by Sara Craven
And the end of everything.
‘I hate to think what she’ll say if she sees me wearing your shirt.’ She kept her tone light.
‘Well, she’s unlikely to say it to you.’ His mouth twisted in amusement. ‘I’m the one who gets the full force of her disapproval. She loves me, but she thinks I’m a bad influence on her menfolk.’ He added wryly, ‘Juan and Enrique are her cousins, and Felipe is her grandson, so she takes their moral welfare very seriously.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s always said that I’ll—’ He stopped abruptly.
‘That you’ll—what?’ she queried, then realised. She said hesitantly, ‘That you’ll break your mother’s heart?’
His mouth tightened. ‘Something of the sort.’ He zipped himself into his shorts, then held the shirt for her to put on.
Pilar was indeed back. They did not see her, but her voice could be heard in the distance, shrilly upbraiding someone.
‘Felipe, no doubt,’ Diaz muttered as they escaped upstairs. ‘He wants to go south to Marbella, to earn lots of money and have fun with foreign girls. Pilar, as you can imagine, is against the idea. War is intermittent, but fierce.’
The first thing Rhianna saw in the bedroom was her clothing, fresh, clean, and laid neatly across the bed.
‘Why the hell didn’t she put it away in the wardrobe?’ Diaz said, frowning.
‘Too intimate, perhaps.’ She smiled valiantly. ‘Also too suggestive of permanence. You’d better reassure her that her fears are unnecessary.’
He turned away. ‘I’d better say something, certainly.’ He looked down at the dresses on the bed, and picked up the green one she’d worn that first evening on the boat. ‘Wear this for me tonight, Rhianna. Please?’
Her heart seemed to twist. ‘If—that’s what you want.’
‘It’s what I have to settle for, anyway,’ he said, and walked into the bathroom.
Presently she heard the shower running, and realised he had not invited her to join him as he’d done earlier that day, when her attempt to wash his back had turned into something very different. When, with both of them drenched and laughing, she’d found herself lifted on to his loins and brought to a swift and tumultuous climax which had left her clinging to him, her legs too shaky to bear her weight.
She sank down on the edge of the bed, the dress draped across her lap and thought, He’s starting to say goodbye.
She dressed with extra care that evening. Diaz had gone by the time she emerged from the bathroom in her turn. Outside, the sky looked like granite, and she could hear the first heavy drops of rain thudding on to the balcony. Everything, she thought, was changing.
She put on her favourite underwear, silk embroidered with little silver roses, and made up her face with a light touch. She brushed her hair to the lustre of satin, then slipped into the green dress, winding the sash tightly round her slender waist.
She even chose the same earrings. Then, after touching scent to her pulse points, she went downstairs.
Diaz was waiting for her in the salon, a long, low-ceilinged room, with creamy walls and the same slightly old-fashioned furnishings that she’d noticed elsewhere, which seemed so much in keeping with the house. The enormous fireplace at one end of the room didn’t seem out of place either, she thought, listening to the splash of the rain.
But it was the portrait hanging over the fireplace that brought her to a surprised halt. For an instant she thought she was looking at Moira Seymour, only a frailer, more shadowy version, and then she realised who it must really be.
She said uncertainly, ‘Your mother?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Painted not long after I was born. It was meant to hang at Penvarnon, but I had it shipped over here.’
Rhianna looked again. No, she thought. That could never be Moira Seymour. There was a quietness about the seated figure, a softness to the mouth that bore no resemblance to her sister’s glossy self-confidence. And Esther Penvarnon looked sad, too. Not at all like someone who’d just given birth to a much wanted child.
She hesitated. ‘Will you tell me about her—and your father? After all, it can’t make any difference now.’
