by Dee Brice
She wouldn’t have accompanied him at all if he hadn’t threatened to call her husband. That Ian was fucking a supposedly married woman didn’t seem to bother him at all. And what did that say about his morals? Or hers?
Ian Soria is not what he seems.
“Almost home,” he said as he drove into Torquay, the timbre of his voice renewing her longing for a home of her own. “On the left is the Spanish Barn. That is where the English imprisoned the survivors of the storm that wrecked the Spanish Armada. To the right…” He shrugged, shooting her an apologetic smile for the obvious. “The ocean.”
“And bath houses! I thought those went out with Prohibition.”
“Tradition, Tiffany darling. Like tea, the English are steeped in tradition.”
“Is it difficult for you? The mixing of your heritages?” He had told her his father was English, his mother Spanish.
“Not usually. Although I did poorly in English history, I understand the politics of the times. But I sometimes wonder what might have happened if Elizabeth had married Philip of Spain. Or if the storm had not destroyed the Armada. The…duality of my heritage disturbs me then.”
Ian’s sigh of pleasure drew her away from brooding about her own duality. “Hunter Hall. Built by the first baron during the reign of Elizabeth I and restored to its present splendor while Victoria was on the throne.” His voice took on the stentorian tones of an English tour guide. “Indoor plumbing upgraded by the present baroness. Having a mere fifteen bedrooms, each boasts its own en suite commode.”
TC laughed and then gasped. “Good Lord, it’s a castle.” Time had faded the bricks to pale pink and now, set as it was in the middle of lush green lawns, the castle looked opalescent—as if the sun had come out solely to give her this first, awesome view of Ian’s home.
Home? How could a person live in such a place and call it by such a simple name? This palace was older than any building in the United States and people, Ian’s family, had lived here for more than four hundred years.
Shading her eyes against the sun, she looked up. “Are those cupolas on the roof?”
“They look like cupolas, but were used for less pleasant purposes. They served as archers’ towers like those on the corners of the lower level. Or, if the knights were away with their lord, a place where the women would pour boiling oil on their enemies.”
She shivered, but it was a pleasant kind of chill—like watching a scary movie, knowing she was safe within the walls of her very own room.
“Sometimes, as a boy, I would climb up to those towers and lie there listening to the rain pound the slate shingles.”
“How old were you when you and your mother came to live here?”
“I cannot remember living anywhere else.”
If his answer was evasive, she had no opportunity to consider it. Ian no sooner brought the car to a stop on the gravel drive than the single wooden door of the castle flew open and two diminutive tornados whirled out. One spun toward Ian’s door, the other toward hers before veering off to follow her companion to Ian. Each squealed like gauchos riding neck-or-nothing across the pampas.
Her muscles protesting being stretched, she eased out of the low-slung Jag and heard the girls chattering at Ian, one beginning a sentence that the other finished. She heard madre and padre and assumed these were Ian’s sisters, the twins.
Looking at them smiling into Ian’s face, seeing him smile back with tenderness and love in his dark eyes, TC felt a pain around her heart, twin emotions of joy and envy.
The twins’ faces mirrored each other. Patrician noses, ebony hair and brows, dark eyes so like their brother’s, their cheekbones high and pronounced, but their cheeks fuller, softer, with the mark of childhood still on them. They were simply lovely.
Ian lowered them to the ground, then held out his hand to her. Just as she had in London, she went to him, but stopped short of going into his arms. She felt…shy of these girls, like an unwanted guest at Christmas dinner, tolerated solely because a loved one had invited her. And, dressed as she was in baggy corduroy trousers and a faded UCLA sweatshirt, she looked like a frump, especially when compared to the elegant young creatures now eyeing her with unconcealed curiosity.
What had Ian told them about her? About her bruised and abraded hands and face? Merde! His family would think she was a battered woman fleeing a monster, something she should have considered before she let Ian bully her into this trip. Only his threat to call her “husband” had gained her acquiescence for her removal from London.
