The Spaniard's Seduction

by Anne Mather

  But it didn’t happen. Although he was sure Cassandra was aware of the unexpected intimacy between them, she didn’t respond as he had. With a muffled cry, she wrenched herself away from him, and David, who had been casting nervously surreptitious glances at them from the safety of the pool, now came awkwardly back to his mother’s side.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his dark eyes, so like Enrique’s own, moving from his mother to his uncle and back again. ‘You’re not still mad, are you, Mum? I was afraid you weren’t going to let me see Uncle Enrique again, that’s all.’

  But that wasn’t all, thought Enrique grimly, struggling to regain a sense of balance. Touching Cassandra had briefly torn aside the veneer of indifference that had sustained him. He’d forgotten how soft her skin was, how seductively feminine was her scent. For a few crazy seconds he’d wanted her to remember how it had once been between them without considering how dangerously attractive such a memory might be to himself.

  Now, however, he had to reassure the boy, and, putting the destructive knowledge of his own weakness aside, he said harshly, ‘Your mother knows there is no way she can prevent you from meeting the rest of your family.’ He looked at Cassandra now with challenging eyes. ‘Is that not so?’ And when she didn’t reply, he added, ‘We will discuss this again tomorrow, no? When you have had time to recover from the shock of David’s disappearance.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ENRIQUE arrived as Cassandra was having breakfast the next morning.

  Well, calling several cups of strong black coffee breakfast was pushing it a little, she conceded, but after the events of the past few days her appetite was practically non-existent.

  She had certainly been in no mood for dinner the night before and although she’d taken David, at his suggestion, to a local pizzeria, she had had a struggle swallowing more than a few mouthfuls of her pasta.

  David had been on his best behaviour, of course. He’d spent the first hour apologising for worrying her and the Kaufmans, and when he’d seen the German family later in the evening, he’d made a point of speaking to them personally. She didn’t know what exactly he’d said to them. She told herself she didn’t want to know. His attitude was far too reminiscent of his father and how charming he had been when he’d wanted his own way.

  Nevertheless, David had got his own way and they both knew it. Whatever Cassandra said now, whatever she did, she had the weight of the de Montoyas’ involvement hanging over her, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt betrayed in some way.

  Yet, despite her misgivings, she couldn’t prevent the thrill of recognition she felt when Enrique appeared in the doorway to the terrace, his eyes swiftly scanning its occupants in search of herself. Or in search of David, she amended bitterly. She had to remember this man was David’s friend, not hers.

  All the same, she was intensely aware of him. His tall dark figure, dressed more formally this morning in a pale grey button-down shirt and black trousers, was undeniably striking. And when he located her table beside the rail of the terrace and started towards her, his progress was monitored by more than one pair of curious eyes.

  Cassandra felt the colour rise up her throat as he stopped beside her table. ‘Puedo?’ he asked, which she thought meant, May I? But he didn’t wait for her permission before pulling out the chair opposite, swinging it round and straddling it with his long legs.

  She was immediately conscious of the fact that she hadn’t bothered to put on any make-up that morning. Not that she wore a lot. But she usually used an eyeliner and a lipstick because of her fair colouring. However, with David still asleep, she’d merely sluiced her face in the tiny bathroom that adjoined their room and pulled on the tee shirt and knee-length trousers she’d worn the evening before.

  ‘You’re very early,’ she said, unconsciously defensive. ‘David isn’t up yet.’

  ‘It is not David I wish to speak to,’ replied Enrique, before glancing round for a waiter. With enviable ease, he summoned the man and ordered coffee for himself, even though Cassandra was sure the little pensión didn’t normally cater to visitors. Then, meeting her unwilling gaze with his own, ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Cassandra pushed nervous fingers through her hair. ‘I suppose that’s a polite way of saying I look a mess,’ she declared, stiffening her spine. ‘What do you want, Enrique?’

  ‘I want to speak with you.’ The waiter returned with his coffee and he pulled a note out of his pocket and pressed it into the startled man’s hand with a quick, ‘Gracias!’ Then, facing her again he added, ‘Do not be so anxious, Cassandra. This need not be as unpleasant as you fear.’

