by Anne Mather
‘No. Don’t say anything now.’ He gave her an appealing little-boy look. ‘This has been one hell of an evening and I don’t think I could take any more rejection. Not tonight. Green turned me down, you know? He says a hundred is all I’m good for. So where the hell am I going to get the rest?’
Grace decided she couldn’t take any more of this. Staying on after Sophie walked out had been a mistake and if she wasn’t careful, she was going to pay for it, big time.
Perhaps if she got away for a few days, right away, she’d feel a little less trapped. Maybe Tom would realise he had to solve his own problems, too, she thought, though not so optimistically. Nevertheless, when she got back, she was definitely going to get a place of her own.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said now. And she was, if perhaps not for the reasons he assumed. Then, squaring her shoulders, she added, ‘Look, I’m thinking of taking a few days off, actually. Dad’s always asking me to spend some time with them and I know they’re going to the villa at the weekend for a couple of weeks. I thought I’d go with them, if that’s okay with you?’
Tom’s shoulders sagged. ‘I suppose I can’t stop you, if that’s what you want to do,’ he said at last. ‘But you know I’m going to miss you, don’t you?’
Grace couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘I’ll miss you, too’, even though she knew he expected it. ‘I’ll only be away a week,’ she said, despising herself for giving in to his emotional blackmail. ‘Who knows? Maybe—Oliver…’ She had difficulty saying his name but somehow she managed it. ‘Maybe he will change his mind.’
‘I won’t hold my breath,’ said Tom bitterly, jerking open the fridge door to take a beer from inside and Grace took the opportunity to sidestep him and reach the door. He turned then, looking after her with sad, mournful eyes. ‘But you go and enjoy yourself, Gracie. You deserve it. We’ll talk again when you get back.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
I T WAS the sun that woke him. Slanting through the blinds, it was so much stronger than the sun at home and the room, generous though it was, was getting uncomfortably airless.
Oliver turned over onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling above his head, briefly wondering where he was. Then comprehension dawned, and he lifted both hands to push the tangled weight of his hair off his forehead. He was in Spain, in San Luis, in his parents’ spare bedroom to be precise, and for the next few days he had nothing to do but relax and chill out.
Well, that was the story anyway, he conceded, spreading his arms to push himself into a sitting position and taking a moment to survey his surroundings. Chilling out implied a sense of relaxation he was far from feeling and even escaping to Spain hadn’t released him from the guilty prison of his thoughts.
Grace.
As always, her name came first to his mind. Although it was several days since he’d left her in Tom’s house, he hadn’t been able to get what happened out of his head. Never mind that she was untrustworthy, that she was living with one brother and yet apparently thought nothing of making out with the other. Somehow, she had bewitched him and he didn’t see the situation changing any time soon.
All the same, he was ashamed of how he had behaved. Oh, not at walking out. That had probably been the most sensible thing he’d done that night. But touching her, giving in to the almost primitive emotions she aroused in him, that had been stupid. What about Miranda, for God’s sake? What about Tom?
In her own way, Grace was just as bad as Sophie. Okay, she wasn’t married to Tom, but it was obvious he considered her his property. Whether he was prepared to use her to gain his own ends was another matter, however. And it wasn’t a situation Oliver wanted to explore.
Which was why he’d been glad to have an excuse to leave the country. He’d already entertained the idea of speaking to his father face to face about his financial problems and it had been a handy excuse to give Miranda when she’d questioned his decision to make the trip at such short notice.
‘If only you’d given me some warning,’ she’d exclaimed a couple of nights ago when he’d phoned her to break the news. ‘I have some holiday due. I could have deferred my cases and come with you.’
Oliver had expressed his regret, of course, but in all honesty the last thing he needed right now was another woman’s company. He needed space, he told himself. A time to get his head round this compulsive, but totally unwanted, desire he felt for his brother’s mistress.
