father who brought you here.' His lips twisted. 'I did not realise he was that desperate.'

  Cassandra winced at the deliberate insult, but she stood her ground. 'Yes,' she said, looking up at him. 'Your father did bring me here. But if I hadn't wanted to come, I wouldn't have accepted his invitation.'

  'How sweet!'

  Enrique's voice was cold and Carlos evidently decided that his presence was superfluous. 'If you will excuse me, señor,' he murmured, and Enrique made an indifferent gesture of af­firmation. The man bowed and disappeared through a door at the end of the hall and Cassandra was left with the unpleasant feeling that Carlos knew she was wasting her time.

  'Enrique—' she began again, but before she could say any more he interrupted her.

  'No,' he said bleakly. 'We have nothing to say to one an­other. I do not know what tale my father concocted to persuade you to return to Tuarega, but, whatever it was, he obviously exaggerated. As you can see, I am still—what is it you say?— in one piece, si?'

  'Are you?' Cassandra's ringers felt sticky where they were gripping the strap of her haversack. She hesitated. 'I know you've been ill.’

  Enrique scowled. 'I am sure you do. My father would use anything to gain his own ends.' He suddenly looked unbear­ably weary. 'Go away, Cassandra. I do not have the inclination to speak with you now.'

  Or the strength, thought Cassandra anxiously, her spirits plummeting when he turned and walked away, out of her sight. Dear God, no wonder Julio was desperate. He must despair of finding any way to reach his son. The amazing thing was that he thought she might.

  Cassandra set her haversack down on the hall table and looked doubtfully about her. To her right was the room Carlos had indicated where the maid had left her something to eat. But she wasn't hungry. She could always go in search of
Carlos, of course. He was probably close at hand, waiting for some sign from her that she either wanted to be taken to Tuarega or back to the airport in Seville. But she couldn't leave. However unlikely, Julio believed she might have a chance of getting through to Enrique. She had to try.

  Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on the banister and started up the stairs. Subtle lights set into the ceiling illumi­nated her way and a broad-based standard lamp occupied a prominent position on the first landing. The stairs continued up to a second floor, but Cassandra knew Enrique hadn't con­tinued upward. He'd crossed the landing and disappeared into one of the twin corridors that confronted her, and, after a mo­ment's hesitation, she took the one to her left.

  Here the illumination came from a string of spotlights that highlighted the paintings that adorned the walls. Not gloomy paintings, like she'd seen at Tuarega, but more modern ren­ditions of local scenes, one of which bore a strong resemblance to Tuarega itself.

  But Cassandra knew she was only distracting herself by looking at the paintings, that sooner or later she would have to confront her own inadequacies. She was intensely conscious of the sound of her thick-soled boots squeaking on the tiled floor, aware that the ankle-length cotton skirt and tee shirt she'd worn for work that morning were totally unsuitable in these elegant surroundings. She should have insisted on going home to change, she thought pointlessly. But she had allowed Julio to infect her with his concern for his son's recovery.

  At the end of the corridor, double doors stood open onto a dimly lit vestibule. Nervously, she stepped across a circular rug, whose vivid colours were muted in the shadowy light, and paused at the entrance to a large sitting room. Pale walls hung with hand-sewn tapestries; overstuffed beige sofas and leather chairs flanking a cream stone fireplace; and cushions everywhere: on the sofas, on the chairs, and in some cases piled in heaps upon the huge fringed rug. It was the cushions that gave the room its colour, its warm ambience, its attractive personality.

  But it was the man standing on the balcony beyond open floor-length windows who drew Cassandra's eyes. Like the stairwell, this room was lit by a handful of lamps, but the open windows allowed a glimpse of the starlit sky outside. And of the moon, a sickle of white against that night-dark canopy.

  Enrique hadn't seen her. As far as he knew, she was still downstairs, possibly even preparing to leave, and she won­dered if the balcony overlooked the entry. But that was wishful thinking, she thought ruefully. And besides, if Enrique was looking for her to leave, it was not because he was hoping she would stay.

  She didn't know what to do; what to say. Even coming into his suite of rooms was an unwarranted liberty. He hadn't in­vited her there. In fact, he'd made it blatantly obvious that she wasn't welcome here. So why didn't she just accept defeat and leave?

  Because she couldn't.

  Because, no matter how painful this might be for her, she had to try and talk to him. To talk some sense into him, she reflected dubiously. If his depression had something to do with David, to do with the fact that she had kept his existence a secret from him all these years, she had to try and do some­thing about it. Even if it meant leaving David here longer than the limited number of weeks she had agreed to.

  Or was that being absurdly ingenuous? What if this was all a clever ploy instigated by Enrique and his father to gain con­trol of her son? She was certainly easily persuaded if that was so.

  But she dismissed the idea as soon as it generated itself. This was no ploy, no plan of Julio's to delude her into giving her son away. Enrique looked ill; far more ill than she had expected. How serious had his injuries been, for God's sake? And was there any chance that he'd confide in her?

  'Hasta nunca, Carlos.'

  While she'd been hovering just inside the door, trying to decide what she could say to attract his attention, Enrique had apparently heard something and assumed it was the manser­vant. And, realising she would have to identify herself, she found the words to say.

  'Hasta nunca?' she echoed softly. ‘What does that mean?'

  Enrique swung round, swaying a little as he did so, and she longed to go and put her arms around him. 'It means, get lost,' he informed her harshly. 'And it applies to you just as much as to Carlos.'

