by James, Dana
Pride tilted her chin. 'How could I refuse such a charming invitation.' Her irony was unmistakable and inclining her head briefly, she turned to go.
'How is your fiancé this morning?' His sardonic tone followed her, sliding under her skin like a thorn.
She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him dismount and flip the reins over the stallion's head.
She kept her voice even, 'I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him. And for the record, he's not my
fiancé.' She started up the slope, feeling a tightness in her midriff as she realised he was right behind her. The stallion, now rid of its burden, walked placidly beside him.
'That is not the impression I got.'
She stopped and swung round to face him. 'Senor Ibarra, I am not responsible for your impressions.'
'Does that mean Mr Prentice will assume the undoubtedly fortunate position of being your fiancé at some time in the future, then?'
'No, it does not,' Cass snapped. 'And I cannot see this is any of your business.' She started walking faster, anxious now to get away and return to her room. He had brought it all back; the memories, the tension, the arguments. She had wanted to escape them for just a little while. Now he had forced her to admit that her decision was made. She had not known herself until she heard the words on her own lips. But she should have told Derek first. She owed him that at least.
'You are a guest in my house, surely I have a right to be concerned?'
'Concerned about what?' Cass flung at him. 'Certainly Derek was under the weather when we arrived, but you need not be concerned about that. As I explained, he is a very nervous traveller; he hates flying, so he had a drink to calm him down.'
'Indeed,' Miguel agreed, the downward curve of his mouth indicating his distaste. 'He was certainly very calm when I met you. Had he been any calmer he would have passed out.' Miguel went on, 'You might warn him when he recovers, that the effects of travelling… are far more pronounced at this
altitude.'
She swallowed, her reply automatic. 'I can only apologise and assure you that such behaviour is quite out of character.' She flushed under the intentness of his gaze.
'Why do you say that?' he demanded, openly curious. 'You know it is not true. Why do you lie for him?'
Cass gasped, hot with embarrassment at his perception and anger at his impertinence. 'Senor Ibarra, you have just pointed out that I am a guest in your house. A situation, I might add, over which I had no control. But that does not give you the right to ... to… cross-examine me!'
Her heart thudded against her ribs. She had never spoken like that to anyone. How many times had she bitten her tongue instead of standing up for herself against Derek? Why had she done it? Because her future depended on Derek's goodwill, or so she had thought. But she was beginning to see things in a very different light.
Miguel was not in the least put out. 'Why so angry?' He smiled. 'I only said what we both know to be true.'
The superciliousness Cass saw in his smile sparked her fury. 'You know nothing about me,' she stormed. 'Like so many of your kind you are arrogant, presumptuous, and extremely rude!'
She froze, her hand flying to her mouth, horrified at her impetuosity.
Miguel Ibarra stiffened, towering over her. One wing-like brow lifted and his bitter-chocolate eyes glittered coldly as they studied her. 'And what do
you know of me that qualifies you to make such a damning statement?' he asked with dangerous softness.
An abject apology was already trembling on the tip of Cass's tongue, but somehow she could not utter it. With astonishing clarity she recognised for the first time that she had spent too much time in the past eighteen months apologising for situations which were not of her making. Enough was enough. She had come to Mexico to get away from Derek, but he had followed her. Well, that was his decision; she was not responsible for it or for him. Between them Derek and Miguel had more or less forced her into staying at the hacienda. She had been given no alternative without causing a scene and appearing rude and ungrateful.
She met his gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and bravado. 'I know only what I see.' Her voice was husky, her throat dry. 'You quite clearly had some preconceived ideas about me. That's your problem. I do not have to prove or disprove anything. Nor am I on trial, so I am not obliged to answer your questions. If my refusal offends you, I'm afraid that's just too bad.' She drew in a deep breath. 'And I stand by what I said. You handle that stallion with a gentleness and respect that encourages trust. What a pity you never learned to do the same with people. Now, if you'll excuse me,' she started away towards testable block.
