by Anne Mather
Yet, after the customer had departed, she wondered for the umpteenth time what she could have done differently. If she’d insisted on David coming home with her, he’d have been miserable. Besides, it would only have been a matter of time before either Enrique or his father got the European courts involved and obtained a court order allowing the boy to spend time with his Spanish family. And what kind of a future would that have portended for any of them?
No, she had had no choice but to agree to Julio de Montoya’s request. Anything else would have created even more bitterness between them, and for her son’s sake she had had to swallow her pride. But, oh, it had been a painful decision, and even now she wondered how Julio had persuaded her to do it.
When she’d arrived at her father-in-law’s suite of rooms that afternoon nearly three weeks ago, she didn’t know what she’d expected of him. Anger, of course; hostility, definitely. However delighted he might have been to learn he had a grandson, she’d been certain that Enrique had exaggerated his father’s desire to meet her. To berate her, perhaps. To deliver the kind of tirade Enrique had bestowed on the unfortunate Consuela; she’d been prepared for that. What she hadn’t been prepared for was Julio’s cordiality; his reasonableness; his apparent willingness to accept that she’d had good reasons for keeping David’s existence to herself.
Of course, when she’d first been shown into Julio’s room, she’d known none of that. In his impressive sitting room, with its deep ochre-tinted walls and heavy furniture, she’d been confronted by all the members of his immediate family, and it had been incredibly daunting.
David had been there, of course, but she hadn’t felt she could look to her son for any support. Of all of them, he had had the most to lose, financially at least, and where the de Montoyas were concerned, as she knew to her cost, financial considerations were paramount.
Elena de Montoya had been standing beside her husband’s wheelchair. Slim and autocratic, her expression had, as always, been impossible to read, though Cassandra had sensed that she didn’t altogether approve of her husband dealing with something so potentially explosive on his first day home.
Enrique had been there, too, she remembered. He had been lounging against the wrought iron grille that framed the windows, his dark eyes narrowed and intent. The rich red curtains had accentuated his sombre countenance, and she had made a determined effort not to look his way.
Julio, himself, had proved to be a mere shadow of the man Cassandra remembered. At Antonio’s funeral service, he had appeared so strong, so powerful; a dominant figure whom she had marvelled that Antonio had dared to oppose. But now he was older, frailer, showing the effects of the heart surgery Enrique had told her about. And infinitely less intimidating.
‘Cassandra.’ Julio had said her name slowly and succinctly, his accent, like his son’s, giving her name a foreign sibilance. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Cassandra could have said that she hadn’t had much choice, but she didn’t. Instead, she moved her shoulders in a dismissive gesture, saying politely, ‘I hope you’re feeling better, señor.’
‘I have been better,’ he agreed, using her term. ‘But the news my son has given me has gone a long way towards advancing my recovery.’ He held up a veined hand, summoning David to approach him. ‘This boy is my passport to health, Cassandra. My hope for the future.’ He took David’s hand between both of his. ‘Sí, hijo? You agree, do you not?’
David’s smile came and went, the look he cast towards his mother mirroring his uncertainty. Cassandra realised that he was still unsure of her reaction, and she was so eager to reassure her son that she inadvertently gave him the go-ahead to say whatever he liked.
‘I’m sure he does,’ she blurted swiftly, surprising all of them, and David wasted no time in assuring his grandfather that he loved being here at Tuarega.
There was more of the same, with Elena joining in to tell her husband that David was already beginning to speak a little Spanish, which was news to Cassandra. Still, it pleased the old man, and if it wasn’t for Enrique, a disturbing presence beside the windows, she might believe that some kind of compromise was possible.
But then, once again, Julio did the unexpected. With infinite courtesy, but with an unmistakable edge of steel in his voice, he asked his wife, his son, and his grandson to leave them. He wanted to speak to his daughter-in-law alone, he said, by way of an explanation. There were misunderstandings between them, long-standing grievances that needed to be cleared up before they could embark on a lasting relationship. He said he hoped they would all understand and give him and Cassandra some breathing space.
