She'd refused, of course. She'd wanted to get this over with, for him to make his feelings known and allow her to return to the anonymity of her rooms. But now that they were alone, Julio had been in no hurry to get to the point. He'd asked about her father, about her family, assuring himself that they were well before going on to ask about David, about where he went to school, about the life they shared back in England.
Cassandra had been disarmed; she recognised that now. She'd been expecting censure, criticism, and what she'd got had been tolerance and kindness, and an obvious desire to put her at her ease.
'Enrique has told me the whole story,' Julio said at last, when Cassandra was totally at his mercy. 'He is not proud of his part in it. He bitterly regrets being the cause of this estrangement between our families, and it is his wish that you allow us to take some of the strain of raising the boy from now on.'
Cassandra was taken aback. It was news to her that Enrique considered his actions the reason for her cutting herself and David off from the de Montoyas, but who was she to argue with his father? Surely he must know his son better than she did.
Then, before she could express any protest, he went on to ask how she'd feel if he requested that she allow David to stay in Spain for a few more weeks instead of accompanying her home at the end of her holiday. He said he was sure David would take her lead in this, and, although she doubted that premise, she was hard-pressed to find a reason to refuse. When he went on to suggest that he might not get such an opportunity again, Cassandra knew she couldn't say no. Julio's tacit reference to his own mortality was a powerful lever, and David would never forgive her if she denied him possibly his only chance to get to know his Spanish grandfather.
The one condition she insisted on was that David remained in ignorance of his real father's identity. She said she understood their eagerness to integrate him into their family, but she would prefer to wait until he was older before burdening him with that news. She just hoped that when that time came, David would forgive her. As far as she was concerned, he was the innocent victim here.
She slept badly again that night and awoke to the news that, once again, Enrique had left the palacio. According to David, who seemed enviably well informed about these things, he'd gone to Cadiz to attend to business matters for his father and wouldn't be back until the following day at the earliest.
To Cassandra, who'd half expected Enrique to come and see her the night before, it was the last straw. It seemed that everything Enrique had done had been to an end, and now that she'd agreed to allow David to stay at Tuarega he had nothing more to gain. He hadn't even had the decency to thank her for her co-operation. She fretted throughout the next seventy-two hours, before deciding to try for an earlier flight home. There was nothing for her here, and she guessed that everyone would feel infinitely happier when she was gone.
David objected, of course. Even though she explained that, since speaking to his English grandfather, she'd been worried about the situation back home, her son wanted her to stay until Enrique got back.
'I'm sure he'll expect you to stay,' he insisted, but Cassandra was equally insistent that he wouldn't.
'I told you,' she assured him gently, 'Enrique and I have nothing in common.' Except you! 'He'll be glad not to have to worry about me any more.' If he ever had!
She flew back to England the following day, having been driven to the airport in Seville by Julio's chauffeur. She didn't see the old man again, though Elena had the courtesy to come out to bid her farewell.
'We will look after David.' she said, a possessive hand resting on the boy's shoulder, and Cassandra found it incredibly difficult not to snatch her son into her arms and take him with her.
She sighed now, realising that she was wasting time fretting about something over which she had no real control. She'd committed herself to allowing the de Montoyas to play a part in her son's life and if her father thought she was mad: well, so be it.
It was a week later, and Cassandra was serving a group of teenagers who were looking for copies of Virgil's Aeneid, when her eyes were drawn to the sight of a gleaming limousine drawing up outside the shop. It wasn't usual for cars to stop outside The Bookworm, and she could only assume that whoever was driving was a stranger to the district.
A stranger!
Her mouth went dry, and she inadvertently gave one of the youths a ten-pound note instead of a five in change. My God, what if it's Enrique? she thought unsteadily. What was he likely to be doing there?
Fortunately, her youthful customer was honest, but her nervous laugh brought Henry to the front of the shop to see what was going on. 'I'm just trying to cut your profits,' she managed lightly as the teenagers left the shop, but her face was burning and she soon realised that Henry wasn't listening to her in any case.