'Miss Elliott!' His deep voice halted her in mid- stride. She paused, mentally bracing herself, then turned.
'Senor Ibarra?'
His face was inscrutable, but the corners of his chiselled mouth flickered, a movement so fleeting Cass could not be sure whether it signified anger or amusement.
'At ten o'clock I shall be driving into the city. I am expecting a new consignment of stones for cutting. If you would care to accompany me, I am sure you will find it most interesting.'
His gaze held hers. Cass was buffeted by conflicting emotions. She knew instinctively that he was mocking her, yet there was a new light in his dark eyes. She had the strange feeling that he was seeing her for the first time.
Obviously he did not intend to apologise. But despite the undertone, his invitation had been politely phrased, and as part of the purpose of her visit to Mexico was to see gemstones in their natural state and then in the various stages of cutting, to turn it down because of the personal animosity between them would be childish and self-defeating.
'Thank you, Senor Ibarra.' She was equally polite. 'I should be delighted.'
He nodded and led the stallion into the yard and out of sight. Cass was startled to find herself smiling as she pushed open the front door and ran lightly upstairs to her room.
She had changed her trousers and boots for a tan pleated skirt and elegant court shoes and was putting the finishing touches to a light make-up when there was a tap on the door.
'Adelante!' she called, using one of the few Spanish expressions she had learned, expecting Consuelo or one of the maids. But it was Derek who
entered.
Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it, smart in a cream shirt and striped tie beneath a dark brown lightweight suit. His hair was neatly brushed and his shoes had a mirror shine. He appeared every inch the smart young executive. Then he looked up and Cass lowered her eyes quickly, smoothing a non-existent crease from her skirt, hiding her shock at the vivid evidence of his hangover. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion pale and puffy and the bags under his eyes added ten years to his thirty.
'Cass, I don't know what to say.' He shrugged helplessly and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets.
She turned to the mirror, replacing lipstick and comb in her handbag. 'You could try sorry,' she suggested mildly.
He pushed himself away from the door with his elbows. 'That's what I mean. How can I apologise enough? My behaviour was appalling. Honestly, I'm thoroughly ashamed of myself.' He hung his head and she recognised her cue to forgive and forget. But she had seen that hangdog look all too often in the past year, and for the same reason.
He glanced up, and she saw a brief surprise cross his features at her continued silence. 'Cass, let me make it up to you.' He came forward and as she turned back to the mirror, rested his hands on her shoulders, rubbing the nape of her neck with his thumbs.
'There's nothing to make up,' she said calmly and, slipping from his grasp, picked up her trousers
from the bed and hung them in the wardrobe.
'You still don't understand, do you?' His voice roughened and he grabbed her shoulder, pulling her around to face him. 'Or you won't. Cass, you do things to me. I really care about you and all I get is the ice-queen treatment. Hell, is it any wonder I need the odd drink?'
'That's enough, Derek.' She did not raise her
voice, nor did she struggle. She simply stared at him. Yesterday she would have felt guilty, blaming herself for what he was going through. But today she saw it differently. 'You drink because you want to. Your feelings for me, whatever they might be, are just an excuse.'
His chin dropped. He was plainly taken aback. 'Cass—? What—you've never—'
'No, and maybe I should have, a long time ago,' she said gently. She had no desire to hurt him. She looked pointedly at his hand gripping her shoulder and, as he released it, she picked up her jacket, 'I think it's time we went down.'
Derek caught her up on the stairs. 'What's the matter with you?' he hissed urgently.
She glanced round in surprise. 'Nothing. Why?'
He was frowning and his chin jutted forward like a stubborn child's. 'You're behaving very oddly. You weren't like this yesterday.'
'Yesterday was a very difficult day for both of us.' She shrugged lightly. 'I certainly don't feel odd. I feel fine, and I'm looking forward to my holiday.'