Elena protested, saying that he wasn’t well enough to conduct any kind of healing process now, but he was adamant, and it was left to Enrique to voice the loudest objections.
‘I think I should stay,’ he said, which was the first remark he’d made since Cassandra came into the room. And, although his father blustered, Cassandra knew that Julio would be no match for his son.
‘I’d prefer it if you left,’ she declared then, aware that she might be being a little foolhardy, but persisting with it anyway. She had no desire for Enrique to fight her battles for her. ‘I’d like to hear what your father has to say.’
Enrique looked as if he would like to argue with her. The glitter in his eyes was intimidating and promised a certain retribution. But he accepted their decision. With studied deliberation, he left the room with his mother and his son, his only protest the grazing brush of his thumb against Cassandra’s bare arm as he passed.
Cassandra shivered now, remembering his touch with every fibre of her being. She hadn’t known then that that was the last time Enrique would want to touch her; hadn’t comprehended that he’d known exactly what his father was going to say to her.
Julio had been tired. She’d known that. Despite his assertion to the contrary, the day had exhausted him, and Cassandra had wondered since if his choice of time had been deliberate; if he’d known exactly how she would feel, confronted by a man in his condition.
Whatever, at that moment she’d been preparing herself for the kind of reception she’d expected when she’d first entered his rooms, and she’d been taken aback when he’d invited her to sit in the chair nearest to him and asked if she’d like some refreshment.
She’d refused, of course. She’d wanted to get this over with, for him to make his feelings known and allow her to return to the anonymity of her rooms. But now that they were alone, Julio had been in no hurry to get to the point. He’d asked about her father, about her family, assuring himself that they were well before going on to ask about David, about where he went to school, about the life they shared back in England.
Cassandra had been disarmed; she recognised that now. She’d been expecting censure, criticism, and what she’d got had been tolerance and kindness, and an obvious desire to put her at her ease.
‘Enrique has told me the whole story,’ Julio said at last, when Cassandra was totally at his mercy. ‘He is not proud of his part in it. He bitterly regrets being the cause of this estrangement between our families, and it is his wish that you allow us to take some of the strain of raising the boy from now on.’
Cassandra was taken aback. It was news to her that Enrique considered his actions the reason for her cutting herself and David off from the de Montoyas, but who was she to argue with his father? Surely he must know his son better than she did.
Then, before she could express any protest, he went on to ask how she’d feel if he requested that she allow David to stay in Spain for a few more weeks instead of accompanying her home at the end of her holiday. He said he was sure David would take her lead in this, and, although she doubted that premise, she was hard-pressed to find a reason to refuse. When he went on to suggest that he might not get such an opportunity again, Cassandra knew she couldn’t say no. Julio’s tacit reference to his own mortality was a powerful lever, and David would never forgive her if she denied him possibly his only chance to get to know his Spa
nish grandfather.
The one condition she insisted on was that David remained in ignorance of his real father’s identity. She said she understood their eagerness to integrate him into their family, but she would prefer to wait until he was older before burdening him with that news. She just hoped that when that time came, David would forgive her. As far as she was concerned, he was the innocent victim here.
She slept badly again that night and awoke to the news that, once again, Enrique had left the palacio. According to David, who seemed enviably well informed about these things, he’d gone to Cadiz to attend to business matters for his father and wouldn’t be back until the following day at the earliest.
To Cassandra, who’d half expected Enrique to come and see her the night before, it was the last straw. It seemed that everything Enrique had done had been to an end, and now that she’d agreed to allow David to stay at Tuarega he had nothing more to gain. He hadn’t even had the decency to thank her for her co-operation. She fretted throughout the next seventy-two hours, before deciding to try for an earlier flight home. There was nothing for her here, and she guessed that everyone would feel infinitely happier when she was gone.
