Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction

by The Spaniard's Seduction (lit)

  Elena de Montoya was a different matter, however. Yet, despite her outrage at finding her son kissing his brother's widow, she, too, had recognised at once that David was a de Montoya. And although, to Cassandra's knowledge, she hadn't shown any affection towards him, she had spent several hours talking with him, learning about him, about his life in England, resenting her daughter-in-law's presence at these interviews, resenting her for keeping his existence a secret for so long.

  Not that Cassandra cared what Enrique's mother thought of her. Elena de Montoya hadn't wanted to know her ten years ago and there was no doubt she'd prefer not to have to ac­knowledge her now. But, in that respect, David's altitude had been pivotal, and the older woman had been forced to behave at least politely towards her daughter-in-law when her grand­son was present. They'd maintained a stiff formality that was as cold as it was artificial, but thankfully David had been too overawed at meeting his grandmother at last to notice.

  Yet, she appended uneasily. Sooner or later, he was going to recognise the hostility for what it was, and then what excuse would she make? Cassandra didn't want to think about that now. She had too many other problems to contend with. Not least, Enrique...

  Not that she'd spent any time alone with him since the morning of his mother's arrival. The memory of the scene Elena de Montoya had interrupted was too painful to consider objectively, and since then she'd done everything she could to keep out of his way. Fortunately, David wasn't expected to join the family for dinner because of his age, and, consciously or unconsciously on their part, it had given her the perfect excuse to stay with her son.

  Of course, that hadn't prevented her from thinking about Enrique, and about what might have happened if his mother hadn't interrupted them. My God, she thought incredulously, she'd thought she was immune from any sexual attraction to him. Despite her awareness of Enrique, she'd really believed that nothing he did could make her lose control.

  How wrong she'd been. As soon as he'd touched her, as soon as he'd fastened his lips to hers, she'd been like putty in his hands. And when he'd thrust his tongue into her mouth she'd been helpless. She'd had no defence against the raw emotion that had torn her defences aside.

  Now, as she looked at her son, she had to acknowledge that, even in the few days that they'd been here, David had changed. She didn't know how exactly. She wouldn't have thought anything his grandmother had said to him could have caused the breach. He was more tanned than he'd been when they left Punta del Lobo, and he'd stopped putting the gel on his hair that had proved such a bone of contention before they'd left England. Now, his hair gleamed glossy and black in the sunlight, as thick and lustrous, though perhaps not as long, as Enrique's. But the change wasn't just physical. David seemed more confident; more respectful; older, even. He was beginning to behave as if he belonged here, she realised with sudden apprehension. As if Tuarega, and not the small semi in Hemmingway Close, was his home.

  The realisation made her irritable, and her voice was that much sharper than it should have been when she said, 'Where have you been? It's almost two o'clock! Have you had lunch? Did you wear a hat as I told you?'

  David's mouth compressed. 'I don't need a hat. Mum,' he exclaimed, answering her last question first. 'Uncle Enrique doesn't wear a hat. Why should I?'

  Cassandra's lips tightened. How tired she was of hearing Enrique quoted at every turn. David had shown no particular desire to spend more time with his grandmother, but Enrique was different. He obviously had great respect for his uncle, however much he might initially have resented him for dis­ciplining him when he'd run away.

  But then, that was hardly surprising, Cassandra conceded. Enrique was exactly the kind of dominant male her son would admire. Her own father had inspired affection, but David had always been able to run rings around him. Enrique was dif­ferent. Dear Lord, did she need any more proof than she had already?

  'Your—uncle doesn't need a hat because he was born here,' she told her son now, her voice clipped and impatient. 'He's used to this climate, David. You're not.'

  'I'll get used to it,' said David carelessly, lifting his thin shoulders in a dismissive shrug. ‘Where is Uncle Enrique any­way? I thought he'd be back from Cadiz by now.'

  'He may well be,' said Cassandra, closing the book which had been lying open and unread on her lap. 'You're not his keeper, David. Enrique comes and goes as he pleases. You should know that.'

