'Ah!'
'Has she found out that you still have it and she's angry?'
He was shaking his head, but whatever it was that had made him come and seek her out, it was something that hurt him to say, and it was instinctive to reach out and place a hand over the place where his heart beat almost as urgently as her own. He put one of his own over it and pressed her palm to the warm dark skin below his shirt. Then, still without answering, he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, then pressed them to his face.
'Catalina has ' He stopped and shook his head,
while Rosanne watched him anxiously. 'It was sheer chance that she went into my private room, she has never done so before, but there were some papers concerning her betrothal that I kept in there and she could not await my coming back, she must have them at once! Madre de Dios—why must it be Catalina?'
'You hadn't told them you still had it? The painting, I mean?'
Jaime was shaking his head, and there was a look of such hurt in his eyes that Rosanne could almost guess what was to come although she could not yet bring herself to admit it. 'I had not told them yet.'
'And Catalina found it?'
It was inevitable, she knew. No one could go into that small and very masculine room and miss the easel set there beside the desk. Catalina must have been as curious as she had been herself, and much less nervous, being in her own home. Jaime nodded and his eyes swept over her face anxiously.
'I know that Catalina was still angry about Federico, and she perhaps '
Broad shoulders shrugged helplessly as he sought to understand the depth of his cousin's dislike, but Rosanne had no difficulty understanding at all. 'She hates me, Jaime, I saw it when I went with Marta to see your aunt. Catalina hates me, not only because of what she imagines happened between Federico and me, but because she can't forgive me for not being killed when Pablo was.'
Jaime said something in Spanish and the shadow of the palms flicking across his face and deepening hollows and lines gave him a much older look suddenly, so that Rosanne realised for the first time that he was a man in his thirties, much more mature and experienced than either Pablo or Federico. The deep dark eyes looked down at her for a moment and she wanted to put her hands to his face and soothe that frown from between his brows.
'No matter if she hated you,' he said in a flat, hurt voice that touched every nerve in her body, 'how could she have destroyed anything so beautiful, Rosanne? I could not do it, not even though I understood my aunt's hurt and her reason for wanting it destroyed, but Catalina '
'Oh, Jaime!'
Her voice was barely above a whisper and her eyes misted with tears that came unbidden, tears that were as much for Jaime's hurt as for the destruction of her portrait. Even though Pablo had imagined the expression in her eyes and mouth, it had somehow added to its beauty and made it live, and to destroy anything so lovingly created was surely an act of sacrilege.
Jaime took her in his arms and held her close and it seemed a perfectly natural thing to happen. 'She slashed it to ribbons, mi bienquista, there is nothing left of it!' His voice, close to her ear, was not harsh with anger but shiveringly unsteady, as if some more hurtful passion than anger possessed him, and the arms that bound her close seemed also to cling to her.
'Jaime, I'm almost frightened.'
Gently he eased her away, holding her still in his arms but where he could look down into her face, dark eyes searching anxiously, not sure he understood. 'Of Catalina?' As if he could not believe such a thing possible, even though Rosanne was nodding her head.
'Not exactly of Catalina, but of that—hatred of hers. Jaime. If I mean if she goes on hating me as she does '
'No, no, no, mi amor, she will not go on hating you. I can promise that, for already she is so sorry that she has spent hours in her room crying bitterly, and she is to seek penance for what she has done.'
Rosanne could, she supposed, feel a kind of pity for the girl, for she could not be judged by cool Anglo- Saxon standards. Catalina was a Spaniard, impulsive, warm-blooded and given to passions that a cooler temperament could not understand, except from experience. But the destruction of Pablo's lovely portrait was so final, and she could only grieve for that for the rest of her life; that was something that she felt Jaime understood, for it was a grief that he shared.
As she looked up at him, the tears still lingered on the thick lashes around her grey eyes. 'It was so beautiful, Jaime, and now it's gone. I'll try to forgive Catalina, but it won't be easy, I know it isn't going to be easy at all.'