David objected, of course. Even though she explained that, since speaking to his English grandfather, she’d been worried about the situation back home, her son wanted her to stay until Enrique got back.
‘I’m sure he’ll expect you to stay,’ he insisted, but Cassandra was equally insistent that he wouldn’t.
‘I told you,’ she assured him gently, ‘Enrique and I have nothing in common.’ Except you! ‘He’ll be glad not to have to worry about me any more.’ If he ever had!
She flew back to England the following day, having been driven to the airport in Seville by Julio’s chauffeur. She didn’t see the old man again, though Elena had the courtesy to come out to bid her farewell.
‘We will look after David,’ she said, a possessive hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, and Cassandra found it incredibly difficult not to snatch her son into her arms and take him with her.
She sighed now, realising that she was wasting time fretting about something over which she had no real control. She’d committed herself to allowing the de Montoyas to play a part in her son’s life and if her father thought she was mad: well, so be it.
* * *
It was a week later, and Cassandra was serving a group of teenagers who were looking for copies of Virgil’s Aeneid, when her eyes were drawn to the sight of a gleaming limousine drawing up outside the shop. It wasn’t usual for cars to stop outside The Bookworm, and she could only assume that whoever was driving was a stranger to the district.
A stranger!
Her mouth went dry, and she inadvertently gave one of the youths a ten-pound note instead of a five in change. My God, what if it’s Enrique? she thought unsteadily. What was he likely to be doing there?
Fortunately, her youthful customer was honest, but her nervous laugh brought Henry to the front of the shop to see what was going on. ‘I’m just trying to cut your profits,’ she managed lightly as the teenagers left the shop, but her face was burning and she soon realised that Henry wasn’t listening to her in any case.
‘Nice car,’ he remarked instead, as the limousine idled at the kerb. ‘But he’ll get a parking ticket if he stays there.’
‘Hmm.’ Cassandra told herself she didn’t care what happened to the limousine. It wasn’t going to be Enrique. If he’d cared anything about her, he’d never have stayed away as he had. And, so long as it didn’t belong to any other de Montoya, she had nothing to worry about. ‘Um—is it all right if I go for my lunch now?’
‘What?’ Henry looked blankly at her. Then, without answering her question, ‘Hey, someone’s getting out of the car.’
‘Henry!’ Cassandra tried not to look towards the window. ‘Don’t be so nosy.’ She paused. ‘About lunch—’
‘My God, he’s coming in,’ Henry interrupted her quickly. ‘He looks foreign, Cass. Are you sure you don’t know who it is?’
Cassandra’s head jerked up, a mixture of fear and excitement churning in her stomach. Henry was right. A darkly tanned individual was entering the bookstore. But it wasn’t Enrique, as she’d imagined; as she’d hoped? Nor was it his father. But the man was known to her. It was the chauffeur who had driven her to the airport when she left.
‘Señora,’ he said, making directly for Cassandra, and Henry’s eyes widened as he looked at his assistant. ‘Por favor, señora, Senor de Montoya wishes to speak with you.’
Cassandra quivered. The man—she knew his name was Salvador—was waiting for her response, but she was too shocked to answer him.
‘Señora?’ echoed Henry admiringly, making a wry face, and Cassandra struggled to pull herself together.
‘Señor de Montoya?’ she got out at last, hardly daring to voice the words. ‘Señor Enrique de—’
‘Señor Julio, señora,’ Salvador interrupted her swiftly, nodding towards the car behind him. ‘He is waiting, señora. You will come, sí?’
Julio!
Cassandra felt sick. For a moment she’d allowed herself the luxury of believing that Enrique hadn’t abandoned her, that he cared about her and not about what he wanted from her. But now he had his son! The child he’d never known he had. He didn’t need her any more.
Besides, she should have had more sense, she chided herself. A man who’d apparently allowed his father to do what he should have done himself was hardly likely to be having second thoughts now.