  David sighed. 'What's wrong, Mum?' he exclaimed, not without justification. 'Why are you so crabby? I only asked where Uncle Enrique was. I wanted to tell him what I'd been doing today.'

  Cassandra stiffened. 'What have you been doing?'

  'Are you really interested?’ David left her side to saunter across to the pool, dipping his hands into the cool water and splashing it over his wrists. 'All you ever do is spoil things. I know you didn't want to come here, but I don't see why you can't enjoy it anyway.'

  Cassandra caught her breath. 'I—I don't spoil things,' she protested, aware of a slight tremor in her voice. 'David, that's an awful thing to say. And totally unfair. I was worried about you, that's all. You're just a child. You may enjoy watching the animals, but you shouldn't forget that they're dangerous.'

  'Horses aren't dangerous,' retorted David, swinging round to face her, 'That was what I wanted to tell Uncle Enrique. Juan has found me a horse of my own. I've been riding round the paddock all morning.'

  'A horse?' Cassandra didn't know whether to be relieved or dismayed. 'Do you mean a pony? Boys of your age don't ride horses, do they?'

  'Uncle Enrique did,' said David, and Cassandra wanted to scream that Uncle Enrique was no role model for him to im­itate.

  'Anyway, Duquesa is a mare,' he went on, evidently proud of his achievement. 'She's not as big as Santa Cruz, that's Uncle Enrique's horse, but Juan says she's not a caballito either.'

  'What is a caballito?' asked Cassandra, frowning, and then saw her son's face brighten with delight. But he was looking over her shoulder, not at her, and she was hardly surprised when Enrique answered her.

  'It means a hobbyhorse,' he said, crossing into her line of vision. 'I told Juan to find a mount for David. If he has chosen Duquesa, he has chosen well.'

  Cassandra looked up at him with hostile eyes. He was stand­ing with his back to the sunlight, which meant his dark face was unreadable from this angle. But in a light grey suit that complemented his powerful frame, the jacket hooked lazily over one shoulder, he was still impressive. Impressive and disturbing, she thought uneasily, aware that even the air had quickened since he had stepped into the courtyard.

  'I don't remember anyone asking me if David should be allowed to ride,' she said a little jealously, getting up from the low cushioned lounger where she had been sitting, and shading her eyes with a slightly unsteady hand.

  'Oh, Mum!' Once again, David showed his impatience at her negativity. 'Why shouldn't I learn to ride? Everyone rides around here.'

  'I don't,' retorted Cassandra at once, and saw Enrique's eyes take on a sardonic glint.

  'That can be arranged,' he said smoothly, completely out­witting her defence. 'I myself will teach you. You will enjoy it. It will enable you to go freely about the estate. Is tomorrow too soon for your first lessor?'

  Cassandra drew a breath. 'I don't wish to learn to ride, thank you,' she said, earning another exasperated sigh from her son. 'I just meant I would have liked to have been consulted about David's activities. He is still my son, however much you might wish it wasn't so.'

  'What are you talking about, Mum?’ Too late, Cassandra realised she had spoken rather rashly. 'Why should Uncle Enrique wish you weren't my mother? You were his brother's wife.'

  'Your mother is a little annoyed with me, that is all, David,' inserted Enrique swiftly. 'I think perhaps it would be a good idea if you went to your room for a rest. You must be tired. Riding can be very exhausting. Besides, I wish to speak to your mother alone.'

  'Oh, but—'

  David was about to obj
ect when he thought better of it. And Cassandra, who resented the idea that Enrique could control her son far more easily than she could, quickly endorsed his words. ‘Yes, do that, David.' she said, as if her contribution was the deciding factor. 'We'll continue our discussion later.'

  David looked less happy at this interjection, but Cassandra couldn't help that. She had no real desire to be left alone with Enrique, but David had to learn that she was not abrogating her responsibility for him just because he considered his un­cle's orders carried more weight. She was his mother. Her opinion mattered.

  Nevertheless, she was incredibly tense. And, when David disappeared into the building behind them, she was uneasily aware of Enrique watching her with dark brooding eyes. But what was most disturbing was the realisation that he'd had no compunction about invading her part of the palacio. She had thought she was safe here. Mow wrong she had been!

