Читать книгу A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring - Angela Bissell, Angela Bissell - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

‘I’VE LOCATED THE PAPERWORK,’ said Roberto Fuentes, long-time solicitor and a trusted friend to the de la Vega family for over forty years. He paused, and a ripple of disquiet ran beneath the surface of Xav’s iron-clad self-control.

Xav rose from behind his desk, his mobile pressed tightly to his ear. Three short strides brought him to a thick wall of glass—one of two floor-to-ceiling panes that afforded his office in the Vega Tower a panoramic view of the sprawling, sun-baked metropolis below.

He stared blindly out at the cityscape, his body bristling with impatience under the impeccably tailored lines of his charcoal-grey suit. ‘And?’

‘Your birth mother’s name was Camila Sanchez.’

The first cold prickles of shock needled over his scalp, even though the solicitor only confirmed what he already knew in his gut was true.

He raised his left arm and leant his palm against the window, needing to steady himself.

He didn’t suffer from vertigo, or a fear of heights, but suddenly the sheer drop on the other side of the glass to the city street over forty storeys below induced a wave of dizziness.

‘Xavier—?’

‘I heard you, Roberto.’ He backed away from the window and returned to his desk. ‘Was she related to anyone in my parents’ employ?’

Another heavy pause. ‘With the greatest respect, Xavier... I really would feel more comfortable if you had this conversation with Elena and Vittorio. They’ve always said—’

‘No.’ He cut Roberto off. He knew what his parents had always said.

‘We love you. Nothing will ever change that.’

And in thirty-five years nothing ever had. Not even the unexpected arrival of his younger brother, Ramon, the ‘miracle baby’ the doctors had told his mother she’d never have.

His parents had also told him that if one day he decided he wanted to trace his biological family they would support him in that quest. He’d never chosen that path, but he knew that if he had they would have stayed true to their word.

Because Vittorio and Elena de la Vega were good people. Good parents.

Xav had worked hard over the years to make them proud. Worked harder still to prove to those members of the extended family who’d never accepted him as one of their own that he was worthy of the de la Vega name.

As a boy, seeing how the veiled barbs and sly taunts upset his mamá had made him even more determined to prove he was just as good as, if not better than, any of them.

Years later, he still faced the same insidious prejudices—but now he had the pleasure of rubbing his detractors’ noses in his unrivalled success.

No. Despite the solicitor’s discomfort, Xav would not involve his parents at this point. He would shield them. Protect them. At least until he understood what—or rather who—he was dealing with.

He sat down at the handcrafted oak desk that had been handed down from father to son, along with the role of Chief Executive, through four generations of de la Vega menfolk over a span of more than sixty years.

‘This conversation remains strictly between you and me,’ he said. ‘Are we clear?’

‘As you wish,’ the older man said, resigned but respectful. ‘Just a moment...’

Xav heard the sounds of papers being shuffled before Roberto spoke again.

‘Ah... I remember now. Miss Sanchez was the niece of your parents’ housekeeper at the time. The adoption was private, the paperwork drawn up through this office.’

Xav was silent a moment, his mind processing. Assimilating. Finally, he said, ‘Gràcies, Roberto. I appreciate your help—and discretion,’ he emphasised, and then he ended the call and immediately made another.

The security specialist the Vega Corporation kept on retainer answered on the first ring. ‘I just emailed the dossier through to you,’ the man said without preamble.

‘Any red flags?’

‘None. A couple of parking offences, but nothing more serious. She’s single, a qualified trauma nurse currently unemployed. Presence on social media is sporadic and low-key. Mother lives in North America. Father’s dead—and, yes, he was married to a Camila Walsh, nee Sanchez, now also deceased.’ He paused. ‘Without knowing what your specific concerns are, I’d say she’s pretty harmless.’

Xav twisted his lips. Any man who believed women were harmless was a fool. He knew from experience they weren’t. It was why he’d taken exceptional care in choosing his lovers over the last decade—and why he was being equally judicious in choosing a wife.

‘And the surveillance?’ he asked.