'But for my sake you will try to forgive her, will you not, mi Rosanna?' His voice had a shivering softness that was irresistible. 'Because she is my cousin and I love her, even though she has destroyed something that was very precious to me.'
Rosanne had never felt more sure of anything in her life than the fact that she loved Jaime Delguiro with all her heart, and she would have promised anything if it would make him happier. His arms were still tight around her, and the fierce strength of him held her close, making her aware of every nerve in his body, of the tenseness of the muscular arms and the hands that soothed persuasively over her shoulders and her back.
'I'll forgive her,' she whispered, 'if only for your sake, Jaime.'
The fiesta was nothing more than a faint sound in the background, as she lifted her arms and put them around his neck, her fingers stroking the dark hair where it brushed the collar of his shirt, and Jaime pressed her closer still, bending his dark head over her until the warmth of his breath warmed her mouth when he spoke.
'The original is so much more beautiful than the copy,' he murmured, and scanned his dark eyes over her face, smiling at the bright warmth of grey eyes and softly flushed cheeks; the pleading softness of her mouth waiting and wanting to be kissed. 'I shall have you portrayed by the best artist in Spain, enamorada, and this time there will be no need to imagine that—- look of love, hah?'
'Not if you're there where I can see you!'
She remembered his laughter; the deep warm sound of it that found an echo in the brightness of almost black eyes, and she looked at his mouth with a yearning that she made no attempt to conceal. 'Rosanne, bienquista, I love you even more than I loved that beautiful image of you that Pablo created!'
Rosanne's heart-was beating so hard she couldn't think clearly, but she knew she had not mistaken what he said. Jaime loved her and it was the most important thing in the world to her. Looking up at him, she smiled, and her eyes, bright and shiny, challenged him to answer truthfully.
'Is that why you kept my portrait all the time, Jaime; when Dona Elena told you to destroy it?'
Shifting shadows gave his dark face a changing expression; an intriguing mixture of laughter and arrogance that fascinated her, and he was shaking his head. 'Three reasons, my love, why I did not destroy it were that I do not like being told to do anything, especially by a woman, and also it was Pablo's finest work.'
Something in his manner prompted her question, and she had no hesitation in putting it to him. 'And the third reason?'
The dark face filled her vision suddenly and she was swept against him and held firmly while his mouth sought hers, fierce and yet gentle, persuading her lips apart and banishing every inhibition that remained. She had never been so close to him before and it seemed they would never again be apart, for when he let her mouth go at last, it was to bury his face in the softness of her hair, his lips pressed to her neck and the pulsing warmth of her throat.
When he raised his head at last it was to look down at her, a look that seemed to see deep into her soul, and Rosanne's hands fluttered lightly over the dusky gold face, tracing the stunningly sensual mouth with a forefinger. He was smiling, and she could do no other than smile too.
'The third reason, my love, is that I fell in love with an image; an image of love created by my poor cousin. I had never thought to see that same wonderful look directed at me, although I have often dreamed of it.' There was both challenge and amusement
in the eyes that gleamed down at her. 'What hope is there if a man cannot dream, mi Rosanna, eh?' His arms tightened once more and the dark face hovered above her, his words warm on her mouth. 'The flesh and blood is so much more satisfying than the dream, bienquista, and I do not intend to let you go—ever!'
Reaching up for his mouth, Rosanne whispered against his lips, 'I never want to go, my love!'
About Author
Rebecca Stratton has various jobs through the years and she was always writing. She got a job in an office which enabled her to save up enough money to quit and start writing full time at the age of 45. Her first attempt at a romance novel was accepted by Mills and Boon and she was on her way.
Stratton published over 40 romances in the 1970's and 1980's. Most of her books are about English girls in exotic locations, such as Spain. She also published several romances for Harlequin under the pseudonym of Lucy Gillen. Most of the titles listed below are Harlequin Romances, the first couple are in the Harlequin Presents line.
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