His parents had been touchingly glad to see him, which had only added to his sense of culpability. He hadn’t visited them half often enough, neither here nor in England, in the years since he and Sophie split up, and although he’d always assured himself that Tom had always been his father’s favourite, he knew in his heart of hearts that it wasn’t true. George and Nancy Ferreira were equally proud of both their sons and they’d suffered terribly when the family had been torn apart.
Now, after a glance at the watch he’d left on the bedside cabinet, Oliver thrust his long legs out of bed. Then, getting to his feet, he walked across to unlatch the long windows that opened onto the wraparound veranda outside.
It was nearly half past nine, and Oliver was amazed at how well he had slept. Of course, he and his father had sat up late the previous evening, catching up on each other’s news, and no doubt his mother had decided to let him sleep in. Even so, it was a while since he’d slept so soundly, and this morning he felt considerably more invigorated than he’d done the night before.
Which was just as well considering that, although they’d covered most matters, both he and his father had avoided any mention of Tom or his financial problems. Sooner or later Oliver was going to have to find out exactly what his father knew—if anything—and what he thought his older son should do.
The sound of the door opening behind him had Oliver reaching automatically for the end of the sheet to cover his nakedness. But it was only his mother who bustled into the room carrying a tray containing a pot of coffee and some warm cinnamon-scented rolls.
‘Ah, you’re up,’ she said, setting the tray down on the bedside cabinet and regarding him with obvious pleasure. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well,’ said Oliver, dragging the sheet off the bed and winding it around his waist. He looked ruefully at the tray. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’
‘I know I didn’t.’ His mother spoke briskly. ‘But it’s not every day I have my elder son staying with me. I want you to feel you’re always welcome here.’
Oliver felt another twinge of shame. ‘I know that, Mum.’
‘So long as you do.’ She came towards him, reaching up to bestow a warm kiss on his jawline. ‘It’s been too long, Oliver.’
He nodded, touched anew by the warmth of their welcome. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Oh, he’s reading the morning paper,’ she said, glancing about the room as she spoke. ‘Now, have you got any washing you need doing? Maria comes at ten and she’s never overworked.’
Oliver grinned. ‘Believe it or not, Mum, but I’m quite capable of loading a washing machine for myself. Besides which, I have a very efficient housekeeper who keeps me in order.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Mrs Ferreira permitted herself another doubtful glance in his direction before making for the door. ‘Enjoy your breakfast.
‘I’m sure I will.’
His mother paused with one hand on the door. ‘You are—all right, aren’t you, Oliver?’ Her cheeks took on a tinge of pink. ‘We heard about—well, about Sophie and Tom. I expect that was quite a shock for you.’
Oliver sighed. ‘A surprise, certainly,’ he admitted. ‘But it doesn’t make any difference to me, Mum. Honestly.’
She hesitated. ‘You’re not thinking of taking her back, then?’
‘God, no!’ He was surprised how repulsive that thought was.
‘Good.’ She gave him a relieved smile. ‘Well, then, I’ll go and see what your father is doing. Don’t hurry. There’s nothing spoiling.’
An hour later, Oliver, dressed
in shorts and a tank-top, emerged from his room to find Maria, his parents’ housemaid, vacuuming the rug in the living room. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him and they exchanged a few words in her language before he went in search of his father.
It was amazing, he thought. He’d learned to speak Spanish when he was at school and during frequent holidays in Spain, and whenever he came back here it seemed the most natural thing to lapse into that language. It must be in his genes, he mused, remembering, rather reluctantly, that Tom had always had a problem with languages.
His parents were sitting on the patio, enjoying a midmorning pot of coffee. The villa, which was set in the hills above the small village of San Luis, had a marvellous view of the ocean, and feeling the sun warm on his shoulders, Oliver allowed a sense of well-being to envelop him.