At the mention of holiday, Derek looked even more dubious. 'I suppose I shall have my work cut out trying to get round Ibarra. No doubt he'll expect
me to grovel,' he muttered gloomily.
'A brief apology will probably take care of it,' Cass said. 'But it would be an idea to cut down on the alcohol.' She ignored his defensive glare and went on, 'Apparently it has a much greater effect at this altitude.'
'Another old wives' tale?' Derek scoffed.
'If you consider Miguel Ibarra an old wife,' she shrugged, refusing to be drawn.
They crossed the cool tiled floor of the hall. The dining room door stood open and Cass led the way in. An enormous circular table, on which stood a ceramic bowl filled with red, yellow and orange marigolds, was set for three. Silver cutlery, woven rush table mats and snowy napkins were reflected in the polished wood. On a massive sideboard a heated tray held several covered silver dishes. The smell of fresh coffee made Cass's mouth water.
'You've been talking about me,' Derek accused in a fierce whisper. 'When did you see him? Did you come down to dinner last night? What did he say?'
'Please do help yourselves.' Miguel's deep voice saved Cass from having to answer and she swung round.
He had showered and changed into a pearl-grey suit. The perfection of its cut and fit made her acutely aware of his height, his lean athleticism and his long, powerfully muscled legs. Against the crisp, white shirt and crimson tie with its small designer motif in the centre, his skin glowed bronze, and raven-black hair, still damp, sprang thick and wavy from his broad forehead to curl against his collar.
Cass's heart gave a sudden extra beat and she turned away to walk quickly, blindly, towards the sideboard, feeling as though she had stepped into quicksand. She heard the scrape of a chair.
'Good morning, Miss Elliott, I trust you slept well?' Miguel said from somewhere above her left ear as he reached past to lift the cover from one of the dishes.
'Very well, thank you.' She kept her eyes on the dishes, raising another cover to reveal lightly fried eggs swimming in a steaming red sauce. She took a deep breath. 'In fact I must apologise for missing dinner. I—I was more tired than I realised.'
'It is of no consequence,' he, said dismissively. 'Those are huevos rancheros.' He pointed to the eggs. 'The sauce is made from tomatoes with spices and a touch of chilli pepper. It is quite delicious and not too hot in the mouth. This we eat with tortillas. You will find them under the cloth.' He indicated a large, shallow, circular basket. 'Perhaps you prefer refried beans,' he lifted another cover, 'or tacos, tortillas spread with shredded meat or cheese flavoured with chilli, folded and fried until they are crisp.' He looked over his shoulder at Derek, who, seated at the table, was rubbing his temples with his fingertips. 'Mr Prentice, may I get you something?'
Derek suppressed a shudder. 'No thanks, I'm not hungry. I'll just have coffee.'
'As you like.' Miguel's features tightened imperceptibly as he watched Derek pour himself a cup of strong black coffee with an unsteady hand.
Meanwhile Cass had helped herself to an egg, two spoonfuls of sauce and two tortillas. As she
turned to the table, Miguel was there before her, holding her chair. She sat, but before she could reach for her napkin he picked it up and flicked it open, laying it across her lap in the tradition of an attentive maître d.
Cass's cheeks grew warm. She knew he was paying her back for calling him rude and arrogant, but she wasn't sure how to react.
Just for an instant she wished she could think of something really withering to say, something that would put him firmly in his place. Then she felt ashamed of herself. After all he was trying to make amends and, even if they both knew his tongue was very firmly in his cheek, at least he had taken her criticism to heart.
'Thank you,' she said coolly, keeping her eyes firmly on her plate.
'De nada.' Then he murmured for her ears only, 'Now eat, the day holds much for you.' Leaving her speechless, he went to the sideboard and filled his own plate.
'Right.' Derek rubbed his hands together with forced joviality. 'What's the plan for today, then?' He leaned towards Miguel, a spasm of nausea contorting his face as his gaze slid hurriedly past his host's full plate. 'You and I must get down to cases and talk some business, eh, Miguel?'