‘We’ve still got eyes on her. She was at a dance club till one a.m. She hasn’t left the hostel yet this morning.’

Xav narrowed his eyes. Jordan Walsh was an unemployed party girl? ‘Keep me apprised of her movements.’ He tapped his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life. ‘I’ll let you know if I need anything further.’

He put his phone down, located the email in his inbox and opened the attachment. The first section of the document covered basic stats—name, age, marital status, occupation—and included a photo: a full-colour head-and-shoulders shot that had probably come from one of her social media accounts. She was smiling into the camera lens, giving the illusion that she was smiling straight at him, and just looking at the image gave him the same visceral gut-punch reaction that he’d experienced last night when she’d walked into his office.

Right before she had turned his world on its head and then stalked out.

Over the years he’d met hundreds of beautiful women, had slept with a select few, but never had he been so immediately or powerfully arrested by a woman’s looks before.

Her colouring was striking, with a head-turning combination of Titian hair and extraordinary hazel eyes which were a fascinating blend of green and gold. Her features were strong and symmetrical, with bold cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide, generous mouth.

Not pretty by conventional standards, perhaps, but stunning nevertheless.

Abruptly he sat back, irritated at his unusual lack of focus. Jordan Walsh’s looks, however remarkable, were irrelevant. She was a problem to be handled—that was all. One he needed to contain until he understood what threat, if any, she posed. Just as his feelings about his birth mother would have to be shelved and examined at a later stage. He didn’t have time for distractions. He had a global corporation to run. A multimillion-dollar acquisition to negotiate—a major deal that at least one member of the board would relish seeing him fail to close.

He opened the drawer where he’d shoved the photo and the piece of paper she’d left on his desk last night. He picked up his phone to punch in the number she’d written down, but then suddenly changed his mind, slipped the paper and his phone into his jacket pocket and stood.

In the anteroom outside his office he paused by Lucia’s desk and checked his watch. It was ten-twenty a.m. ‘I’m heading out,’ he told her.

Her heavily made-up eyes blinked as if he’d said something unintelligible. She glanced at her computer screen. ‘But...you have a ten-thirty meeting with the Marketing Director.’

‘Reschedule it. And arrange for Juan and Fernando to meet me with the car downstairs straight away.’

Lucia gaped at him, nonplussed. ‘And your video call with Peter Reynaud at noon?’

‘I’ll be back in time for that,’ he said, because he had to be. His intended acquisition of Reynaud Industries took priority over everything.

Buttoning his jacket, he turned to go.

Lucia shot up from her chair, her expression vaguely panicked. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To deal with a problem,’ he replied, and strode towards the lifts, leaving his wide-eyed, slack-jawed secretary staring after him.

* * *

Barcelona was basking in the heat of a blazing sun beneath a glorious blue sky when Jordan emerged from the hostel just before eleven a.m. She’d risen late and then lingered over breakfast, chatting with a Canadian guy and a young German couple who’d wanted to ask her a bunch of questions about Australia.

Pausing on the pavement outside the hostel, she rummaged in her tote bag for her sunglasses and slid them on. She had a mild headache, and her ears still rang from the overloud music in the club last night, but at least she wasn’t suffering with a hangover. She’d had one tequila shot with the girls, then stuck with lime and soda water for the rest of the time.

The dancing had been fun, but the clubbing scene wasn’t really her thing. She’d only gone because the two Irish girls with whom she was sharing a room had invited her out, and the prospect of a few hours of deafening music and fun-loving company had appealed more than sitting alone feeling sorry for herself.

‘Senyorita Walsh?’

She looked up, startled, when she saw a burly man she didn’t know in a suit and dark glasses standing in front of her. ‘Yes?’

‘Senyor de la Vega wishes to speak with you,’ he said, and then gestured towards a vehicle sitting at the kerb. ‘Please get in, senyorita.’

Shifting her stunned gaze from the man to the SUV, Jordan wondered how she hadn’t noticed the vehicle sooner, given that it was bigger and shinier than any other in the street. Black paintwork and dark windows gave it a slightly sinister veneer, and she couldn’t see who, if anyone, was sitting inside it. Another man of solid build stood by the rear door, which sat open, waiting for her to climb in.