  ‘Want to bet?’

  Cassandra’s response was muffled as she looked down at her cup but he heard her. ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘It can be hard or easy. It is up to you.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She looked up then. ‘As long as I let you do exactly as you like, I’ll find it easy. If I object, you’ll fight me.’ Her lips twisted. ‘What a choice!’

  Enrique shook his head. ‘I do not want to fight you, Cassandra.’

  ‘But you will if you have to.’

  ‘If you attempt to deny my father the right to meet his grandson, I must.’

  Cassandra made a scornful sound. ‘And that’s supposed to reassure me?’

  Enrique drew a deep breath. ‘I am not your enemy, Cassandra.’ His long fingers tightened on the back of the chair. ‘Why can you not understand my feelings? The boy is a de Montoya. You do not deny that?’ And, when she didn’t protest, ‘Aquí tiene, is it not reasonable that he should have the chance to learn about his heritage?’ He paused. ‘At this moment, he is my father’s only hope for the future. Though, of course, he does not know it yet.’

  Cassandra stiffened. ‘What are you saying?’

  Enrique sighed. ‘I should have thought it was perfectly obvious.’

  Panic gripped her. ‘Are—are you implying that—that David—’

  ‘Will one day be heir to Tuarega?’ Enrique finished for her. ‘It is very possible, yes.’

  ‘No!’ Cassandra was appalled.

  ‘No?’ Enrique arched a dark brow. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you—you are your father’s eldest son. It is—it is your son who will inherit Tuarega.’

  ‘And if I do not have a son?’ Enrique stared at her, his eyes enigmatic in his dark face. ‘It is entirely possible. I do not intend to marry, therefore—’

  ‘But you must.’ Cassandra shook her head. ‘David’s my son. Mine. He doesn’t need what—what you’re offering.’

  ‘Does he not? Can you make that decision for him?’

  ‘No, but—’ Cassandra caught her breath. ‘Enrique, he’s just a child!’

  ‘I know that.’ Enrique lifted his shoulders in a dismissing gesture. ‘And I am not suggesting that he should be faced with such a choice until he is older. Much older. But that does not mean that he should not be given the chance to learn about his Spanish family, to avail himself of the advantages we can give him.’

  Cassandra shook her head. ‘You can’t do this.’

  But they could, and she knew it. Had always known it, if she was honest. She’d told herself that Antonio’s family didn’t deserve to know about David, but what she’d really been doing was saving herself from further heartbreak.

  ‘I want him to come and stay at Tuarega,’ continued Enrique levelly. ‘I think he should spend the rest of his holiday there.’

  ‘You’re not serious!’ Cassandra stared at him disbelievingly. ‘You have to give me some time—’

  ‘For what?’ Enrique’s eyes were wary. ‘To poison his mind against me?’

  ‘No.’ She would never do that. ‘But it’s too soon.’

  ‘I disagree.’ Enrique was implacable. ‘It is the most sensible solution. He will enjoy it.’ He paused. ‘You both will.’

  ‘Both?’ Cassandra’s jaw dropped. ‘You expect me to come with him?’

  ‘I am not entirely inhuman, no matter
what you think of me,’ replied Enrique flatly. ‘I am not suggesting taking the boy away from you. That was never my intention. But perhaps it is time to put the past behind us.’

  Cassandra couldn’t think. ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ He had the grace to look slightly discomfited now. ‘No haga este! Do not do this, Cassandra.’ He pushed his untouched coffee cup aside. ‘Be reasonable, I beg you.’

  ‘As you are?’ Cassandra made a helpless gesture. Then, ‘All right,’ she said heavily. ‘Ask David if he wants to spend the rest of his holiday at Tuarega. I can’t stop you. But don’t expect me to go with you.’

  ‘Cassandra!’ His use of her name was anguished, and she glanced anxiously about her, half afraid their conversation was being monitored, too. ‘When are you going to realise that what is done cannot be undone? I did not write that letter. David did. Can you not try and understand how he feels?’

  Cassandra couldn’t look at him. ‘David’s a child,’ she persisted. ‘What makes you think he’ll want to go to Tuarega? What is there for him? He gets bored very easily.’

