by Penny Jordan
‘No…’ Seeing the surprise on the lawyer’s face, Shelley softened her sharp denial with a brief smile.
‘I don’t want to discuss any of this with the…with my stepbrother yet. I would like some time to come to terms with what you have just told me, but I still feel that the villa is rightfully the property of the Condessa and…’
‘No. It is rightfully yours,’ intervened the lawyer firmly. ‘I admire the independence of spirit that leads you to reject such a gift, but think, if you will, of the future, Miss Howard. One day you will marry and have children. In refusing the gift that your father leaves you, you are refusing it on their behalf as well. You cannot know what life has in store for you. When the Condessa married the Conde, no one could have known what was in store for her. She was marrying an extremely wealthy young man, and yet…’
‘It is different nowadays,’ Shelley told him stubbornly. ‘Women are not dependent on their husbands any more. I do not want the villa, senhor,’ she told the lawyer, unable to explain to him that she still felt as though the villa rightfully belonged to the Condessa and her family. She was glad that her father had remembered her, that he had loved her, and she genuinely wanted nothing else.
Illogically, even now, understanding the reasons why, it still hurt that she had been rejected by her father’s family. It was pride that had kept her from telling them the truth; she acknowledged that just as she acknowledged that it was a measure of how deeply she had been hurt that she was unable to forgive Jaime now. Instead of rejoicing in the fact that he had loved her father, she felt deeply resentful of it; resentful of the fact that her father had been there for him, while she…
‘You will know that the Condessa is English,’ the lawyer continued. ‘On her father’s side at least, but her mother was Portuguese, and came home to her parents when her husband was killed in the early stages of our last world war. Jaime is, I think, much more his mother’s son than his father’s. He and Carlos never got on. Carlos resented him, I think, and his childhood was not a happy time for him. You have much in common, you and he, even if neither of you knows it yet.’
He was interrupted by a maid carrying a tray of coffee. There were three cups on it, but when Jaime came in on the heels of the maid, Shelley stood up and excused herself. She saw Jaime frown as she walked to the door, but he made no move to check her.
She had spoken to the lawyer and there was nothing to keep her here now. Her cases were in her room, but it was an easy task to carry them down to her car, which she found by asking the old man who tended the gardens what had happened to it.
It had apparently been parked in the quinta’s stable-cum-garage block. At another time she would have lingered to admire and stroke the silky coats of the horses she glimpsed as she walked past their boxes, but she was too intent on what she intended to do.
Two days ago it would have been impossible for her to imagine leaving anywhere without saying goodbye to her host and hostess, but her stepbrother and his family would feel no regret at her going. It was shaming to feel such an intense wave of desolation, something she should have been far too adult to experience.
Her car started first time. The petrol tank was a quarter full, plenty to get her to the nearest garage. As she drove away from the quinta she resisted the impulse to look back, and yet thirty kilometres on, when she came to the place where the road forked, she found herself taking the fork that led down to the coast.
She had given in to the craziest impulse, and yet she knew she couldn’t leave the Algarve without at least seeing the villa her father had left her.
Luckily the lawyer had mentioned the village in which it was situated, and she had remembered the name. That quick glance at the map in the garage, supposedly to check her bearings, had shown her that she could easily reach the village by late afternoon; there were several large hotels dotted along this part of the Algarve coastline, or so she remembered from her guide book, and surely she could find a bed for the night in one of them before continuing her journey home?
A tiny voice warned her that it was folly to go to the villa, but she couldn’t resist the impulse to see it. Perhaps there she would find something of her father, some sense of him that she could cling to in the years ahead.
CHAPTER THREE
THE village lay just below the thick belt of pine forest that clad the lower slopes of the hills, and as the road dipped, Shelley saw the sea, impossibly blue for the Atlantic, reflecting the colour of the cloudless sky.
After the welcome shade of the forest, the white glare of the sun bouncing back off the houses in the village made her wince. In the small square, groups of people sat outside the one pavement café.
One or two people eyed her curiously as she climbed out of her car, but in the main she was courteously ignored. The Portuguese as a nation were much more withdrawn and aloof than their other Latin cousins.
She sat down at one of the empty tables and a waiter came to take her order. Despite the dust thrown up by the traffic that went through the square the tables and chairs were immaculately clean. Shelley ordered a lemonade and tentatively asked the waiter if he knew the way to the Villa Hilvares, as the lawyer had told her her father’s property was called. To her relief the waiter obviously understood and spoke English, and quickly gave her the directions she needed. It seemed that the villa was a little way out of the village, overlooking the sea.
There had been more than a slight flicker of curiosity in the waiter’s eyes when she had mentioned the villa’s name. Since it took its name from her stepbrother’s family and had once belonged to them, Shelley guessed that they were probably quite well known in the area as local landowners.