He stared down into his glass, his brows drawn together. ‘I was away at school from the time I was seven,’ he said. ‘But even before that I knew somehow that they weren’t happy. My father was a big man, larger than life and full of energy. He taught me to swim and row a boat, and to bowl at cricket. He made life special, and I pretty much worshipped him. I saw much less of my mother. She suffered constantly from this terrible debilitating virus that left her with hardly the strength to move. I was always being told as a child to be quiet because she was asleep, or keep out of her room because she was resting.’
He added expressionlessly, ‘Looking back as an adult, I can see that it probably hadn’t been a real marriage for a very long time. There was my mother in a wheelchair, with my father still young, virile, and attractive to women. A recipe for the usual disaster.’
He shook his head. ‘I suppose there must always have been other women. Certainly he spent less and less time at Penvarnon, and I began to stay away too, discovering family life in other people’s houses.’
She said, ‘But your aunt and uncle…?’
‘Were there principally for my mother.’ His mouth twisted. ‘My father thought it would be good for her to have her sister’s companionship. The reality, I think, was very different. Eventually someone from the village was employed to care for her—your aunt.’
Rhianna looked at him gravely. ‘I would hardly mention Aunt Kezia and caring in the same breath.’
‘Yet she was devoted to my mother, apparently,’ he said. ‘Then, when she was promoted to housekeeper, her place was taken by her younger sister, Grace, who was planning to become a nurse.’
He moved restlessly to the fireplace and stood looking up at the portrait.
‘Apparently he fell in love with her at first sight,’ he said abruptly. ‘So it can’t have been easy for him to be married yet not have a wife in any meaningful sense. So maybe there was some excuse for him finding consolation elsewhere.’
He drew a harsh breath. ‘But he came back to Penvarnon, Rhianna, and had a blatant affair with a girl almost young enough to be his daughter, totally humiliating and distressing my mother in the cruellest way. Then, when Grace Trewint was dismissed, he followed her to London and lived with her in a Knightsbridge flat he bought for them both. He never came back to Cornwall. We lost him. I—lost him.’
She said, ‘But if they loved each other—’
‘What kind of love is that?’ he returned harshly. ‘When so many people get hurt by it? My mother ended up in a nursing home, for God’s sake. She was there for almost a year, but gradually she put her life back together. Her health improved, and she even learned to walk again.’
He shook his head. ‘But she wouldn’t return to Penvarnon—and, with its memories, who could blame her? At first she bought a house in Brittany, then she moved south. But not here. Still not to Penvarnon property.’ He paused. ‘And she remains—fragile.’
He turned slowly and looked at her, his eyes haunted, anguished. ‘Rhianna…’
She went to him, putting her forefinger gently on his lips to silence him. ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ she told him huskily. ‘Truly, you don’t. Because I—understand.’
We love each other, she thought. But we can never say so. Because he’s right. What kind of love deliberately causes more hurt to someone who’s suffered enough?
She moved away and sat down. ‘Did she never think of divorce?’ she asked tentatively.
‘That’s one of the few things I’ve felt able to ask her.’ Diaz walked to the windows and stood looking out at the rain. ‘All she said was, ‘It wouldn’t have been right.’
She said with difficulty, ‘She must have loved him very much.’ She paused. ‘Did you ever see your father again?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When your mother eventually left him he
went back to South America, and I spent a lot of time with him there. But he wasn’t the same. He looked old and tired, long before his final heart attack. And I blamed her for that too.’ He saw her flinch and took a step towards her. ‘Darling…’
‘It’s all right.’ She held up a hand, smiling resolutely. ‘It’s just that I still can’t equate the woman I knew with this—this heartless home-wrecker.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Which is perhaps the moment to change the subject. Did you manage to find me a flight back to Britain tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At five p.m. from Oviedo. The ticket will be at the Transoria desk.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked down at her glass. ‘There’s one more thing. Tonight—may I—is it possible for me to sleep in another room?’
Diaz turned back to the window. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have suggested it myself.’ He paused. ‘I’ll tell Pilar to transfer your things.’