Her heart beginning to pound, she bounced her gaze back and forth between the two men and the tiny hairs on her arms lifted. They were strangers, asking her to get into a car, supposedly sent by a man she barely knew.

She backed away. ‘Actually... I—I have somewhere else to be right now... Maybe Mr de la Vega could call—hey!’

Suddenly the man’s meaty hand was wrapped around her arm. Her heart tripped with panic and her brain could scarcely compute what was happening before she was tugged forward and bundled unceremoniously into the back of the SUV. She sucked in her breath, ready to scream, but the sound died in her throat as her backside landed, rather inelegantly, on soft leather and her gaze fell on the man sitting farther along the seat.

‘Good morning, Ms Walsh.’

Her pulse spiked. Hastily she righted herself, dismayed to find when she looked down that her wraparound skirt had got twisted beneath her and was gaping open, exposing the length of one pale thigh all the way up to her crotch. A fierce blush scalded her cheeks.

Lips tightly pursed, she closed the offending split with an indignant tug. ‘I’m not sure it is a good morning, Mr de la Vega.’

The car door closed behind her, shutting her in. Making her acutely aware of the confined space and the potency of the man whose presence seemed to fill every inch of the luxurious interior.

Breathing deeply, she willed her heartbeat to slow and tried not to look as overheated and flustered as she felt. How did he do it? How did he look so cool and refined in his immaculate three-piece suit and tie when the day was stiflingly hot and everyone else was melting?

Not that she could entirely pin the blame for her stampeding pulse and all-over body-flush on the rising mercury or the few seconds of fright his men had given her. But she would not think about how ridiculously handsome Xavier de la Vega was. Or how he looked not only cool and urbane in his sleek designer suit but also supremely fit and virile.

One dark brow slanted up. ‘Late night?’

Striving for an air of dignified calm, she folded her sunglasses away and pushed back some strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail and fallen across her face. ‘Not particularly,’ she said, crossing her fingers at the tiny lie.

Technically it hadn’t been a late night but rather an extremely early morning when she’d finally collapsed into her narrow bunk bed in the hostel. As for her roomies—Lord knew what time they’d eventually crept in. They’d both still been fast asleep as of ten minutes ago, one of them lying face-down and fully clothed on top of the bedding. If the girl hadn’t been softly snoring, Jordan would have felt compelled to check that she was breathing.

She lifted her chin. ‘I was referring to the fact that I hadn’t planned on getting manhandled into a car this morning.’

He frowned. ‘You were hurt?’

For a second she was tempted to say yes, just to test his reaction, see if he was capable of demonstrating remorse, but she wasn’t that good a liar. ‘No,’ she said, because the man who’d held her had been strong, but not rough, and the only thing truly smarting was her pride. ‘But that’s beside the point.’

‘Which is...?’

She saw a flicker of movement at one corner of his mouth that looked suspiciously like amusement. ‘My point,’ she said, prising her gaze away from those firm lips, ‘is that this is a rather unorthodox way of meeting. You couldn’t have called me first?’

‘Forgive me,’ he said, but his tone and the eloquent shrug of his broad shoulders gave the impression he didn’t care one way or the other whether she did or not. ‘Given the way you came to my office in person last night, I assumed that you’d prefer face to face.’

What I’d really prefer is to wipe the superior look off your face.

The thought rushed into her head from out of nowhere, and the small surge of churlish pleasure she gained from it was quickly overshadowed by shame. She’d never hit another person in her life—had never been so much as tempted to before now. Perversely, the fact that he’d so effortlessly provoked her into thinking about slapping him only made her feel ten times more annoyed.

She considered explaining that she wouldn’t have turned up at his offices as she had if Lucia hadn’t blocked her calls and denied her an appointment, but she chose not to go there. She hadn’t warmed to the leggy brunette, but she had no desire to get the woman into trouble with her boss.

She sighed. ‘Look, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot—’

‘Which I regret,’ he cut in, his voice growing deeper, more solemn.

