by Anne Weale
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
About the Author
Books by Anne Weale
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Copyright
Cassia retained her self-possession with difficulty
“I don’t need this lecture…I’m not just out of a convent, although you seem to think so. Compared with other people of my age, I’ve been around more than most.”
“Geographically, yes. Not emotionally. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve never been kissed,” Simón said, smiling.
“Of course I’ve been kissed!” she exploded indignantly.
“Like this?” He cupped her chin and her cheek in the warm curve of his palm and, tilting her face up, put his lips lightly on hers. For a moment, while her heart bungee jumped, his mouth remained on hers, motionless. Then, softly and slowly, it moved in a kiss so gentle yet so subtly arousing that her response astonished and horrified her.
“Not like that,” he said mockingly.
Anne Weale was still at school when a women’s magazine published some of her stories. At twenty-five she had her first novel accepted by Mills & Boon. Now, with a grown-up son and still happily married to her first love, Anne divides her life between her winter home, a Spanish village ringed by mountains and vineyards, and a summer place in Guernsey, one of the many islands around the world she has used as backgrounds for her books.
Books by Anne Weale
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE
3108—THAI SILK
3216—PINK CHAMPAGNE
3257—THE SINGING TREE
3318—THE FABERGÉ CAT
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A Night to Remember
Anne Weale
CHAPTER ONE
THEY arrived at a quiet time of day, when everyone staying at the hotel was either up on the ski-slopes of the Sierra Nevada or out on a sightseeing excursion.
Sitting behind the reception desk in her neat black dress, with her long mane of light brown hair brushed smoothly back from her face and fastened with pins and a black bow attached to a comb, Cassia was reading a French novel left behind by one of the guests and given to her by their room maid who had found it in the wastepaper basket.
The book was propped on the shelf beneath the counter, and as soon as Cassia heard a car drawing up to the entrance she raised her head and returned to the real world.
The car was a Mercedes sports coupé. Its driver, visible through the hotel’s glass doors which would slide apart when he came near them, was a tall, dark man, casually dressed in a sweater and jeans.
She watched him walk round the front of the car to open the passenger door for a girl with long, sexy legs revealed by a very short skirt. It rode even higher up her thighs as she twisted round to reach for something on the back seat. The something proved to be a fur jacket. When she was on her feet, standing almost as tall as the man, she slung the fur round her shoulders, over the red cashmere sweater defining her voluptuous breasts.
They were a spectacular couple, whose looks suggested that they might be show business personalities. But they wouldn’t be adding their names to the long list of stars and directors who had stayed at Granada’s most expensive hotel.
Tonight the Castillo del Sultán was fully booked. Only one suite was unoccupied, but that was reserved for the Marqués de Mondragón, who was driving down from Madrid and wasn’t expected to arrive until shortly before dinner.
When he did, he would be welcomed by the manager, Señor Alvarez, and conducted upstairs with the ceremony befitting a grandee of Spain whose high rank had been conferred on an ancestor by Queen Isabella I, whose statue, on a high plinth with fountains playing round its base, was one of the most photographed monuments in the historic city of Granada.
As the newcomers entered the lobby the girl’s eyes focused on the windows of the small shop, closed until four p.m., offering a selection of expensive souvenirs and gifts. She made a beeline for the enticing displays, leaving the man to approach the desk on his own.
Speaking Spanish with almost no trace of her native language, Cassia said pleasantly, ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good afternoon.’ His voice was deeper and quieter than the opulent car and the ostentatiously glamorous girl had led her to expect.
Before she could tell him that unfortunately they were fully booked, and offer to ring up one of the other hotels for him, he said, ‘My secretary booked the Mirador for us two or three weeks ago.’
His Spanish was pure castellano, like that of the aged professor who, to supplement his pension, had taught Cassia to speak as he did, not with the more guttural accent of the granadinos.
‘You weren’t expecting us till later,’ he went on. ‘But I changed my plans and left Madrid this morning.’
The Mirador was the name of the hotel’s most beautiful suite. But it was seldom occupied by beautiful people. Most of those who could afford to enjoy its luxury were middle-aged, if not elderly. Cassia had assumed that the Marqués would be many years older than this man, who looked to be in his early thirties, with thick dark hair and an aura of health and vigour, not to say animal magnetism.
She was not often disconcerted. Her life, with its many upheavals and fluctuations of fortune, had made her unusually self-possessed. But something about the way he was looking down at her from the other side of the counter threw her into confusion.
However, she tried not to show it, saying politely, ‘Would you sign the register, please?’ and offering him a gold-nibbed fountain pen filled with black ink, one of the many small touches of style which combined to give the Castillo its reputation as one of Spain’s finest hotels.