  Cassandra blew out a breath. 'That's not very polite. I al­ways thought Spaniards prided themselves on being exces­sively polite. Although I suppose your family is a law unto itself.'

  Enrique's eyes were hooded, so she couldn't read their ex­pression, but his nostrils flared. 'As you say,' he conceded, after a moment. 'Will you go now?'

  Cassandra shook her head. 'I can't.'

  'Why not? Carlos will call Salvador for you, if you wish. Or a cab, if you would prefer. We do have telephones at La Hacienda.'

  'Enrique—'

  He breathed a deep sigh and, leaving the balcony rail, he walked wearily back into the sitting room. 'You are deter­mined to persist with this, are you not?' he said heavily. 'Why? Why are you here? Of what possible interest can it be to you that I have had a minor accident that resulted in a short spell in hospital?'

  'It was hardly a minor accident.' exclaimed Cassandra at once, and he shook his head.

  'Si, it was.’ He rolled back the sleeve of his sweater, ex­posing a raw scar on his forearm. ‘Aqui tiene, it is healing. Juan has had many such injuries over the years and his family do not panic at the first sight of blood.'

  Cassandra felt sick, her stomach twisting at the thought of the pain he must have suffered before the paramedics could get to him. 'That—that wasn't your only injury,' she protested. 'I know you had to have a blood transfusion.'

  'Dios!' Enrique propped himself against one of the sofas and Cassandra had the feeling he was in danger of falling without that support. 'I do not intend to show you my other injury, Cassandra.' He snorted. 'El viejo—the old man—he has certainly laid a—how is it?—a guilt trip on you, no'?'

  'No.' She couldn't help moving a little closer even though he stiffened when she did so. ‘Oh, Enrique, I've been so wor­ried about you.'

  'Que?' His lips twisted 'And this from the woman who ran away rather than face me after confessing her cruel little de­ception? You must be careful in future, Cassandra. Wine can loosen the sharpest tongue.'

  'I didn't run away,' insisted Cassandra indignantly. She took a breath. That was you.'

  'Me?' Enrique stared at her for a moment and then he shook his head. 'No, Cassandra, I do not run away. I admit that when you told me that I was David's father I was glad to have to go to Seville to bring my father home. I needed a little time to come to terms with what you had told me. I admitted that. But I did not run away.’

  Cassandra quivered. 'What about ten years ago?' she coun­tered, unable to prevent herself, and his face contorted with sudden loathing. But whether it was for himself or for her, she had no way of knowing.

  'Ten years ago.' he echoed bitterly. 'Ah, you do not intend for me to forget that, do you, querida.' He used a term of endearment, but there was no affection in his tone. 'You asked me once what I said to Antonio, si? Would it surprise you to hear that I said nothing? Nothing.' He shook his head. 'I made a mistake, Cassandra. A terrible mistake, I admit it. And I have been paying for it ever since.'

  'You don't mean that.'

  Cassandra was confused, and he bent his head to run weary hands through his hair. His hair needed cutting, she noticed inconsequentially. It overlapped his collar at the back. Then, lifting his head, he speared her with a tormented stare.

  'I do mean it,' he said. 'But I see I am only satisfying whatever twisted thread of your nature brought you here.' His voice was rough, if my father had not told you about the accident, you would not be here. What did he tell you? Did he imply I was at death's door? I can think of no other reason why you would agree to see me again.’

  'I wanted to see you!' The words were torn from her. ‘And you know very well why I went back to England. You might not have been present at the interview I had with your father, but you
knew what he was going to say. You wanted David to stay here. It was what you'd wanted all along, even before you knew David was your son. How could I insist on taking him back to England when it might be your father's only chance to get to know his grandson? I'm not that heartless, Enrique. Besides—' she heaved a sigh '—it was what David wanted.'

  'So why did you not stay, too?'

  'Because I have a job,' exclaimed Cassandra at once. 'I can't just take time off when I feel like it.'

  'But your holiday was not over,' retorted Enrique, pushing himself away from the sofa. 'You left without even having the—the courtesy to tell me goodbye.'

  'You weren't there,' exclaimed Cassandra defensively. 'I was told you'd gone to Cadiz, on business for your father. I waited. I did.' This as Enrique pulled a wry face. 'But day followed day and you didn't come back.'

  Enrique studied her indignant face. 'I almost believe you.'

  'Almost?' she caught her breath, it's the truth!'

  ‘Then why did you tell David that you did not want to see me again? That your own father was more important than waiting around for me to come back?'

  'I—didn't say that.' But she had said something like it. Something that had persuaded David to intercede on her be­half. With, apparently, disastrous consequences.

  'I can see you are having second thoughts,' said Enrique bitterly. 'You did tell David you never wanted to see me again. Why deny it now?'

  'Because it wasn't true,' blurted Cassandra impulsively. 'Dear God, Enrique, you can't possibly believe that. Not—not after I'd told you—'

  'That David is my son? His tone was harsh. ‘That not only had I seduced you but I had also condemned you to spend the last nine years caring for my child? Oh, yes, I can see that that would persuade you to stay.'

  'It wasn't like that,' protested Cassandra huskily. 'Why do you think I told you as I did? I didn't have to. I wanted to.'

  'To torture me?'

  'No!' Cassandra stared into his dark tormented face for a long moment and then, coming to a decision, she stepped for­ward and, reaching up, brushed his lips with hers. ‘That's— that's why,' she added, a little breathlessly. 'Do you believe me now?'