'Nice car,' he remarked instead, as the limousine idled at the kerb. 'But he'll get a parking ticket if he stays there.'
'Hmm.' Cassandra told herself she didn't care what happened to the limousine. It wasn't going to be Enrique. If he'd cared anything about her, he'd never have stayed away as he had. And, so long as it didn't belong to any other de Montoya, she had nothing to worry about. 'Um—is it all right if I go for my lunch now?'
'What?' Henry looked blankly at her. Then, without answering her question, 'Hey, someone's getting out of the car.'
'Henry!' Cassandra tried not to look towards the window. 'Don't be so nosy.' She paused. 'About lunch—‘
'My God, he's coming in,' Henry interrupted her quickly. 'He looks foreign, Cass. Are you sure you don't know who it is?'
Cassandra's head jerked up, a mixture of fear and excitement churning in her stomach. Henry was right. A darkly tanned individual was entering the bookstore. But it wasn't Enrique, as she'd imagined; as she'd hoped? Nor was it his father. But the man was known to her. It was the chauffeur who had driven her to the airport when she left.
'Señora,' he said, making directly for Cassandra, and Henry's eyes widened as he looked at his assistant. 'Por favor, señora, Señor de Montoya wishes to speak with you.'
Cassandra quivered. The man—she knew his name was Salvador—was waiting for her response, but she was too shocked to answer him.
'Señora?' echoed Henry admiringly, making a wry face, and Cassandra struggled to pull herself together.
'Señor de Montoya?' she got out at last, hardly daring to voice the words. 'Señor Enrique de—'
'Señor Julio, señora,' Salvador interrupted her swiftly, nodding towards the car behind him. 'He is waiting, señora. You will come, si?'
Julio!
Cassandra fell sick. For a moment she'd allowed herself the luxury of believing that Enrique hadn't abandoned her, that he cared about her and not about what he wanted from her. But now he had his son! The child he'd never known he had. He didn't need her any more.
Besides, she should have had more sense, she chided herself. A man who'd apparently allowed his father to do what he should have done himself was hardly likely to be having second thoughts now.
And, as her head cleared, she thought she could guess why Julio de Montoya was here. They had given her three weeks to get used to being without David, and now it was time to put the second part of their plan into operation. Julio was going to suggest that her son was happy with them, that they could give him so much more than she could, that perhaps she might consider allowing him to live with them instead of returning him to England at the end of the summer.
No!
'Yes, go along, Cass,' urged Henry, evidently eager to find out what they wanted for himself. 'It is lunch time. I can spare you for—well, for a couple of hours.'
A couple of hours! Cassandra's lips twisted. Usually, she had a struggle to get half an hour in the middle of the day.
'I—I don't know—'
She was shaking her head, wondering how on earth she was going to avoid talking to Julio de Montoya, when another voice spoke from the doorway.
'Cassandra!' It
was Julio himself, still pale and drawn, but evidently much recovered from the last time she'd seen him. Even his voice had acquired a little of the imperiousness she remembered from ten years ago. 'Please,' he added, with surprising humility. 'We need to talk.'
'Do we?' She was uneasy, but there was really no contest.
'I believe so,' he asserted heavily, and now she saw that he was leaning on an ebony cane. 'Will you come?'
Henry watched from the doorway as Salvador assisted first his employer and then Cassandra into the back of the limousine. Julio apologised for preceding her, but it had become apparent that he was still far from strong. Cassandra was amazed that Señora de Montoya had allowed her husband to make the journey himself.
But perhaps he'd insisted that his powers of persuasion were superior to hers and those of his son. There was no doubt that he had succeeded before, and the fact that Enrique wasn't with him seemed to point to the fact that he had decided to leave it to his father. Again.