She blinked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes,’ he said evenly, ‘and it is something I would like to redress, if you would allow me to.’

And it struck her then—belatedly. She’d been so blindsided, so caught up in her reaction to him, she’d failed to consider the obvious. ‘You believe me,’ she said, not a question but a statement—because why else would he be here? ‘About Camila.’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I believe your late stepmother was my birth mother.’

Emotion more powerful than she’d expected drew her throat tight. She swallowed. ‘I... I’m glad,’ she said, wanting to say more, so much more, but holding back. His demeanour was calm, imperturbable, but she read the tension in his clean-shaven jaw, saw the slight guardedness in his silver-grey eyes.

And she understood. It was a big thing to process. Eventually he’d be ready. He’d want to know more about Camila, and then Jordan would have the opportunity to share her memories. To talk about the warm, generous woman who’d been her stepmom and best friend for half her life.

‘You must allow me to show you some genuine Catalan hospitality,’ he said. ‘I have a villa on the coast where my housekeeper is preparing a guest room for you as we speak. It is yours for the duration of your stay in Barcelona.’

Jordan stared at him in stunned astonishment. Last night he’d greeted her with open suspicion and barely veiled hostility, and now he was inviting her to his home?

For a moment she wondered if she should be suspicious of him.

But why?

He’d candidly expressed his regret and now he’d extended an olive branch. Wouldn’t she do the same? If she’d behaved poorly, regretted the way she’d treated someone, wouldn’t she make an effort to set things right?

She hesitated. Was there any good reason she shouldn’t accept his offer?

You’re attracted to him!

Okay. There was that small, undeniable fact. But what of it? There wouldn’t be a heterosexual woman on the planet who could meet this man and not feel some level of physical attraction. And that was all it was, she assured herself. A hormone-based reaction to a good-looking man at the height of his prime.

Beyond his looks he wasn’t her type, and a man who could have his pick of the world’s most beautiful, sophisticated women wouldn’t be interested in her anyway. Which meant those surges of heat, the pinpricks of awareness she’d experienced last night and again today, were best ignored for a whole host of reasons—not least of which was the preservation of her pride.

She bit the inside of her lip. None of this changed the fact that he was arrogant and presumptuous—as evidenced by having a guest room prepared for her before she’d even accepted his invitation!

But, no matter how impossible it seemed, this man was Camila’s biological son. Did she not owe it to her stepmom to give him another chance?

If she accepted his offer, stayed as a guest in his home, they’d have an opportunity to talk properly—not in his office or the back of a chauffeured car, but somewhere more comfortable and private.

Plus, she still had the letter. His letter, by rights. At some point she’d have to relinquish it.

She released her lip and smiled with genuine gratitude. ‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’

The smile she got in return was no more than a brief lift of one side of his mouth, but his grey eyes gleamed with... She wasn’t sure what, exactly. Satisfaction?

He gave a crisp nod, then raised his left hand to the window beside his shoulder and rapped the backs of his knuckles twice on the tinted glass.

Seconds later, as if by magic, Jordan’s door swung open.

‘Juan will help you with your things,’ he said. ‘I trust it won’t take you long to pack?’

She glanced out, saw the long, trouser-clad legs and polished black boots of the man who’d ‘escorted’ her to the car, then looked back to Xavier. ‘We’re going now?’

His gaze was steady. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Er...no,’ she said after a slight hesitation. ‘I—I guess not...’

She supposed it made sense. The car was already here. And she was travelling light, with a single large backpack, so she wouldn’t need more than a few minutes to gather her things.

The big man with the mountainous shoulders—who seemed no less intimidating even now that she knew his name—waited in the reception area while she went to pack. The Irish girls were still out for the count, so she moved about the room quietly and left a farewell note, saying she was checking out due to a change of plans and she wished them well on their travels.

When she emerged, Juan reached for her backpack. ‘Let me carry it, Senyorita Walsh.’

Although she was more than capable of carrying her own bag, she gave it up without argument. He was under orders, and she suspected even a burly, tough-looking man like Juan would not wish to invite his boss’s displeasure.