Cass's fork clattered against her plate as she inwardly cringed at Derek's artificial bonhomie. His hangover was playing havoc with his judgment. Surely he could see that Miguel Ibarra was not the type of man one slapped on the back and had a few drinks with before shoving a contract under his
nose? Had Derek done no research at all into Latin- American business methods?
Once again Cass thought of Matthew Prentice. He had always lived by the code that a man's word was his bond, and a handshake as binding as a written agreement.
She had been an unwilling witness to the arguments between Matthew and his son. Derek insisted that his father's beliefs were not only outdated but uneconomic. Profit was the name of today's game. You bought low and sold high. You stitched up your suppliers with contracts making it difficult if not impossible for them to sell to anyone else. You inserted penalty clauses for late deliveries and passed on all increased charges to the customer. 'You call that business?' Matthew had raged. 'It's
robbery, it's…it's immoral!'
'You have to move with the times, Dad.' Derek had been impatient. 'Competition is that much stiffer now. There isn't room for everyone. If you don't get in there and grab your share, you go under, and what price a gentleman's agreement, then? If the business goes bust, morals won't pay the bills.'
The argument had raged back and forth, and Cass, though her heart sided with Matthew and the old ways, could see Derek's point. Maybe father and son represented extremes. Was it not possible there was a more moderate course?
But Derek was visibly fretting under the restraint and though Matthew still retained control, his retirement was drawing nearer, and with it the day when Derek would take over.
More and more lately, Cass had wondered if she
would be able to adjust to the sweeping changes Derek planned when he became head of the company.
'Today I will be busy. I am showing Miss Elliott the cutting rooms,' Miguel replied in a rebuff so calculated that Cass went hot then cold.
But Derek, if he was aware of the snub, chose to ignore it. 'Fine, fine,' he nodded. 'I'll come along too. I want to see the stones myself, take a look at your set-up, all that sort of thing.'
'As you wish.' Miguel's lack of interest was plain. 'Right, then.' Derek stood up. 'Ready when you are. Er, Cass, have you got a couple of aspirin to spare? I guess I'm still a bit jet-lagged.' His attempted smile was more of a grimace and Cass
felt a twinge of pity.
'Yes, of course. I'll get them for you.'
He waved her back to her seat as she began to move. 'No need I can manage. Top drawer as usual?' The artlessness of Derek's question was belied by the glitter in his eyes as they slid towa
rds Miguel.
Cass was stunned. Derek was implying intimate knowledge of her habits, and her bedroom. Miguel Ibarra wasn't to know he had simply made a random guess, a wrong one at that. And nothing she said would erase that first impression. In fact the stronger her protest, the less she would be believed.
But before she could utter a word, Miguel looked up. 'No,' he said evenly, 'the bottle is on the bedside cabinet beside the lamp.'
CHAPTER THREE
There was a moment's utter silence. Cass became aware of her own heartbeat growing louder and louder as her horrified gaze flew from Miguel to Derek and back again. She started to get up but Miguel forestalled her.
'Please stay where you are, Miss Elliott, and allow me to pour you more coffee.' His voice was silk over steel. 'You must tell me exactly what you wish to see in our workshops. As it may not be possible for me to remain with you all day—'
Cass found her voice, 'I did not expect it, senor,' she responded icily.
He went on as though she had not spoken, '—my assistant will be at your disposal.' He turned his head to fix Derek with a cool stare. 'Was there something else, Mr Prentice?'
Derek flushed brick-red, his face ugly with suppressed fury. His mouth worked but no words came out. Then he whirled round and stormed out.
Cass was almost as angry. 'How dare you!' she spluttered. 'You had no right to—to—'
'To what?' Miguel asked calmly. 'To allow you to sleep when that was what you so clearly needed? To protect you from the night chill? The dark hours are cold up here. Would you wish your stay spoiled by illness?'
'No, of course not, but—'