Given the opportunity to live at the level of the Castillo’s guests, Cassia would have chosen to stay at a smaller and quieter establishment, once a monastery and now a State-run parador, inside the walls of the Alhambra. But the Parador San Francisco was always booked up for months ahead, especially as its charges were not high in relation to the exorbitant rates charged by the Castillo del Sultán.
Even though the cost of living in Spain was no longer as low as when she and her father had first come here, on what this man would be paying for his week here she could have lived well for months.
The Marqués took the pen in his long brown fingers and signed his name—or part of it—below the previous entry in the leather-bound, gold-stamped register. She knew that written in full his name would occupy two or three lines. Acquired over many generations, his family’s subsidiary titles had become almost as numerous as those of Spain’s best known grandee, the Duchess of Alba.
But all he wrote was one word—Mondragón. Like ‘Alba’, it was enough to identify him to anyone with the smallest interest in Spanish history.
As he signed Cassia pressed two bells—one to summon a baggage porter, the other to alert one of the attendants responsible for parking the guests’ cars in the hotel’s underground garage and bringing them to the entrance when they were needed again.
It was a measure of the efficiency with which the Castillo was run that, although it was a slack time of day, there was very little delay before both men came through the staff door behind th
e imposing marble staircase, their uniforms immaculate, their expressions friendly but respectful.
Although she knew it wasn’t the first time that the Marqués had stayed at the hotel, Cassia was surprised when he greeted José, the senior car valet, by his name, and even shook hands with him before handing over his keys.
As she opened the gate of the area behind the reception desk Manolo, the oldest of the hall porters, returned to his desk on the opposite side of the lobby. He had worked at the hotel for years and had many tales to tell of gala occasions, scandals discreetly hushed up and outrageous behaviour by people who should have known better.
He also received a cordial greeting from the Marqués, who enquired after Manolo’s wife and family but did not present the porter to his own companion, Cassia noticed. Whoever she was, she was obviously not the Marquesa. Perhaps he wasn’t married yet. In which case there was no reason why he shouldn’t amuse himself with whoever was willing to partner him on a temporary basis.
Although she worked in a milieu where such liaisons were commonplace, Cassia herself marched to a different drummer. She was a romantic, with high ideals and probably hopeless expectations. The man who captured her heart would not be one who regarded women as playthings.
She waited until the two men had finished talking before stepping forward to say, ‘Unfortunately Señor Alvarez isn’t here at the moment. May I show you to your suite, Excellency?’
‘Thank you, but that’s unnecessary, señorita. I’ve been staying here since I was so high.’ The Marqués indicated the height of a small boy. As he spoke he gave Cassia’s figure a brief but comprehensive appraisal.
Although she wasn’t as tall as his long-stemmed girlfriend, in proportion to her own medium height her legs were equally long and slender. But, while some of the maids wore short skirts under their uniform overalls, Señor Alvarez wouldn’t have approved of one of his receptionists showing her knees. It was Cassia’s willingness to conform to his somewhat old-fashioned standards, as well as her fluency in several languages, which had made him promote her from her first lowly job as one of the early-morning cleaners.
Holding out his hand for the key to the suite, the Marqués glanced over his shoulder. ‘Come along, Isa.’
As Isa turned from her inspection of the wares in the shop Cassia asked him, ‘Shall I send up a valet and maid to unpack for you?’
‘A valet, no. But Señorita Sanchez has more luggage than I have.’ As she joined him he said, ‘Do you want your gear unpacked for you, Isa?’
‘Of course…and I shall need some clothes pressed.’ She slipped her hand into his and gave him an intimate smile.
The smile he gave her had a predatory gleam, making Cassia think that it wouldn’t be long before the glamorous Isa was called upon to justify her existence in his scheme of things.
It might have been that they had only recently met, and this was his first opportunity to take her to bed. Cassia wished them joy of each other. The idea of having sex—one couldn’t call it making love—with a partner for whom one had no tender feelings disgusted her. She knew lots of people did it, but that didn’t make it a good or wise way to behave.
The strength of her intuition—that before Isa had had time to admire the panoramic view of Granada from the windows of the Mirador suite she would find herself gazing at the ceiling above the vast double bed—brought a slight flush to her cheeks as she handed the Marqués the key with its taracea tag—an example of the fine marquetry crafted in the city for centuries.
To her discomfiture, he noticed. She had read what was in his mind, and now he was reading hers. She was almost certain of it.
‘I hope you enjoy your stay with us,’ she said stiltedly.
Normally when she said that to guests she was sincerely hopeful that they would enjoy their time in Granada. This time the words were mechanical, and not accompanied by her usual warm smile. There was something about this couple that made her uncomfortable with them.
‘Thank you, I’m sure we shall. Señorita Sanchez will let you know when she’s ready for the maid.’