She said, too brightly, ‘Another victory for morality. She’ll be delighted—especially when she finds I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘Then at least one cloud has a silver lining.’ He drained his glass. His smile skimmed her. ‘Shall we go into dinner?’
It was a wretched meal, eaten mainly in silence, although the food was superb. There was a delicate almond soup, followed by thin slices of tender beef cooked in wine and green olives, and to finish crème Catalan, flavoured with lemon.
She said, ‘I didn’t think anything could better the food on your boat, but now I’m not so sure.’
His smile was abstracted. ‘Hardly surprising. Pilar taught Enrique all he knows.’ He rose. ‘Would you excuse me for a little while? I have some correspondence I should attend to.’
She said swiftly, ‘And, once again, I have to pack.’ She paused. ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Her new room was just across the passage from the one she’d shared with Diaz the previous night. Everything had been prepared for her. The shutters had been closed and the lamp lit. The ceiling fan was whirring softly and her nightgown waited on the turned-down bed.
And on the night table was the photograph wallet, which Pilar must have found when she’d been unpacking for her.
Rhianna sat down on the bed and looked at the contents again. The pictures of Ben Penvarnon were the least terrible in the selection, so maybe she should offer them to Diaz, who might like them as a memento of his father.
But she couldn’t imagine he’d want the awful ones of Moira Seymour, skulking about in the bushes, she thought critically as she riffled through them. What on earth had Aunt Kezia been thinking of?
I’ll sort them out in the morning, she told herself, and began to get ready for bed.
She felt unutterably weary as she lay in the darkness, listening to the splash of the rain, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest, imprisoning her on an emotional treadmill of regret and longing.
Images of Diaz smiling into her eyes jostled with the bleakness in his face as he’d talked of his parents’ marriage. He’d been a lonely child, she thought, and his initial kindness to her had been prompted when he’d recognised the same sadness in herself.
But now the trap of loneliness was closing round them again, and although she’d tried to armour herself against it by spending tonight apart from him it hadn’t worked. She was just wasting precious hours when they could have been creating a last beloved memory together.
Besides, after what they had shared, how could they part in this coldness? It just wasn’t possible.
She slipped out of bed and went to the door, quiet as a ghost in her white nightgown.
He might be asleep, she thought as she crossed the passage. Or, worse, he might decide things were better as they were and reject her.
It was a thought that halted her, but even as she hesitated his door opened suddenly, and Diaz confronted her, wearing a black silk robe.
For a moment there was silence, then he said her name very softly, and took her hand.
Colour stormed into her face. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Neither could I,’ he said huskily. ‘I was just coming to your room. I thought—I hoped that perhaps you might let me hold you. I wouldn’t ask for anything else.’
She said, ‘Then I’ll simply have to plead for both of us,’ and went into his arms.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHE awoke just before dawn and lay for a moment watching him sleep, before easing herself to the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb him.
He deserved his rest, she thought with tenderness, remembering how he’d exerted all his self-control in order to pull himself back from some edge of desperation when he’d first begun to touch her, and the lingering, exquisite arousal to the aching passion of mutual fulfilment which had followed.
However, Pilar also deserved her illusions, she told herself, rescuing her torn nightdress from the floor and slipping noiselessly back to her room.
So it would be as well to pretend they’d spent the whole night apart.
She dropped the nightgown into her waiting travel bag, and then, her body still glowing with remembered pleasure, slid back into bed.
The rain had stopped, and a grey light was filtering into the room through the shutters. Somewhere in the garden a bird sang.
Another memory, she thought, to be recalled when she was far away, and she turned, burying her face in the pillow.
She hadn’t planned on sleeping, but when she eventually stirred the floor was slatted with brilliant sunlight, and a glance at her watch told her it was nearly mid-morning.
She scrambled almost guiltily out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Why had no one woken her? she asked herself, as she stood under the shower. It seemed to her that at some point someone had touched her hair, but that was probably just a dream.