Although she had accused Jaime of not wanting any of the family property to pass out of his hands. Shelley knew really that she had probably done him an injustice. He was far too proud a man to be betrayed by such a vulgar vice as greed. Not that it mattered. She had already instructed the lawyer to draw up the papers which would enable her to return the villa, and the income that would come to her from the rest of her father’s bequest, to Jaime and his family, and she had asked him to forward them to her solicitors in London. She would be back there sooner than she had anticipated. She had come to Portugal with such high hopes—ridiculously emotional hopes, she derided herself now. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would have realised that she wouldn’t be welcome. But her stepfamily hadn’t known the truth…
Moving restlessly in her seat, she tried to banish Jaime and his family from her mind. Someone on the next table ordered a sandwich, and Shelley suddenly realised how long it was since she had eaten. it took her ten minutes to catch the waiter’s eye, but when he eventually returned with her order, she found the coffee he had brought her tasted hot and invigorating and the ham roll was deliciously fresh.
It was six o’clock when she returned to her car. The directions the waiter had given her were easy to follow, and she found the villa at the end of a narrow, untarmacked road.
Like the quinta, it was built primarily in the Moorish style, its wooden shutters closed and a large arched wooden doorway blocking her entrance. She should, of course, have realised that the place would be locked up. With a let-down feeling, Shelley stared at the white walls and shuttered windows, filled with a sense of depressed frustration. She would find nothing of her father here outside this shuttered, empty house.
This part of the Algarve was renowned for its sandy beaches, and less than a couple of miles further down the beach Shelley saw that someone was constructing a large hotel. It was a strange sensation to realise that this land she was standing on actually belonged to her. In Portugal the beaches were all the property of the nation, but the villa and several acres of land that went with it were apparently hers.
It was no good. She felt no sense of ownership, of belonging. If she could have gone inside the villa…or even perhaps seen some of her father’s work. But she had too much pride to go back to the quinta and ask.
The sun was dip
ping into the sea, sinking slowly. Soon it would be dark. She ought to head back to her car and drive down the coast, otherwise she would never find a hotel where she could spend the night, but something father had lived here in this land, in this very building, but she couldn’t picture him here. She didn’t even know what he looked like, she reflected bitterly. Her grandmother had destroyed the wedding photographs after her mother had died.
Coming here had been a stupid impulse, a waste of time. She turned round abruptly, tensing in shock as she saw the man watching her.
‘Jaime!’
She wasn’t aware of saying his name, only of the intense panic locking her muscles. A confrontation here with this man was the last thing she wanted.
‘I hoped I might find you here.’
Something had changed. He no longer looked quite as austere, and his eyes when they met hers held both regret and remorse.
He stood within an arm’s length of her, but made no attempt to touch her.
‘What can I say?’ He spread his hands in a gesture that was totally continental.
‘Why did you not tell us, querida?’ His voice sounded rough and tired. ‘Had we known…’
‘You would still have resented me,’ interrupted Shelley curtly. ‘You wanted to believe the worst of me, and now that you’ve discovered that you were wrong, you’ve followed me here to apologise. But it’s not my feelings that concern you, but your own, your own pride. You don’t give a damn about me, or my pain; all you’re concerned with is your own precious pride.’
‘You are wrong. I am concerned about you; but I am not the only one to be guilty of the sin of pride. I believe it is your pride that leads you to punish us by leaving us with our burden of guilt by not allowing us the opportunity to make amends. Your father was one of the best men I have ever known, and I have always considered myself more than fortunate to have him as my mentor in the place of a father with whom I never got on. Since you share with me the sin of pride, I am sure you must know what it does to me to know that my gain, my good fortune, was your loss, your unhappiness.’
Ridiculously, his words softened her resentment and made her eyes prickle with tears. She turned away from him, glad of the concealing blanket of dusk.
‘I grew up believing him dead. I only wish…’ She broke off and stared blindly at the dim outline of the villa. ‘I thought I might find something of him here…I don’t even know what he looked like…’ Her control threatened to desert her completely, and she knew she couldn’t stay here any longer. The dusk which earlier she had welcomed now seemed to promote a dangerously weakening intimacy.
‘I must go…I have already told the lawyer to draw up papers returning the villa to your family. I don’t want it… I…’
She had her back to him and prayed that she could get to her car without him seeing that she was in tears. It was years since she had cried. She never cried, and yet here she was…
She tensed as she felt his touch on her arm and pulled violently away from him, but inexplicably, as she moved away, his body blocked her path, his hands cupping her face and tilting it so that he could look into her tear-drenched eyes.
‘Ah, querida, do not hide your tears from me. Do you not think that I have wept for him too?’
Incredibly, she was held fast in his arms, being comforted by the soft murmur of his voice and the gentle stroking caress of his hands as she sobbed out her pent-up anguish and pain against his shoulders. This was what she had always wanted, she recognised numbly—this safety…this caring, this reassurance of strong arms around her.
‘Come, let us put aside our differences and start again, little sister. Come back with me to the quinta now. My mother was most concerned for you. It is still not done in this part of the world for our young women to wander alone at night.’
She wanted to protest, but it was like struggling against a heavy drug.
‘My car,’ she reminded him, but Jaime was already leading her away from the villa.
‘José will drive it back for you. Tomorrow we will come back with the key and I shall show you round the villa. If it is that you genuinely do not wish to keep it, then I shall buy it from you at its market price. No…say nothing now…it is something we will talk about later when we are both more ourselves.’