‘I just need to settle my account,’ she told him.

‘It is done.’

She frowned. ‘But—’

‘Please come at once, senyorita. Senyor de la Vega does not like to be kept waiting.’

Jordan wasn’t happy about it, but she held her tongue. Arguing with the hired muscle was pointless. She would say something to Xavier, though. She couldn’t allow him to pay her hostel bill. It didn’t matter that she’d prepaid the accommodation and the outstanding charges had just been for a few incidentals. It was the principle that counted. And while she wasn’t one to hold a grudge, neither would she forget in a hurry the stinging assumptions he’d made about her motives. The last thing she wanted to do was give him any reason to cast such aspersions on her again.

But when she got to the car, this time thanking the other man who opened the door, she couldn’t say as much to Xavier because he had his phone pressed to his ear and was conversing with someone in Spanish or Catalan.

She hesitated, wondering if he’d prefer privacy, but he beckoned her in with a perfunctory wave of his hand. Then he continued his conversation as if she wasn’t there.

Which was fine, she told herself as she settled back against the cool leather, carefully arranging her skirt to avoid another incident of indecent exposure. It was Friday, the middle of a working day for him. She could raise the issue of the hostel bill later.

Besides, there was something deliciously indulgent about simply sitting there, listening to that deep, molasses-rich voice of his. His tone was brusque and authoritative, suggesting the call was work-related rather than personal, but still she found his voice utterly mesmerising. And she didn’t have to feel uncomfortable about eavesdropping. Besides the odd word she could translate, she didn’t understand what he was saying.

‘Un moment,’ she heard him say, and translated that in her head: one moment.

Then she heard, ‘Belt up,’ and it took her a few seconds to realise he’d spoken in English. Another few to register his silence.

Suddenly her senses prickled. She jerked her gaze from the view outside her window to the man beside her and found his grey eyes fastened on her intently.

A jolt went through her midsection. ‘I’m sorry—were you speaking to me?’

His eyebrows snapped down. ‘Seatbelt,’ he said, and when she didn’t immediately move he made an impatient sound in his throat, put his phone down between them and reached across her.

Three seconds. That was how long it took for him to pull the belt across her front and secure the latch, yet still her pulse leapt and her breathing fluctuated wildly as she pressed back against the seat. Somehow he avoided touching her—not even a brush of his long fingers against her clothing—but his face came so close she felt the warm stroke of his breath on her collarbone and caught the subtle scents of sandalwood and something citrusy on his skin.

She swallowed—hard—and he must have heard for his gaze settled on her throat, right where she felt the frantic beat of her pulse. His eyes became hooded and for just a second, no more, his gaze dropped, skimming down the front of her white V-necked T-shirt, then up again.

Their eyes locked and something flashed in his, something hot and furious, almost accusing, that she didn’t understand.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back, snapping his gaze away from her as he picked up the phone and resumed his conversation.

Dragging her gaze off his hard profile, Jordan let out a shaky breath. Had she done something wrong? Aside from forgetting to put her seatbelt on?

She glanced down and—Oh...

Oh, no...

Was that what he’d seen? The clear outline of her hardened nipples thrusting like little beacons of desire against her cotton bra and T-shirt?

Heat suffused her face. Mortified, she folded her arms over her breasts.

For heaven’s sake. What was wrong with her? With her body? It wasn’t as if she’d never met an attractive man before. Her ex, with his square jaw, dark blond hair and deep blue eyes, had always drawn more than his share of female attention and probably still did.

But Josh had always had to touch her—intimately—to induce this sort of powerful, conspicuous reaction.

If Xavier could have this effect without even touching her, what would happen if he actually put his hands on her?

She hugged her arms more tightly over her chest. Spontaneous combustion came to mind.

Which was silly as much as it was unsettling. She didn’t even believe in this sort of thing. Not really. Plain old physical attraction she understood, but the much more abstract concept of chemistry...? Not so much.