The twins’ olive complexions bore no trace of acne, while hers looked like a war zone, right eye black and red and swollen half-shut. Her faded pants and sweatshirt looked like rejects from the ragbag, while their clothing seemed to proclaim their individual personalities.
“This is Peace,” Ian said, nodding at the twin who wore jodhpurs, polished English riding boots and a peacock-blue blouse. “And this is Adeen who, like her name, dresses like a little fire.”
“Hi,” TC said, taking in Adeen’s black leather jeans and vest, the piratical style of her crimson silk shirt.
“Say hello to Tiffany darling.”
“How’d you do, Miss Darling,” they said in unison, like kindergartners greeting their teacher.
TC’s blush seeped up her neck and settled on her cheeks. “My name’s TC,” she explained to the girls while slanting a glare at their brother.
“Her name,” the grinning idiot corrected, “is Tiffany Foster.”
“I prefer TC,” she insisted through clenched teeth. “But, since I’m Ian’s guest, I suppose I should answer to what he calls me. So long as it isn’t ‘Tiffany darling’,” she added sotto voce for his ears only.
“Miss Tiffany, then,” said Peace.
“TC,” Adeen said, directing a challenging look at Ian.
“Mama has ordered a late luncheon,” Peace said, linking her arm with TC’s. “We’ll get you settled first and you can call us when you’re ready to come down.”
“Yeah, call us, ‘cause the castle’s a bit tricky to navigate until you learn your way around.” Adeen caught TC’s other arm and tugged.
“I will bring Tiffany down,” Ian said in that lordly tone TC both loved and hated. Loved because, when he used it, his voice took on that upper-class British tone American women routinely fell in love with. Hated because it made her feel so bloody inferior.
“I’ll find my own way down, thank you. My sense of direction is infallible.” Take that for imperiousness, you arrogant ass!
The twins’ giggles made TC lower her nose and blush again. She had to get a hold on her tongue or she’d make an even bigger fool of herself than she just had. If only Ian wouldn’t provoke her! But asking that of him was like asking the sun not to rise.
“Easy, girls,” her tormentor cautioned as the twins pulled her toward the house. “Tiffany dar—Tiffany took a nasty fall last night and is not up to sprinting.”
“You mean you didn’t beat her?” Adeen asked in a voice theatrically full of surprise.
“No, I did not beat her.” TC could almost hear Ian grind his teeth. “But that does not mean I would refrain from spanking you.”
“You wouldn’t,” TC gasped.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Peace said, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “All bark, our Ian.”
TC smiled at the aptly named girl, but she wondered all the same. How much did she really know about Ian, this man who seemed so perfect? So tender. So gentle. So loving.
Ian Soria is not what he seems.
“Mama’s put you in the green suite. Something about it matching your eyes.” Adeen released TC’s arm and, walking backward across the gravel drive, studied her face.
“Maybe she should have chosen the red room,” Peace suggested, revealing she shared her sister’s mischievous sense of humor.
“Do you have a mottled room? Something in red and black and blue? I’ll blend in perfectly with the wallpaper.”
The twins giggled. At her
back she heard Ian groan, as if he imagined her stark naked and waiting for him against the wall, full of need, weak and wet with it. Which, God help her, she already was.
Ian Soria is not what he seems.
But neither was she.
Chapter Four
Half an hour later, true to her word, TC descended the grand staircase alone and made her way over the black-and-white diamond-shaped marble floor toward the blue salon. Looking back over her shoulder, she marveled at the artistry that had created the majestic sweep of the solid oak staircase rising up and up and up. Far above her, the ceiling was painted blue, as blue as a summer sky and was adorned with frolicking cherubs—naked cherubs who resembled baby Cupids more than angels.
The scale of the entry hall should have humbled her, but vases of spring flowers—irises, gladioli and tulips—filled the foyer with glorious colors and heavenly fragrances. Sights and scents TC remembered from her childhood, before her mother’s desertion, before Charles stopped making even token gestures of fatherly concern.