  ‘Does he?’ Enrique considered her words. ‘Well, you may be right. There is no beach at Tuarega, it is true. No shops or fast-food restaurants within walking distance.’

  ‘David isn’t interested in shopping,’ Cassandra admitted unwillingly. ‘But he does like the beach. He likes to swim.’

  ‘Bien.’ Enrique was philosophic. ‘We do have a swimming pool, por lo menos. That may be some compensation.’

  And, of course, it would be. Cassandra had to be honest with herself. Not to mention the fact that there was space at Tuarega; acres and acres of space, grazed by Enrique’s bulls and probably horses, too. David could swim; he might even learn to ride. He would begin to appreciate how much she had deprived him of.

  Cassandra’s stomach hollowed. What Enrique and his father had to offer was overwhelming, terrifying. How could she hope to compete with the wealth and influence of the de Montoyas? Her son was too young to understand what she had had to pay for that wealth and influence.

  ‘It is time you met your in-laws, too,’ continued Enrique persuasively. ‘My father has mellowed somewhat in his old age. When he learns about David, he will not turn you away.’

  ‘Won’t he?’

  Cassandra wished she could believe him. Considering the lengths to which Julio de Montoya had gone to ensure that the wedding between her and his younger son did not take place, Enrique’s words did not fill her with any degree of optimism. Besides, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to meet the man who had attempted—with his son’s help—to ruin her life.

  Even so, she couldn’t deny that Enrique had a point. Perhaps she was being selfish in attempting to deprive David of the chance to choose between them. Just because she had suffered at the hands of the de Montoyas there was no reason to believe that her son would.

  ‘I promise I will see that you—and David—enjoy your stay in my family home,’ declared Enrique, watching her with his intent dark eyes, and she shivered. ‘Please: say you will come.’

  * * *

  Enrique was in his father’s study when Sanchia de Silvestre de Romero was announced.

  Squashing the immediate sense of irritation he felt at her appearance at this time, he abandoned the schedule he’d been working on and got to his feet as Consuela showed the young woman into the room.

  As always, Sanchia looked sleek and sophisticated, her dark hair coiled into a chignon at the nape of her neck, her sleeveless sheath fairly screaming its designer label. But today, for some reason, he found her appearance far too formal for a casual visit, and he wished she had rung before turning up like this.

  ‘You will not believe it, querido!’ she exclaimed, apparently unaware of the tension in his expression. She waited until Consuela had withdrawn, closing the door behind her, and then circled the desk to where he stood, reaching up to bestow a lingering kiss against his taut cheek. ‘Do you know, your man, Mendoza, stopped me in the salón and asked me if I was expected? Such insolence! I told him I did not need an appointment to see mi amante, no?’

  Enrique gave a small smile. But it was an effort, nonetheless. ‘Carlos is aware that I am extremely busy, Sanchia,’ he said, irrationally annoyed by her familiarity. He was not her lover. They had slept together a handful of times as much at her behest as his. ‘Unless it is something urgent, I regret I will have to ask you to excuse me.’

  Sanchia’s lower lip jutted. ‘You are sending me away? Again?’

  Enrique stifled a sigh. ‘I am sorry. As I say, I am very busy, Sanchia. I have to go to Sevilla this evening, to see my father, and there are things that must be done before I leave.’

  Sanchia gazed at him. ‘But Consuela says you have guests at the palacio. Surely you are not going to Sevilla and leaving your guests alone?’

  Enrique bent his head so that Sanchia wouldn’t see his exasperated closing of his eyes. He would have to speak to Consuela, he thought impatiently. To warn her not to gossip to the Señora de Silvestre de Romero as if she were already a member of his household. Which she would never be, however much she might presume upon it.

  ‘Who are these guests?’ Sanchia went on in the same proprietary tone. ‘Are they exporters, dealers, what? Have they come to see the bulls?’

  ‘They are—family,’ said Enrique reluctantly, aware that Cassandra would not approve of his description. But there seemed little point in lying about it. Sooner or later, Sanchia was going to find out who they were.