Whenever she’d heard sex described with words such as explosive and mind-blowing and electric, she’d always dismissed them as exaggeration or pure fiction. Sex with Josh had been enjoyable for the most part, but she didn’t remember ever feeling any lightning strikes of sensation or ‘explosions’ of pleasure. Orgasms for her had been a rather hit and miss affair—secondary to Josh’s release—and on the occasions when she had climaxed it had been satisfying, but hardly a ‘mind-blowing’ event. And, because Josh had seemed to know what he was doing, she’d never imagined there was much more to sex beyond what she’d experienced with him.

Anyway, sexual chemistry was supposed to be a mutual thing, wasn’t it? Whatever she’d glimpsed in Xavier’s eyes had looked more like anger than arousal—or maybe even disgust. Which was mortifying on a whole other level. Clearly he was not attracted to redheads with modest curves and pale skin covered in too many freckles.

That conclusion was enough to douse any lingering heat—for which she was grateful. Who wanted to feel attracted to someone who very obviously didn’t fancy them back?

No, thanks. She’d learned at the tender age of six how much rejection hurt. Twenty years later she knew better than to make herself vulnerable to that kind of pain again. She’d made a mistake with Josh, but she’d been smart enough to realise it and she had been the one to walk away. And although her heart had felt a bit bruised, and she’d shed a few tears, she hadn’t ended up bitter and disillusioned.

She knew that good men existed in the world because her dad had been a gentle, loving man. She simply had to make wiser choices when it came to relationships and men.

Mr Right was out there somewhere.

And he most certainly wasn’t the man sitting beside her.

* * *

Some eight hours later Jordan woke from a nap she hadn’t planned on having. Memory crept in slowly, reminding her where she was, so when she opened her eyes she wasn’t startled by the unfamiliar surroundings.

She sat up on the bed and noted the shallow angle of the sunlight slanting into the room, suggesting the sun had commenced its evening descent. She checked her watch and was startled to find she had slept for well over an hour.

She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. She’d only intended to lie down for a minute or so, just long enough to determine if the ornate iron-framed canopy bed, with its diaphanous white curtains and the thick mattress layered in soft snowy linens, was as comfortable as it looked.

It was.

And she had never slept in anything so luxurious. Or so enormous.

It must have been the sheer comfort combined with the fresh air and exercise she’d enjoyed that afternoon that had sent her off to sleep.

She scooted off the bed, walked barefoot over sumptuous pale carpet to the French doors that led to a private balcony and stepped out to appreciate the magnificent view.

From here she could see the path she’d taken on her solitary walk after lunch, zigzagging down no less than six beautifully landscaped terraces to a white strip of sandy beach at the foot of the hill.

Directly beneath her lay the longest section of the wide natural stone terrace that wrapped around three sides of the villa, complete with an inviting infinity pool and the shaded alfresco area where she’d eaten the scrumptious lunch Rosa had prepared for her—which, aside from the housekeeper’s brief appearances to check everything was okay and to clear away the dishes, had been another solitary affair.

She hadn’t been all that surprised when Xavier had returned to work rather than accompanying her to his villa. Everything she’d read about him painted him as focused and driven, so there were probably very few things that would lure him away from his work responsibilities on a weekday afternoon.

This morning, in the car, he’d only ended his call as they’d pulled up outside the Vega Tower. ‘My housekeeper, Rosa, will greet you at the villa and get you settled in,’ he’d said, his tone impeccably polite, and then he and Juan had got out, leaving just her and the driver.

Jordan would have tried to chat with the man if not for the dark glass partition between them. Instead she’d focused on the scenery as they’d exited the city, her interest sharpening when, after about thirty minutes, they’d started to climb, weaving up and up through large, sloping groves of olive and citrus trees until finally they’d levelled out at a location that offered glorious views across the glittering blue of the Balearic Sea.

Rosa had appeared on the stone steps at the villa’s entrance before they’d even drawn to a stop. The fifty-something housekeeper had a neat salt-and-pepper bob and a broad, welcoming smile, and she hadn’t seemed at all fazed by receiving a house guest at short notice.