Confirming Cassia’s hunch that between the arrival of their luggage and the arrangement of its contents the Marqués had another priority, he steered his amiguita towards the waiting lift.
‘Ay, ay…what it is to be young and handsome.’ As the lift was taking its passengers to the top floor, where the best suites were located, Manolo was crossing the lobby to join Cassia at the reception desk. ‘Every time he comes here he has a different girl—each one more beautiful than the last.’
‘But only interested in what they can get out of him,’ she said caustically, turning the register round to look at the swift but easily decipherable signature ‘Mondragón’.
‘No, no. There you’re wrong,’ said Manolo. ‘Maybe that will be true in thirty years’ time, when he’s an old rake like his grandfather. I was here when the old Marqués brought his last mistress to stay with us. A lovely little creature, she was, but May to his December. On their third day here, she killed him.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Cassia. She was about to add that she couldn’t imagine anything more horrible than going to bed with an old man in his sixties when she realised it might offend Manolo, who was himself nearing retirement. ‘Did she stab him or shoot him?’
Either way, it must have caused the hotel a lot of bother and expense to keep the scandal out of the newspapers and refurbish the scene of the crime.
Manolo’s face crinkled into a network of laughter lines and his chest heaved with the wheezy mirth of a heavy off-duty smoker. ‘She killed him with kindness, chica. Not a bad way to go, if you ask me…in the arms of a beautiful girl. I should be so lucky!’
His chuckles were infectious, and Cassia couldn’t help smiling. Besides, he was only joking. She had met his plump, loving wife, and knew that they were deeply devoted to each other and to the progeny of their teenage marriage—five children and numerous grandchildren.
‘Did you also know the Marqués’s father?’ she asked.
The porter shook his head. ‘He never came to Granada. The family has many estates all over Spain but no property here. The papá of the present Marqués was thrown from a horse soon after this one was born. He struck his head on a rock and his brain was damaged. They say his wife had him packed off to one of their smaller palacios with a couple of nurses to look after him. After that she kicked up her heels until this young fellow was almost grown up. Then she divorced his father and married a rich American.’
At this point a florist’s messenger entered the lobby with a lavish basket of flowers for one of the German guests. After that answering the telephone and attending to other duties prevented Manolo and Cassia from continuing their conversation.
During her father’s last months, at the end of every work-shift she had hurried back to their studio apartment in the Albaicín, the old Moorish quarter of the city, to spend all her free time with him.
Now she was on her own she did as much overtime as possible, partly because the apartment was full of painful memories, and partly to earn enough money to return to the country of which, having been born there, she was officially a citizen but where she had never lived.
Cassia’s father had been English, her mother French. Without any effort on her part she had grown up speaking both languages and, until she was seven, absorbing both cultures. Then her parents had split up, her mother running away with a lover who hadn’t wanted to be encumbered with another man’s child. The arrangement had suited Cassia, who had always adored her father and had found her mother disturbingly volatile—sometimes extravagantly affectionate and then, without reason or warning, impatient and even unkind.
Now, fifteen years later, she understood the wisdom of the French adage—Tout comprendre est tout pardonner. Understanding did bring forgiveness. In some of his moods her father would have tried the patience of a saint. With hindsight, it wasn’t surprising that he had driven his much younger and equally mercurial wi
fe to leave him.
The only surprising thing was that Cassia was so unlike either of them in temperament. She was forced to conclude that her own more phlegmatic and practical nature must be an inheritance from her grandparents. But if they were still alive she had no idea where they lived, so that was a conjecture which would remain unproven.
In order to add to her savings, she was still on duty in the now crowded lobby when, at nine o’clock that evening, Isa Sanchez stepped out of the lift and drew the eyes of every man there to her beautiful, lissom body, only partly concealed by a sliver of thin silk velvet, hand-painted with jewel colours.
Tonight her arresting legs were hosed to tone with the dress and her matching slippers. Her black hair, earlier hidden by a Hermès silk scarf, was now a cloud of silky curls round her exquisitely made-up face.
No wonder they’re all gawping at her. Physically, she’s a knock-out, thought Cassia. Whether she has any brains in that beautiful head…quién sabe? But, looking like that, does it matter? Except that she won’t always. Beauty fades. Intelligence lasts.
The lift was full, and it wasn’t until two other women had emerged that Isa’s escort stepped out. He too caught and held attention, not because he was also dressed to kill, but because of his height and physique.
Nearly all the young men in Spain were taller and better built than their fathers and grandfathers, whose growth had often been stunted by the inadequate nutrition of earlier decades when Spain had been a poor country. Even now the average height of the Spanish was still below that of more prosperous parts of the European Community. Heightwise, the Marqués had more in common with the tall Scandinavians than with his own countrymen, and few men in any country carried themselves with that proudly upright bearing.