  'Stop looking at me as if you do not trust me.' he said abruptly, flinging his jacket onto the chair beside her. 'I know you have been avoiding me, but it is not necessary.'

  'Isn't it?’ Cassandra couldn't stand still under his abrasive scrutiny. ‘Has your mother warned you not to overstep the mark again?' she asked sarcastically, stepping out into the sun­light. 'It's good to know that someone has some control over you.'

  Enrique's eyes flashed with sudden anger. 'My mother knows better than to try and tell me what to do,' he retorted harshly. And then, as if realising she was deliberately provok­ing him, he added, 'In any case, there was no need for her to say anything. What happened between us was a mistake. It will not happen again.’

  Cassandra absorbed these words with a mixture of relief and resentment. He was so arrogant, she thought. So sure of him­self. It would he almost worth the pain it would no doubt cause her to prove to him that he wasn't half as in control as he believed.

  But that way lay madness, particularly as she already knew he was involved with another woman. So, putting all thoughts of pursuing that aside, she said, 'So what did you want to talk to me about'? Has your mother told you to get me out of here before your father comes home?'

  Enrique swore softly. 'Will you stop implying that I am answerable to anyone but myself?' he demanded. 'It may in­terest you to know that for the past eighteen months I have been in virtual control of both the estate and the winery. That is why I am living in the palacio again instead of at my own house.'

  Cassandra's eyes widened. 'You have your own house?'

  'Is that so surprising? I am thirty-four, Cassandra. I lead my own life.'

  'And—your house: is it far from here?'

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Now it was his turn to be sardonic. 'Would you like to see it?'

  Cassandra lifted her shoulders in an eloquent gesture. 'Of course not. But your work is here. I'd have thought—-'

  'It is on the estate,' put in Enrique drily. 'My house is on the estate. Further up the valley. A much more modest dwell­ing than this, but I like it.'

  Cassandra couldn't prevent herself. 'You surprise me,' she said drily. 'I'd have thought Tuarega was much more to your taste.'

  'Which just goes to show how little you know me,' he re­torted, his eyes dropping with sudden concern to her unpro­tected shoulders. 'Your arms are getting burned. We should continue this discussion indoors.'

  Oh, no! Cassandra moved instinctively away from him, de­liberately putting more space between them. She had no in­tention of inviting him into her living room. Although he'd violated the neutrality of her courtyard, she could still pretend that their apartments were their own.

  'I'm all right,' she said, brushing a careless hand over her hoi skin. 'Why don't you tell me what you want and then I can get on with what I was doing?'

  'Cassandra!' His voice was curiously rough as he followed her across to the pool. 'When are you going to stop fighting me?'

  Cassandra shook her head. 'You said yourself that any con­tact between us was a mistake. Why should it matter to you what I think of you?'

  'I do not know.' There was harshness in his tone now. Then, with obvious unwillingness. 'But it does.'

  Cassandra's eyes were drawn to him then. His reply had been so unexpected, and although she'd toyed with the thought of baiting him earlier, she hadn't really expected this response.

  'I don't think you mean that,' she said at last, her voice not altogether steady. 'Please: I'm sure you've got better things to do than waste my time and yours.'

  Enrique's lips twisted. 'You enjoy insulting me, do you not?'

  'I just want you to go,' exclaimed Cassandra, driven beyond endurance. 'I'm sure your mother wouldn't approve of this conversation.'

  Enrique frowned. 'My mother is not my keeper,' he said, the intensity of his gaze increasing as he absorbed her words. 'And I did not come here to speak about family matters, as it happens.'

  ‘No?' Cassandra's nails dug into her palms. ‘Then what? The woman you deny is your girlfriend, perhaps?'

  Enrique pulled his tie away from his collar, exposing the brown column of his throat to her unwilling gaze. 'You persist in provoking me, Cassandra,' he said wryly. 'But, as it hap­pens, I am glad you brought her name up. Sanchia, the woman I explained that Antonio was betrothed to, is coming here this evening. I think it would be a good idea if you joined us for dinner.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  Why had she agreed to such a crazy scheme?