Half an hour later, dressed and with most of her packing done, she ventured downstairs. As she stood hesitantly in the entrance hall, Pilar appeared from the salon, according her the beginnings of a smile.
‘Buenos dias, señorita. You come—eat?’
‘Thank you.’ Rhianna paused awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late.’
The housekeeper shrugged. ‘No importa. Señor Diaz say leave to sleep. So I leave.’
A place had been set for her on the rear terrace. Coffee was brought in a tall pot, followed by hot rolls, a dish of honey, and a bowl of fresh fruit. And finally Pilar put a platter in front of her, with a vast omelette filled with smoked bacon, tomatoes, peppers, potatoes and cheese.
‘Heavens.’ Rhianna surveyed its proportions with faint dismay. ‘Just for me?’
‘Por supuesto,’ Pilar returned. ‘Of course.’
‘The señor has had his breakfast?’ Rhianna ventured as she poured her coffee.
‘Many hours ago.’ Pilar gave her an astonished look. ‘Then he work on computer, on telephone. Much busy. Now he go to Puerto Caravejo—to boat.’
‘Oh.’ Rhianna’s brow wrinkled as she calculated the distance. ‘Do you know how long that will take? It’s just that I have to get to the airport…’
‘No worry. He say he be here. He will come.’ Pilar allowed her another judicious smile and departed.
To her own surprise Rhianna demolished every scrap of the omelette, and ate two rolls with honey after it.
After all, she reasoned, she might not eat again until she was back in England.
She was up in her room when she heard the sound of the car. Her lift to the airport, she told herself. She picked up her bags, took a last look around to make sure she’d forgotten nothing, then started for the stairs.
She would greet him smiling, she told herself. And not a word or a gesture would betray how much their separation would cost her.
As she turned the corner a bright light flashed in front of her, and she halted, blinking. In the same instant she realised that it was not Diaz waiting in the hall below but two men, one of whom was just lowering a camera.
The other was the reporter
from the Duchy Herald, Jason Tully.
‘Hello, Rhianna.’ His smile was triumphant. ‘I just knew we’d meet up again.’ He looked at the luggage she was carrying. ‘Going somewhere?’
‘Yes, back to England.’ She spoke calmly and continued her descent, putting the bags down at the foot of the stairs. But under her surface composure she felt sick, and her heart was going like a trip-hammer.
‘But not back to Cornwall, I hope? You’re persona non grata down there, as I imagine you know.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you have read my exclusive in the Sunday Echo? No?’ He took a folded newspaper from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Be my guest. And you might want to sit down.’
Something warned her to do as he said, and she seated herself on the bottom step. As she opened the paper, the strapline above the front page leapt out at her.
Castle Pride star’s wedding shock: ‘He’s mine,’ says tearful Donna.
Oh, no, she whispered silently. Oh, God, please, no. The story, with pictures filled the whole of page three.
Wedding guests at a picturesque Cornish church were left stunned yesterday when Donna Winston, rising star of hit TV series Castle Pride, halted the ceremony, claiming, ‘I’m having the bridegroom’s baby!’
Donna, twenty-two, told the shocked congregation that she and Simon Rawlins, scheduled to marry childhood sweetheart Caroline Seymour, had been involved in a passionate three month affair, which had left her pregnant.
Standing at the altar rail, just minutes before the arrival of the bride, Donna turned weeping to the blond, six-foot groom and declared, ‘You’re my baby’s father, Simon. You belong to me, and I won’t let you go.’
Ushers hustled the distraught Donna out of the church amid the murmurs of horrified onlookers. Standing in the sunshine, she declared defiantly, ‘Simon’s been living a lie. But it has to stop. He has responsibilities.’
She also revealed that she met twenty-six-year-old Simon through her former flatmate, Rhianna Carlow, and that many of their passionate love trysts had actually taken place at the Castle Pride star’s Walburgh Square pad.