  ‘Family?’ Sanchia’s eyes brightened. ‘Who? Your Tia Alicia? Your cousin Sebastian and his wife? Oh, I do like your Tia Alicia. She knows so much about your family—’

  ‘It is not Tia Alicia,’ said Enrique flatly, steeling himself to tell her exactly who his visitors were, when there was a knock at the door. Guessing it was Consuela again, come to ask if they would like some refreshments, Enrique called, ‘Come!’ with some relief at the diversion.

  His deliverance was short-lived, however. It was not Consuela who pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the room. It was David, and he gazed curiously at his uncle’s visitor before saying cheerfully, ‘This is some place, Uncle Enrique. It’s taken me ages to find you.’

  Sanchia’s face was a picture of consternation, and if Enrique hadn’t felt so exasperated at the boy’s intrusion he might well have found the situation ludicrous. After all, he had probably looked much like her when he saw David for the first time, but he shouldn’t forget that, apart from her shock at seeing the boy, Sanchia was also looking at the son of the man she herself had expected to marry.

  No one spoke, and it was David who broke the uneasy silence that had fallen at his entrance. ‘Did I do something wrong, Uncle Enrique?’ he asked with boyish candour, and Enrique guessed he was remembering what had happened the day before. ‘Um—Mum said I could come down and find you, if I wanted to.’

  Did she?

  Enrique didn’t voice the words, but they presented themselves, nonetheless. Had Cassandra sent her son down here to embarrass him? Because if she had, she had certainly succeeded.

  ‘Nothing is wrong, David,’ he assured him now, speaking in English and realising he was being overly suspicious. It was unlikely that Cassandra—or David, for that matter—could have known of Sanchia’s arrival. He had had his father’s housekeeper accommodate their guests in rooms at the opposite end of the palacio from those occupied by the family and unless someone else had been gossiping this was just an unfortunate coincidence.

  ‘That’s all right, then.’ David gave Sanchia another speculative glance but it was obvious he could hardly contain his excitement. ‘I’ve seen the swimming pool, Uncle Enrique. It’s huge!’

  ‘Quien—?’ It was obvious that Sanchia was having difficulty in getting her words out. ‘Quien este, Enrique? Who is this?’

  ‘My name’s David de Montoya.’ Once again, the boy forestalled his uncle. ‘Mum and me are going to stay here for the rest of our holid
ays. Isn’t that great?’

  Sanchia didn’t answer him, but she turned uncomprehending eyes on Enrique, and he came round the desk to put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

  ‘He is right,’ he said, speaking in English again, deciding that perhaps this was the easiest way, after all. ‘David is Antonio’s son.’

  ‘Antonio’s son!’ Sanchia looked horrified. Then, in their own language, ‘Antonio did not have a son.’

  ‘Oh, but he did,’ said Enrique swiftly, aware that David was listening to this exchange and must have sensed her antipathy. ‘David is nine years old—sí, David?’

  Sanchia shook her head, as if to clear it, and then returned to the offensive. ‘But—how do you know that he is Antonio’s son? Who told you that he is?’

  ‘Este seria!’ Enrique’s impatience was obvious. ‘Be serious, Sanchia,’ he exclaimed, his eyes flashing an unmistakable message of warning. ‘Have you looked at him? He is a de Montoya. He is the image of my brother at that age.’

  ‘Or of you,’ retorted Sanchia shortly. ‘He bears a resemblance to both of you, but that does not mean—’ She broke off, aware that she was doing herself no favours by voicing her doubts. Then, with hardly less censure, ‘Do you tell me that you have invited—that woman to stay at Tuarega?’ Her dismay contorted her expression. ‘Enrique, have you taken leave of your senses? Do you want your father to have another heart attack? He will if he discovers you have had that—that puta here behind his back!’

  ‘Es suficiente!’ Enrique silenced her with the harsh words, aware that the anger he felt at her outburst was out of all proportion to the offence. Dios mio, only days ago he would have agreed with her. ‘Nothing is being done behind my father’s back,’ he continued tightly. ‘As it happens, I am going to Sevilla this evening for that very purpose. To speak to my mother. To discuss with her the best method to proceed.’