And, as her head cleared, she thought she could guess why Julio de Montoya was here. They had given her three weeks to get used to being without David, and now it was time to put the second part of their plan into operation. Julio was going to suggest that her son was happy with them, that they could give him so much more than she could, that perhaps she might consider allowing him to live with them instead of returning him to England at the end of the summer.
No!
‘Yes, go along, Cass,’ urged Henry, evidently eager to find out what they wanted for himself. ‘It is lunch time. I can spare you for—well, for a couple of hours.’
A couple of hours! Cassandra’s lips twisted. Usually, she had a struggle to get half an hour in the middle of the day.
‘I—I don’t know—’
She was shaking her head, wondering how on earth she was going to avoid talking to Julio de Montoya, when another voice spoke from the doorway.
‘Cassandra!’ It was Julio himself, still pale and drawn, but evidently much recovered from the last time she’d seen him. Even his voice had acquired a little of the imperiousness she remembered from ten years ago. ‘Please,’ he added, with surprising humility. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Do we?’ She was uneasy, but there was really no contest.
‘I believe so,’ he asserted heavily, and now she saw that he was leaning on an ebony cane. ‘Will you come?’
Henry watched from the doorway as Salvador assisted first his employer and then Cassandra into the back of the limousine. Julio apologised for preceding her, but it had become apparent that he was still far from strong. Cassandra was amazed that Señora de Montoya had allowed her husband to make the journey himself.
But perhaps he’d insisted that his powers of persuasion were superior to hers and those of his son. There was no doubt that he had succeeded before, and the fact that Enrique wasn’t with him seemed to point to the fact that he had decided to leave it to his father. Again.
For her part, Cassandra was too tense to worry about protocol. Taking her seat beside Julio in the back of the car, all she could think about was David and how bleak her future would be if he didn’t want to come home.
‘Por favor, Salvador,’ said Julio once she was seated, indicating that the chauffeur should drive on, and Cassandra glanced behind her to see Henry turning rather disappointedly back into the shop.
‘Your employer?’ asked Enrique’s father as she swung round again, and she nodded.
�
��Henry Skyler,’ she conceded. ‘It’s his shop.’
Julio inclined his head. ‘You have worked there long?’
‘Several years,’ she agreed, her tone sharpening. She wished he would tell her why he was here and stop wasting time. They had nothing in common and pretending he was interested in her life was just a way to get her to let down her guard. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Ah.’ Julio appeared to acknowledge her impatience. ‘If you will permit, we will go to the hotel where I usually stay when I am in London.’
Cassandra pressed her lips together. So, it was to be a prolonged encounter. Instead of tea and sympathy, it was to be lunch and sympathy. Whatever way you looked at it, she doubted it was her feelings he was thinking about.
‘Is this necessary?’ she asked, deciding she would rather know the worst right away. ‘I realise you might find it easier to say what you have to say in a restaurant, where I’d be constrained to be polite, but I’d rather you were honest with me.’
‘Honest with you, Cassandra?’ To her surprise, Julio looked disturbed now. ‘You would rather I came right out and told you what has happened en seguida? At once? Que? You have reason to believe I bring bad news?’
Cassandra swallowed. ‘Well, don’t you?’
Julio stared at her with troubled eyes. ‘Elena,’ he said with sudden comprehension. ‘Elena has telephoned you. She promised she would not, but I should have known—’
‘Señora de Montoya hasn’t contacted me,’ Cassandra interrupted him shortly. ‘But it’s obvious you’re not here to ask after my health. We don’t have that kind of a relationship.’
‘No.’ Julio conceded the point. ‘And you are sure my wife has not been in touch with you? That she hasn’t warned you—?’
‘Warned me?’ Cassandra looked at him. ‘Warned me of what? That I shouldn’t upset you when you tell me you want to keep David in Spain? That I should just accept the fact that you intend to appropriate my son?’