She’d shown Jordan her room and given her a tour of the main living areas, all of which were light and spacious and luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen. The grounds were beautiful, too. Outside on one of the upper terraces Rosa had introduced her husband, Alfonso, who worked as the chief groundsman, and their grown-up nephew, Delmar, who was helping his uncle with some landscaping.

The whole place was gorgeous. And tranquil. A home only a billionaire could afford.

Too bad he probably spent more time at work than here, enjoying his amazing home.

Turning away from the stunning view, she went inside and took a shower in the massive en suite bathroom, and afterwards pulled on a pair of navy dress jeans and a short-sleeved white blouse. She hadn’t thought to ask Rosa about the dress code for dinner, and she’d never dined with a billionaire in his home before, so ‘smart casual’ seemed the safest option.

After tying her hair into a loose knot at her nape, she checked the time and decided to make an appearance ten minutes earlier than Rosa had recommended. If her host was a stickler for punctuality she’d rather be early than even a minute late.

The villa was so big she took two wrong turns on her way to the formal dining room before she finally located it. Pausing in the hallway, she touched a hand to her hair, took a deep breath and then walked into the room. Rosa was there and Jordan smiled at her, then shifted her gaze to the long dining table—and the single place-setting at one end.

Before she’d fully processed the implication of that single setting, Rosa said quickly, ‘Ho sento, molt. Senyor de la Vega sends his apologies. He must work late.’

Her heart sank. After all the nervous anticipation, discovering she would be dining alone—again—was a huge let-down.

Seeing Rosa’s anxious expression, however, she made an effort to resurrect her smile and said lightly, ‘That’s okay. Perhaps I’ll catch him later, when he gets home.’

Rosa wrung her hands together. ‘I am afraid he is not coming home tonight.’

She looked at the housekeeper in surprise. ‘He’s staying at work all night?’ she said, yet even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t inconceivable that someone like him would work through the night and into the weekend. He was a workaholic, and workaholics had only one priority.

‘He has an apartment above his office,’ Rosa said. ‘He stays there often. Senyor de la Vega works very hard,’ she added, and Jordan couldn’t tell from Rosa’s tone whether she admired or disapproved of her employer’s work ethic.

She regarded the table again. Despite the fine china and the sparkling crystal, the gleaming cutlery and the beautiful vase of crimson calla lilies, the solitary setting looked rather forlorn at the head of the enormous table.

‘Rosa, would it be all right if I ate outside on the terrace?’

Out there she’d at least have the birds and the crickets for company. And she could gaze out to sea and watch the sun as it sank below the horizon.

The housekeeper smiled. ‘Sí. Of course.’

An hour later Jordan sat on the terrace in the gathering dusk with a full tummy and a glass of white wine, watching the sky turn to lush shades of orange and purple. She could hear laughter and snatches of conversation coming from somewhere nearby. The feminine voice she recognised as Rosa’s; the male voices no doubt belonged to Alfonso and Delmar.

She pictured the trio, enjoying their own alfresco meal, and the sounds of their banter sharpened the sense of isolation that had crept over her in the last hour.

She took a gulp of wine. Was this what Xavier had intended all along? To isolate her?

Suddenly his offer of hospitality didn’t seem quite so munificent.

But why? Was he somehow testing her? Had he left her up here to see what she would do? What did he think she would do? Pocket the silverware? Slip some crystal into her bag? Snatch a priceless painting off the wall and hightail it off the estate before she was found out?

More laughter danced through the still air and she swallowed another mouthful of wine.

She knew this hollow feeling in her chest. It was loneliness. And she refused to let it suck her down into a place of misery. She didn’t do self-pity. Self-pity was a waste of time. She’d learnt that as a child in the wake of her mother’s departure, when she’d realised that crying under the duvet wasn’t going to bring her mother back. She had dried her eyes, got out of bed and focused on the parent she still had. She’d made herself indispensable to her father.

Because if Daddy needed her then he wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t leave her like Mummy had.

Jordan shook off the childhood memories. It was history, and dwelling on the past was just another form of self-pity. The best medicine for the blues was to do something, and with that thought in mind she got to her feet, picked up her wine glass and went in search of the laughter.