The Spaniard's Seduction

by Anne Mather

  ‘Your son?’ Julio looked dismayed. ‘You think this is about David?’

  ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  Cassandra wouldn’t allow the sudden curl of fear to daunt her. Why else would Julio de Montoya have made this journey? Only something terribly important to him would have persuaded him to come and see her only weeks after such a serious operation. And, aside from his grandson, what else could it be?

  His son?

  The thought caught Cassandra unawares, although she suspected that that was what she had been suppressing since Enrique’s father had denied this was anything to do with David. A feeling of coldness enveloped her. Oh, God, what could possibly have happened to cause this arrogant old autocrat to come to her?

  ‘I—it has to be David,’ she insisted, refusing to let him see what she was thinking. ‘What else could it be?’

  Julio shook his head. ‘I—I would prefer it if you could wait until we reach the hotel,’ he said stiffly, glancing towards Salvador, and she realised it was against his principles to discuss family matters in front of the chauffeur.

  But Cassandra was in no mood to humour him. ‘Is it David?’ she persisted, still refusing to believe that it could be anything else. ‘You might as well tell me. I think I deserve a little time to prepare my defence.’

  ‘Your defence?’ Julio was ironic. ‘Oh, Cassandra, you are so cold; so suspicious. Does it not occur to you that if I wanted to—what was it you said? Appropriate your son? Yes, that was the term you used—appropriate your son, I would have allowed my lawyer to deal with it?’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘There has been an accident,’ said Julio heavily, and not without some reluctance. ‘As you insist on—’

  ‘An accident?’ Cassandra interrupted him again, her heart in her mouth. ‘David?’

  ‘No, Enrique,’ said the old man wearily. ‘My son. My only son. I have come to beg you to return to Spain with me. If you do not, I fear—I fear the consequences.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  APPROACHING Tuarega from the north was different from approaching it from the south. The north was wilder, harsher, the landscape punctuated by dry riverbeds and rocky ravines where prickly pear and spiky agave were the only vegetation.

  Sitting in the back of another limousine, Cassandra paid little attention to her surroundings. Darkness had fallen, and it was difficult to think of anything except the reason why she was here. The stark peaks of the sierra, briefly glimpsed in the headlights of the car, only accentuated her feelings of isolation, of being far from everything she knew, everything she believed. She still wasn’t absolutely convinced that she should have come, and she didn’t know if she could take another rejection.

  Nonetheless, she had thought of little but Enrique since Julio had delivered the news of his accident. Hearing how he had entered one of the pens where a rogue bull was corralled and been gored for his pains had horrified her. It seemed so unlike him, somehow. David had told her that Enrique had always cautioned him to show great respect for the animals, and, according to Julio, Juan had warned him not to approach the beast.

  So why had he? Julio’s opinion was that his son had had something on his mind; that he hadn’t been thinking when he’d entered the pen and found himself face-to-face with an enraged bull. Whatever, before any of the hands could create a diversion, the animal had charged, its sharp horns ripping Enrique’s arm and gouging an ugly gash in his thigh.

  Cassandra shivered now, just thinking of it. Flesh wounds always bled profusely and Julio had admitted that the floor of the pen had been soaked with his son’s blood. It had taken four men to drag the infuriated beast away from him and, since then, the bull had been destroyed.

  Enrique had been unconscious when a helicopter had airlifted him to the hospital in Seville where his father had so recently been a patient. He’d needed a blood transfusion, but fortunately the wound in his leg had just missed the artery. Even so, he’d lost a lot of blood, and for several days his condition had been closely monitored.

  Cassandra found it incredible that all this could have been going on while she had been totally ignorant of it. No one had phoned her; no one had told her that the man she was very much afraid she had never stopped loving was fighting for his life. Only now had she been apprised of the situation. Only now had the de Montoyas been forced to humble themselves and contact her. And that only because although Enrique’s physical condition was much improved, his mental state was proving a cause for concern.

  ‘He seems—uninterested in everything,’ Julio had told her, with evident frustration. ‘The accident happened—what? Two weeks ago? At least that. And his wounds are healing well. After all, they are used to such injuries in my country. You English think the bull is such a helpless creature, but I have seen men lose limbs—lose their very lives—in the cause of the corrida.’

  Cassandra hadn’t answered that. The fact was that in the corrida the bull was always fighting for its life. But that was their culture. It wasn’t up to her to criticise something she really knew nothing about.

  ‘He should be up and about by now,’ Julio had continued unhappily. ‘He has duties; responsibilities. He knows I am not capable of doing very much and yet he will not listen to me, will not talk to me, will not even talk to David.’

  So why did they think he would talk to her? Cassandra wondered uneasily. Julio hadn’t offered an explanation. He hadn’t even mentioned David’s reaction to all this, merely responding to her enquiry by saying the boy was with his grandmother and leaving it at that.

  Yet surely Enrique would want to spend time with his son?

  But when she’d mentioned as much to Julio, he’d been curiously reticent. ‘He sees no one,’ he’d insisted shortly and with evident reluctance. ‘Apart from Carlos Mendoza, por supuesto. You will see for yourself, if you will come.’

  As if she’d had any choice, thought Cassandra now, taut with apprehension and anxiety. What if Enrique refused to see her? What then? Would they pack her off back to England again? She doubted they’d have any choice. And, God knew, she wouldn’t want to stay in those circumstances…

  The limousine was descending into a valley now and, although Cassandra had no real knowledge of where they were, she sensed they were nearing their destination. She could see lamps burning at the gates of a building ahead of them and, below, the clustered lights of a small village. She guessed they were still some distance from Tuarega itself, but perhaps this might be an appropriate time to warn Julio of their imminent arrival.

  The old man had dozed on and off for most of their journey and she wasn’t surprised. She guessed he was exhausted. This had been a gruelling day for a man in his condition, and she was amazed at his stamina.

  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 shoul
ders. ‘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. ‘Adiós, 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 aquí, 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, sí?’

  ‘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.

  ‘Sí, the maid, señora.’ He paused, gesturing through an archway beyond the curve of the staircase. ‘Por aquí.’

  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, ‘Um—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, sí?’

  ‘Are you?’ Cassandra’s fingers 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 th
e 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.