Turning her head, dismissing the pleasant and unpleasant memories, she headed left, down a wide corridor filled with the same lovely flowers and scents as the entryway. She stopped before she reached the open double doors of the blue salon and used the Rococo hallway mirror to peer into the room. An enormous Georgian crystal chandelier reflected back at her, hinting at the size of the room it graced. Below the mantel-less fireplace, a blue marble bolection framed the hob where a cheery fire burned. Pale blue velvet chairs and couches beckoned her to enter, to sit or join the twins, now shoeless, on the thick carpet where they played some board game or other.
Butterflies swirled in TC’s belly. She fought down the impulse to turn on her heel and run like hell, as far away from Ian Soria and his loving family as she could get.
Ian’s mirrored image stopped her. No, it wasn’t Ian who stood looking down at the twins with such obvious affection it made her heart hurt. This man had silver streaks at his temples and deep lines around his crystal blue eyes. Smile lines, she bet herself, not scowls like Charles perpetually wore. He looked up and smiled at her in the mirror. She couldn’t tell if he really saw her or was simply sharing his love of his children with his reflection. In a curious way, she was trapped, obligated to share the love within these walls that encompassed his family.
She wiped damp, shaking hands down trim chocolate-brown slacks and checked the tag on her beige cowl-necked sweater to make sure it lay flat against her nape. Out of excuses, she forced a smile and stepped into the room.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, an overwhelming sense of relief blooming in her when Ian stood, came to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist. He still wore the University of Barcelona sweatshirt, faded jeans and deck shoes he’d worn on the drive down. TC resisted snuggling against him and inhaling his scent.
“Mamacita,” Ian said to the striking dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who studied her face for a long moment and then smiled up at her. “This is Tiffany dar—Tiffany Foster.”
The twins sniggered behind their hands. Ian shot them a warning glare.
“Tiffany, my mother, Margreta Maria Esperanza—”
“Kindly refrain from boring Tiffany, and me, with all my multisyllabic names. Margreta is sufficiently difficult as it is.” She held out her hand—a delicate, elegant hand, its nails unpolished, but buffed to a mirror-like shine TC envied. She also envied the woman’s elegant clothes, a pale pink pantsuit, low-heeled sling-back shoes in hot pink leather and an opal necklace with matching earrings.
“TC prefers TC, Mama,” Adeen said as TC took Margreta Hunter’s hand in hers, her abraded fingertips barely brushing the other woman’s fingers before curling around her hand.
“Hush,” Peace said, grinning wickedly at her big brother.
Ignoring both siblings, Ian said, “And this is my father, Marcus Hunter, Baron—”
“Of beef,” the twins chorused, earning a chuckle from their father and mother.
“And Mark is sufficient for me, Miss TC,” he said in a resonant basso surely capable of vibrating crystal glasses into shards. He wore casual brown slacks, a de rigueur tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a pale yellow shirt, open at the neck. Like the twins, he was shoeless.
“Would you like an aperitif before we go in to luncheon?” Margreta asked, her lovely voice bearing witness to her son’s intriguing accent. “Please, sit here next to me.”
“A small sherry would be lovely,” TC said straight-faced, a laugh at Ian’s red cheeks threatening to erupt any second. Did he really believe she would tell his parents that she and Ian had shared a lovely wine while making love? She might distrust Ian Soria, but she would never embarrass him in front of his family.
“Did you enjoy the play last night?” Mark asked, then turned beet red at his gaffe.
“Up to a point,” TC said ruefully, gently touching her swollen right eye.
“What happened?” Margreta asked, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to soothe away every one of TC’s aches.
“I foolishly allowed Tiffany—”
“Ian graciously arranged for a backstage tour after the performance. I went out on stage and fell down a rabbit hole.” TC directed a reassuring smile at the wide-eyed twins, who had quit playing their board game when she came into the room.
“Thank you,” she said to Mark when he handed her a glass of sherry. “You should see what this face did to the post it hit.”