‘Come and sit down,’ said his mother, getting immediately to her feet. ‘I’ll get another cup. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’ Oliver caught her arm as she would have hurried past him and halted her progress. ‘Sit down, Mum. Enjoy your coffee. I’ve just had breakfast, remember?’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘I am.’ Oliver waited until she’d resumed her seat before perching on the low wall that surrounded the patio, taking a deep breath of the pine-scented air. All around him, evidence of his father’s love of gardening was rampant, lush tropical blossoms growing side by side with roses and geraniums. Above his head, a tumble of bougainvillea defined the latticework of a bamboo pergola, and along the terrace, tubs of fuchsia and impatiens cast their own perfumes onto the breeze.
‘Your mother says you had a good night,’ observed George Ferreira, putting aside his newspaper and regarding his son with a dark, appraising gaze. ‘I don’t know why you don’t come out here more often. You know you’re always welcome.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean it.’ The older man was gruff. ‘And if you want to bring that young woman of yours with you, we wouldn’t mind.’
Oliver nodded. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Miranda, isn’t it?’ his mother queried. ‘Didn’t you say she’s a lawyer? That must be a fascinating occupation.’
Oliver really didn’t want to talk about Miranda, but he knew his parents were just interested and he couldn’t refuse to answer them.
‘I expect it is,’ he said now. ‘She seems to like it, anyway.’
‘And is it serious? Your relationship, I mean?’ asked Mrs Ferreira innocently, only to have her husband impale her with a hard dark gaze.
‘Leave it alone, Nancy,’ he exclaimed, shifting impatiently in his chair. ‘Dammit, the boy’s only known her a couple of months. After that business with you-know-who, I’d be very wary of committing myself again and I guess he is, too.’
‘Oh, George,’ began his wife, taking umbrage, and Oliver, who had been amused at being called a boy again, broke in soothingly.
‘We’re friends, Mum. That’s all,’ he said, wondering how Miranda would react if she could hear him dismissing their affair so casually. He pressed down on the wall with his hands and got to his feet again. ‘You know, I think I’ll take a walk down to the beach.’
‘To the beach?’ His mother looked disapproving now. ‘Oh, Oliver, it’s almost a mile to the beach and you’re not used to this heat.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Mr Ferreira couldn’t hide his impatience. ‘Oliver’s a grown man, Nancy. Stop clucking around him like an old hen! Here.’ He picked a baseball cap up from the table and tossed it at his son. ‘Keep her happy, son. I’ve got a handful of the things.’
Oliver grinned. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and with a reassuring smile for his mother, he vaulted over the low stone wall that edged the property and sauntered along the lane to the narrow road that led down into the village of San Luis.
The path he took also circled the villa next door to the Ferreiras’. Was this the one Grace’s parents owned? he wondered, casting a swift glance towards the sprawling dwelling that was partially hidden behind a belt of greenery. The blinds were drawn, he noticed, envying them the swimming pool that glinted through a clump of palm and cypress trees. It was obviously a bigger villa than the one his parents occupied and, judging by the sprinkler spinning over the manicured lawn, Mr Lovell employed a gardener to keep his grounds in mint condition.
The sun was hot, as his mother had said, and Oliver was quite glad to pull the baseball cap onto his head. But it was the back of his neck that needed protection, and he wore it back to front, feeling more and more like a tourist by the time he reached the village.
Not that San Luis catered much for its foreign visitors. It was basically a fishing community, and although several expensive yachts were moored in the harbour, there were no tapas bars or high-rise hotels.
Oliver spent a little time down at the quayside, watching a couple of men, obviously father and son, loading their catch onto the back of a pick-up. He saw langoustines and other shellfish, squirming frantically in boxes of ice, and pitied the poor creatures their fate. He guessed they were bound for one of the resort hotels along the coast where scallops fried in garlic butter were a gourmet speciality.
Beyond the harbour wall, grass-studded dunes gave onto a stretch of golden sand and Oliver kicked off his loafers, tying the laces together and looping them about his neck. God, he needed this, he thought, not realising until now how long the winter had seemed. It seemed years, not months, since he and Miranda had spent ten days in Barbados in December.