  As Cassandra prepared for dinner that evening, she berated herself again for agreeing to Enrique's request. She could have refused. She could have ignored his invitation and not laid herself open to possible insult and injury. But curiosity had got the better of her and she was ashamed to say that she wanted to see the woman that both Antonio and Enrique had loved.

  Yet, if she was totally honest with herself, she had to admit that that wasn't the only reason. Antonio had told her about Sanchia de Silvestre. He'd said how he suspected she'd really wanted to marry Enrique and, when he'd shown that he wasn't interested, she'd transferred her attentions to his younger brother. Now, it seemed, she was getting her wish, and Cassandra couldn't deny that she was curious to see her and Enrique together.

  And how intelligent was that?

  Peering at her reflection in the long carved mirror in her bedroom, Cassandra couldn't avoid the sudden anguish in her eyes. She had thought, she'd really believed, that nothing Enrique did could hurt her any more. But it wasn't true. He'd always had the power to reduce her defences to ashes and she just kept on letting him do it...

  When had she first realised that she was attracted to Enrique? How long before she'd begun to look forward to the time they spent together? Why had she fooled herself that her feelings for Enrique were innocent of any sexual intent?

  Because she hadn't wanted to admit it, she acknowledged now. All those days they'd spent together when Antonio was finishing his exams: she'd let Enrique get close, so close, never suspecting that his agenda had been so cruelly different from her own.

  Looking back, it was easy to be wise after the event. Easy to tell herself that she should have known that a man like Enrique de Montoya, y man with his background, his pros­pects, was unlikely to be seriously attracted to a penniless librarian. Yet he'd been so likeable, so charming, so uncon­sciously sexy that, before she'd known it, she'd been totally fascinated.

  Totally infatuated, she amended bitterly, remembering with a shameful pang haw helpless she'd been against his sensual assault.

  But it had begun innocently enough, she remembered. So innocently that she hadn't known what was happening until it was much too late to do anything about it.

  Ten years ago, she'd been living in a bedsit just off the Edgware Road

  . Although her widowed father lived just a few miles away in the suburbs, she'd decided to get her own place when she'd got the job at the Kensington Historical Library. She'd wanted to be independent; she'd wanted to live her own life.

  And it was through the library that she'd met Antonio. He'd come into her department
to do some research, and until his brother came on the scene she'd never had any doubts that she loved him.

  Of course, Antonio hadn't told her he was engaged to a young woman back home in Andalucia. He'd let her think he was as unattached and fancy-free as she was herself. It hadn't been until they'd started talking about getting married that he'd confessed that he hadn't told her the complete truth.

  At first, she'd wanted to call the whole thing off. But Antonio had persuaded her that, whatever happened between them, his engagement to the Spanish girl was over. He loved her and if she wouldn't marry him he'd spend the rest of his life alone.

  Overly dramatic, perhaps, Cassandra thought now, but she'd wanted to believe him. He'd even shown her the letter he'd written to Sanchia and she'd eventually given in, and they'd arranged to get married as soon as his final exams were over.

  She knew he'd doubted that any of his family would turn up for the wedding. He'd written to his father, too, telling him that he was in love with an English girl, but Julio de Montoya hadn't replied. Instead, he'd sent his elder son to accomplish what he'd known his words alone would not achieve, and Cassandra had been thrown into contact with the man who was to have such a fateful influence on her life.

  Yet, to begin with, it hadn't seemed that way. Although she herself had been a little anxious when Enrique appeared, Antonio had been so delighted to see him she'd soon buried her own doubts and accepted his presence at face value.

  And it hadn't been difficult. Enrique was sufficiently like Antonio to make their rapport with one another seem not only easy but natural, and when he had started showing his attrac­tion for her she had persuaded herself that he was just being kind.

  Taking her hand when they were crossing a busy road; a light pressure in the small of her back when he was guiding her into a bar or a restaurant; a careless stroke on her neck; his thigh brushing hers when they shared a sofa or a banquette. These were the things he'd used to make her aware of him, and she, idiot that she was, had been completely overwhelmed by it all. Why hadn't she realised what he was doing? she wondered. Why had she trusted him?