“Papa, will you take us to see it?”
“It already has been replaced,” Ian said, an odd note in his voice suggesting… What? That he had sent the shattered post to some crime lab? Had it analyzed to see if it had been cut?
Ian Soria is not what he seems.
Was he a cop?
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon, Damian tapped on Tiffany’s bedroom door. Receiving no answer, he went in and spotted her asleep in the window seat. An open book lay on her stomach, spine up. Snagging a velour throw from the bed, he lifted the book away, noting it was P.D. James’ An Unsuitable Job for a Woman. He spread the throw over Tiffany and stared as she turned on her side and sighed.
For a long moment he simply gazed at her, savoring the way her hair slid over her robe-clad shoulder, almost hiding her long lashes—a crescent half-moon against her cheek. Her bruised and abraded cheek.
Rage roiled in his guts. He wanted to wrap his hands around the neck of whoever had messed with that star cover. His instincts told him Tiffany’s fall was no accident. Someone had set out to injure her. Injure, hell! They had wanted to kill her. Why? Because whoever they were, they knew Tiffany would catch them sooner or later? Or because she knew who they were and could send them to prison for the rest of their lives?
With an inward sigh, he pulled a chair to the window seat. Sitting, he went on conjecturing about Tiffany and her role in this mess. Memories distracted him.
When the Colombian police caught Yulie Cardoza—his brother’s betrayer—she accused Michael of sharing secrets before, during and after sex. Damian knew his brother was too smart, too careful to give up information as “pillow talk”. Damian also knew Yulie was part of the drug taskforce Michael was working with at the time of his death. He not only trusted the woman, he loved her.
Tiffany whimpered, drawing Damian’s attention back to her. She knew more than she was willing to tell him. Could he…? Was he cold-blooded enough to use sex, use the hope of love to seduce Tiffany into spilling her guts? As she was a suspect, he knew he shouldn’t lay a hand on her again. As his only viable lead, he knew he would do anything to catch the murdering bitch who had killed the two Parisian bank employees. Or the murdering bastard, he corrected, fighting the impulse to convict Tiffany on the basis of flimsy circumstantial evidence.
Mumbling, Tiffany flung off the throw, then shouted, “No!” Bolting to her feet, she stumbled over Damian’s chair and landed in his lap.
Fate, it seemed, had dictated his path to perdit
ion. “Good afternoon,” he said, kissing her nose on its up-tilted tip.
Covering her yawn with her fist, she asked, “What time is it?” Her eyes widening, she tried to wiggle off his lap.
Holding her in place, he said, “Six, six-thirty.” He shrugged. Toying with a thick strand of her hair, he tucked it behind her ear, then traced its whorl. Shivering, she pushed at his hand. “Are you hungry?”
As if drawn back in time to St. Anton, her pupils dilated and she sucked in a breath. “Are you?”
“I could use a snack. A bite of your neck will do for now.”
She shoved away. “Not here.”
“My room then.”
“I meant, not in your parents’ home.”
“Why not? They obviously have had sex here. The twins,” he added at her blank look. Tugging on her hand, he sat on the window seat, then pulled her down beside him. “Besides, they have gone to the cinema. We have the entire house—thirteen bedrooms anyway—to ourselves.” He waggled his eyebrows, making her grin. “I could nibble your neck here, in your room—”
“What film are they seeing and why didn’t you go with them?”
“A Thousand-and-One Dalmatians, I think.” He kissed her cheek.
“A Hundred-and-One,” she corrected. “Aren’t the twins a little…mature for that sort of movie?”
“The twin terrors may be, but my parents are not.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Its appeal has something remotely related to conception.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?” she repeated.
“A lack of your presence.” He captured her hand and brought it to his mouth. He kissed each knuckle, stroked her palm with his tongue and looked into her eyes. “I could kiss your lips in my room,” he went on, undeterred by their brief foray into family matters. “In the red room—yes, we have a red room—I would kiss your neck, your lips, your ears.”