Keeping his arm round her, he directed her towards his car, which was parked half-way down the rutted road.
His manner towards her now was completely fraternal. His comments about his desire for her made the previous evening night never have been uttered; she had been right to suspect then that he had lied about wanting her. Now that she was over the emotional shock of seeing him, Shelley was beginning to regret giving way in front of him. She tried to wriggle away from his side, but he refused to release her. The way he had held her, comforted her, couldn’t have been more perfect if he had spent weeks practising. His concern for her had been everything she could ever have hoped to find in a stepbrother, but only yesterday he had been treating her with the utmost contempt. Why had he come after her? Why was he taking her back to the quinta? Why was she letting him?
She thought she had found the answer to the first two questions when he handed her into the car and then said softly.
‘My mother would never have forgiven me if I had returned without you. When I discovered that no one had seen you drive through the village, I could only guess that you must have decided to come here. I hope you will give us all the opportunity to make amends for our churlish reception of you, querida. My mother in particular feels the burden of her guilt. She loved your father very deeply.’
And it was for his mother’s sake that he was taking her back. But why was she going back?
To find out as much as she could about the stranger who had been her father of course. What other reason could there be?
On their arrival at the quinta, she asked Jaime if she might be excused the ordeal of dinner. The day had left her drained and too emotionally unbalanced to talk rationally to her stepmother.
‘I will have Luisa bring a tray up to your room,’ Jaime promised her, adding easily, ‘and perhaps if you feel up to it, you might join me for breakfast tomorrow morning. I normally eat early, as I like to ride round the estate and check on the vines before I start work in my office. You will find that neither my mother nor Carlota are early risers.’
If Luisa was surprised to see her back, the maid was far too well trained to show it. Instead she gave Shelley a warm smile when she brought up a loaded supper tray, which she put down on the table on her balcony.
The shrimp soup was creamy and rich, and after she had finished it Shelley felt too full to do much more than nibble at the delicious salad which had been provided for her main course. Her sweet, a sticky confection of pastry, nuts and apricot preserve, she left to one side, instead pouring herself a cup of coffee. Sitting on the balcony, she could hear the crickets again. The evening air was balmy, and carried a faint and elusive scent which she could not recognise. Replete and relaxed, she felt tired enough to sleep, even though it was only just gone ten o’clock.
No one could have been more compassionate or more concerned than Jaime had been this evening. Had she not seen that other arrogant, cynical side of him for herself, had she only known his tenderness and care, she doubted if she could have believed it might exist. But it did exist.
From the courtyard, she could hear the sound of the fountain, and another sound: voices. Curious, she moved towards the edge of her balcony. Below her in the courtyard, Jaime walked with his mother.
‘I am so glad that you were able to persuade her to come back, Jaime,’ Shelley heard her stepmother saying. ‘I feel so guilty… When one thinks of what she must have suffered. If Philip had known…’
Shelley could hear the tears in the older woman’s voice, and a lump formed in her own throat.
‘The blame is mine,’ she heard Jaime saying. ‘I was the one who misjudged her, but do not worry, Mama; we will find a way of making amends.’
‘
And the villa? Senhor Armandes tells me that she is most adamant that she does not want it.’
The sound of their voices ceased as they moved back inside, and Shelley sighed as she retreated from her window. Why had she allowed Jaime to persuade her to come back to the quinta when she had been so determined to leave? Was it purely because of her need to discover more about her father, or was it partially Jaime himself who was the lure?
A tremor of fear shuddered through her. She had made a vow years ago that love as other girls knew it was not going to be for her. Marriage held no attraction for her. She doubted that she could ever trust anyone to that extent. She preferred to be independent both emotionally and financially, and yet here she was trembling like an adolescent at the memory of a man’s brief touch.
Jaime was her stepbrother, she reminded herself fiercely as she prepared for bed. That was all. The bond she had felt between them this evening had been an illusion—nothing more. She must not allow herself to be bemused by the emotion she had heard in his voice when he spoke of her father, or by the compassion she had seen in his eyes when he had witnessed her tears.
Her tears… She flinched at the memory of her weakness. No one else had ever seen her cry: not her grandmother, not her foster-parents, not her friends…no one. It made her feel frighteningly vulnerable that Jaime had seen them. Feeling vulnerable was not a sensation she liked.
Impatient with herself, she searched through her case for a clean nightdress and headed for her bathroom. The sanitaryware was slightly old-fashioned and the bath huge, but it was bliss to soak in deep, piping hot water. For good measure she washed her hair, rubbing it half dry with a thick cotton towel.
Without any make-up her skin looked very pale, almost translucent in fact, when she compared it mentally with Jaime’s olive-gold flesh. Unbidden, she had a hauntingly erotic image of the two of them entwined together in a lovers’ embrace. Instantly she banished it. What on earth was happening to her? She simply did not react to men like that! She never had. The male body held no fascination or appeal for her; the sexual act was something indulged in by others. Her grandmother’s old-fashioned upbringing and her own fastidiousness had seen to that.