He grimaced, remembering. They’d only known one another for a few weeks at that time and when he’d suggested she might like to join him on a Caribbean holiday, he’d half expected her to refuse. But she hadn’t. She’d been almost pathetically eager to go with him, and he supposed their relationship had been defined from that date.
Until then, it had been a fairly open affair, with Oliver feeling free to go out with other women if he chose. After Barbados, however, Miranda had seemed to expect a certain exclusivity from him, and until he’d met Grace Lovell he’d had no real problem with that.
Which was equally pathetic, he thought, treading onto the damp sand that edged the ebbing tide. His father was right. He should have learned his lesson with Sophie. And he had, he assured himself grimly. His association with Miranda proved it. Their relationship was civilised and sexually satisfying, but at no time were his emotions involved. And that was the way he liked it.
Despite the warmth of the sun, the water was cool on his bare soles, and putting the disagreeable aspects of his thoughts aside, he started off along the beach. He hadn’t come here to stress about Grace or his affair with Miranda. He’d come to talk to his father, and during the next few days he was going to have to find a way to persuade the old man to let him help him out.
Grace came out onto the sundeck at the back of the villa. She was carrying the cup of coffee she’d just made for herself in the terracotta-tiled luxury of her parents’ kitchen and for a moment the brilliance of the sun dazzled her.
Her feet were bare and the thin wrapper she’d pulled on over the cotton tank-top and boxers she used to sleep in was loose. One end of the belt trailed on the ground as she sought the shade offered by the green-striped umbrella that arced over a glass-topped wicker table and chairs. Coiling one bare leg beneath her, she subsided into one of the chairs. Cupping the coffee between her palms she surveyed the view before her with real pleasure.
She’d forgotten the sea could be so blue, she thought, the sails of a single yacht stark against that azure backdrop. Forgotten how much less complicated things could seem here, far from the people and places that made up her everyday life. She wouldn’t want to live here. She was no lotus-eater. But a few days spent in these surroundings were exactly what she needed.
She’d lied when she’d told Tom that her parents had invited her. But it had only been a white lie. Her mother and father were always telling her she should take advantage of the villa whether they were there or not.
They were a fairly modern couple and they wouldn’t have objected if she’d invited a young man to share the villa with her. The fact that so far Grace hadn’t done so was, she knew, a source of some regret to them, but they seldom voiced it. All the same, Grace guessed they were losing hope that she would ever find a man she could love.
How would they feel if they found out that, apart from one clumsy experience when she was in her teens, Grace had never been to bed with a man? she wondered. It was not something she was proud of, not something she would have chosen for herself. But she’d learned early on that most men only saw her as a sex object. A couple of dates, if she was lucky, and then the expectation of getting into her pants.
Perhaps she’d just not met the right man yet, she thought ruefully. Or maybe she had a seriously low sex drive and that was why she found it so easy to refuse. An image of Oliver Ferreira’s face when he’d walked out of Tom’s kitchen that night caused an untimely shiver to feather her spine. The chilling lack of warmth in his expression, the bitter irony in the words he had exchanged with his brother, had torn her apart. Somehow he’d breached the wall she’d so carefully erected around her emotions and then tramped roughshod over the feelings he’d found inside.
But she didn’t want to think about Oliver, she reminded herself, getting up from the table again and drifting aimlessly down the shallow steps that led to the pool. She took another sip of her cooling coffee and stiffened her spine. She’d come away to avoid thinking of him and she wasn’t going to do herself any good at all if she spent all her time fretting over him. It was ridiculous. He was no better than any of the other men who’d attempted to make love to her. He’d been just as keen to get her clothes off.
The difference was, she’d been just as keen to help him, she acknowledged wryly. Remembering his hands on her body, his thumbs brushing her breasts, his tongue laving a hot path down her throat, she shivered anew. Oh, God, she’d never known what it was like to want a man until he’d touched her, and now she found it incredibly hard to think of anything else.