For her part, Cassandra was too tense to worry about protocol. Taking her seat beside Julio in the back of the car, all she could think about was David and how bleak her future would be if he didn't want to come home.
'Por favor, Salvador,' said Julio once she was seated, indicating that the chauffeur should drive on, and Cassandra glanced behind her to see Henry turning rather disappointedly back into the shop.
'Your employer?' asked Enrique's father as she swung round again, and she nodded.
'Henry Skyler,' she conceded. 'It's his shop.'
Julio inclined his head. 'You have worked there long?'
'Several years.' she agreed, her tone sharpening. She wished he would tell her why he was here and stop wasting time. They had nothing in common and pretending he was interested in her life was just a way to get her to let down her guard. 'Where are we going?'
'Ah.' Julio appeared to acknowledge her impatience. 'If you will permit, we will go to the hotel where I usually stay when I am in London.'
Cassandra pressed her lips together. So, it was to be a prolonged encounter. Instead of tea and sympathy, it was to be lunch and sympathy. Whatever way you looked at it, she doubted it was her feelings he was thinking about.
'Is this necessary?' she asked, deciding she would rather know the worst right away. 'I realise you might find it easier to say what you have to say in a restaurant, where I'd be constrained to be polite, but I'd rather you were honest with me.'
'Honest with you, Cassandra?' To her surprise, Julio looked disturbed now. 'You would rather I came right out and told you what has happened en seguida? At once? Que? You have reason to believe I bring bad news?'
Cassandra swallowed. 'Well, don't you?'
Julio stared at her with troubled eyes. 'Elena,' he said with sudden comprehension. 'Elena has telephoned you. She promised she would not, but I should have known—'
'Señora de Montoya hasn't contacted me,' Cassandra interrupted him shortly. 'But it's obvious you're not here to ask after my health. We don't have that kind of a relationship.'
'No.' Julio conceded the point. 'And you are sure my wife has not been in touch with you? That she hasn't warned you—?'
'Warned me?' Cassandra looked at him. 'Warned me of what? That I shouldn't upset you when you tell me you want to keep David in Spain? That I should just accept the fact that you intend to appropriate my son?'
'Your son?' Julio looked dismayed. 'You think this is about David?'
'Well, isn't it?'
Cassandra wouldn't allow the sudden curl of fear to daunt her. Why else would Julio de Montoya have made this journey? Only something terribly important to him would have persuaded him to come and see her only weeks after such a serious operation. And, aside from his grandson, what else could it be?
His son?
The thought caught Cassandra unawares, although she suspected that that was what she had been suppressing since Enrique's father had denied this was anything to do with David. A feeling of coldness enveloped her. Oh, God, what could possibly have happened to cause this arrogant old autocrat to come to her?
'I—it has to be David,' she insisted, refusing to let him see what she was thinking. 'What else could it be?'
Julio shook his head. 'I—I would prefer it if you could wait until we reach the hotel.' he said stiffly, glancing towards Salvador, and she realised it was against his principles to discuss family matters in front of the chauffeur.
But Cassandra was in no mood to humour him. 'Is it David?' she persisted, still refusing to believe that it could be anything else. 'You might as well tell me. I think I deserve a little time to prepare my defence.'
'Your defence?' Julio was ironic. 'Oh, Cassandra, you are so cold; so suspicious. Does it not occur to you that if I wanted to—what was it you said? Appropriate your son? Yes, that was the term you used—appropriate your son, I would have allowed my lawyer to deal with it?'
'Then—'
'There has been an accident,' said Julio heavily, and not without some reluctance. 'As you insist on—'
'An accident?' Cassandra interrupted him again, her heart in her mouth. 'David?'
'No, Enrique,' said the old man wearily. 'My son. My only son. I have come to beg you to return to Spain with me. If you do not, I fear—I fear the consequences'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Approaching Tuarega from the north was different from approaching it from the south. The north was wilder, harsher, the landscape punctuated by dry riverbeds and rocky ravines where prickly pear and spiky agave were the only vegetation.
Silting in the back of another limousine, Cassandra paid little attention to her surroundings. Darkness had fallen, and it was difficult to think of anything except the reason why she was here. The stark peaks of the sierra, briefly glimpsed in the headlights of the car, only accentuated her feelings of isolation, of being far from everything she knew, everything she believed. She still wasn't absolutely convinced that she should have come, and she didn't know if she could take another rejection.
Nonetheless, she had thought of little but Enrique since Julio had delivered the news of his accident. Hearing how he had entered one of the pens where a rogue bull was corralled and been gored for his pains had horrified her. It seemed so unlike him, somehow. David had told her that Enrique had always cautioned him to show great respect for the animals, and, according to Julio, Juan had warned him not to approach the beast.
So why had he? Julio's opinion was that his son had had something on his mind; that he hadn't been thinking when he'd entered the pen and found himself face-to-face with an enraged bull. Whatever, before any of the hands could create a diversion, the animal had charged, its sharp horns ripping Enrique's arm and gouging an ugly gash in his thigh.
Cassandra shivered now, just thinking of it. Flesh wounds always bled profusely and Julio had admitted that the floor of the pen had been soaked with his son's blood. It had taken four men to drag the infuriated beast away from him and, since then, the bull had been destroyed.
Enrique had been unconscious when a helicopter had airlifted him to the hospital in Seville where his father had so recently been a patient. He'd needed a blood transfusion, but fortunately the wound in his leg had just missed the artery. Even so, he'd lost a lot of blood, and for several days his condition had been closely monitored.
Cassandra found it incredible that all this could have been going on while she had been totally ignorant of it. No one had phoned her; no one had told her that the man she was very much afraid she had never stopped loving was lighting for his life. Only now had she been apprised of the situation. Only now had the de Montoyas been forced to humble themselves and contact her. And that only because although Enrique's physical condition was much improved, his mental state was proving a cause for concern.
'He seems—uninterested in everything,’ Julio had told her, with evident frustration. The accident happened—what? Two weeks ago? At least that. And his wounds are healing well. After all, they are used to such
injuries in my country. You English think the bull is such a helpless creature, but I have seen men lose limbs—lose their very lives—in the cause of the corrida.'
Cassandra hadn't answered that. The fact was mat in the corrida the bull was always fighting for its life. But that was their culture. It wasn't up to her to criticise something she really knew nothing about.
'He should be up and about by now,’ Julio had continued unhappily. 'He has duties responsibilities. He knows I am not capable of doing very much and yet he will not listen to me, will not talk to me, will not even talk to David.'
So why did they think he would talk to her? Cassandra wondered uneasily. Julio hadn't offered an explanation. He hadn't even mentioned David's reaction to all this, merely responding to her enquiry by saying the boy was with his grandmother and leaving it at that.
Yet surely Enrique would want to spend time with his son?
But when she'd mentioned as much to Julio, he'd been curiously reticent. 'He sees no one,' he'd insisted shortly and with evident reluctance. 'Apart from Carlos Mendoza, por supuesto. You will see for yourself, if you will come.’
As if she'd had any choice, thought Cassandra now, taut with apprehension and anxiety. What if Enrique refused to see her? What then? Would they pack her off back to England again? She doubted they'd have any choice. And, God knew, she wouldn't want to stay in those circumstances...
The limousine was descending into a valley now and, although Cassandra had no real knowledge of where they were, she sensed they were nearing their destination. She could see lamps burning at the gates of a building ahead of them and, below, the clustered lights of a small village. She guessed they were still some distance from Tuarega itself, but perhaps this might be an appropriate time to warn Julio of their imminent arrival.
The old man had dozed on and off for most of their journey and she wasn't surprised. She guessed he was exhausted. This had been a gruelling day for a man in his condition, and she was amazed at his stamina.
Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction Page 17