Читать книгу His Forbidden Passion - Anne Mather - Страница 8

CLEO buttoned the neckline of her leather jacket and wrapped a blue and green striped scarf around her collar.

There was no point in pretending she wasn’t going to be frozen sitting watching a rugby football match. Despite Eric’s promise that they’d be protected by the roof of the stands, there wouldn’t be any heating at all.

Why had she agreed to go with him? she wondered. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to get the wrong impression about their relationship. He was a good friend; a good neighbour. But that was all.

The truth was that since Serena Montoya’s visit, she’d spent every evening on edge, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Although it was three days now since that encounter at the supermarket, she couldn’t believe the woman wouldn’t try to see her again. An evening out, even at a rugby match with Eric Morgan, was better than staying in on her own.

Norah had a date. She wouldn’t be home until much later, whereas Cleo’s job as an infant-school teacher meant she was home most afternoons by five o’clock.

After stepping into short sheepskin-lined boots, she considered the beanie lying on the table beside her. What the woollen hat lacked in style, it more than made up for in warmth and comfort.

But, on the other hand, she didn’t want Eric to think she was a wimp. And wearing a woolly hat was strictly for the birds. All the same…

With a muffled exclamation, she picked up the beanie and jammed it onto her head. She could always say she’d worn it to keep her hair tidy, she thought, viewing her reflection in the mirror without satisfaction. It wasn’t easy to keep the tumbled mass of silky dark hair in check. It was long enough to wear in a braid, but she’d caught it up in a ponytail this evening.

At least no one could say she looked beautiful at present. Quite the contrary, she’d decided firmly. But then she grimaced. She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about what the Montoya woman had said, so where had that come from?

When the doorbell rang at half-past six, she felt none of the apprehension she’d experienced in recent days when anyone came to the apartment. It just meant Eric was a few minutes early, and, as he only lived in the apartment upstairs, he didn’t have far to come.

‘Hang on,’ she called, snatching up her purse and her mobile phone and stuffing them into her pockets. Then, pulling the door open, she carolled, ‘See! I am rea—’

But it wasn’t Eric.

In fact it wasn’t anyone she knew and she felt a moment’s panic. Strange men just didn’t come calling this late in the day. Particularly not tall, dark men, with deep-set eyes and hollow cheek bones, and the kind of dangerous good looks that seldom went with a caring disposition.

He wasn’t a particularly handsome man. His features were too harsh, too masculine, to be described in such modest terms. Nevertheless, he was disturbingly attractive. He disturbed her in a way she recognised as being wholly sexual. And that was not good.

‘Um…’ Her voice failed her for a moment and she saw his eyes—green eyes, she observed—narrow perceptively. Then, clearing her throat, she continued tightly, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so.’

His voice was as smooth as molasses and twice as sensual. Cleo’s stomach plunged alarmingly. She wasn’t used to having this kind of reaction to a man and she struggled to compose herself.

He had to be looking for Norah, she thought, though her friend had never mentioned meeting anyone like him. One thing was for sure: she’d never seen him before.

‘You must be Cleopatra,’ he went on, supporting himself with one hand raised against the jamb, and she stiffened.

His action had caused the sides of his dark cashmere overcoat to fall open to reveal an Italian-made suit that had probably cost more than Cleo made in a year at her job. A matching waistcoat was buttoned over a dark blue shirt that looked as if it was made of silk, dark trousers cut lovingly to reveal muscled thighs and long, powerful legs.

Even without the name he’d used causing her a shiver of apprehension, his appearance alone sent a frisson of awareness feathering down her spine.

No one she knew called her Cleopatra. No one except Serena Montoya, of course. Dear heaven, this man must be something to do with her.

‘Who—who are you?’ she got out uneasily, suddenly conscious of her less than glamorous appearance. Snatching off the beanie, she thrust it into her pocket. ‘I—I was just going out.’

‘I had sort of gathered that,’ remarked the man, faint amusement tugging at the corners of his lean mouth. ‘I guess I’ve come at a bad time.’

Cleo pressed her lips together for a moment and then said, ‘If—if Ms Montoya sent you, there wouldn’t be a good time.’ And let him make what he liked of that.

The man’s hand dropped from the frame of the door and he straightened. ‘I have to assume you didn’t like Serena,’ he commented drily, and Cleo made a sound of impatience.

‘I neither like nor dislike her,’ she said, not altogether honestly. ‘And my name’s Cleo. Not Cleopatra.’

‘Ah.’ He glanced up and down the hall before looking at her again. ‘Well, Cleo—whether you like it or not, sooner or later we have to talk.’

‘Why?’

‘I think you know the answer to that as well as I do,’ he replied levelly.

‘Because some old man says I’m his son’s daughter?’ demanded Cleo tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘Not just because my grandfather says it’s so—’

‘Your grandfather?’ Cleo felt as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted a little. ‘You—you’re Ms Montoya’s son?’

He laughed then, his lips parting to reveal a row of even white teeth. What else? thought Cleo irritably. The man was far too sure of himself.

Then he sobered, his grin totally disarming her. ‘No,’ he said, and she didn’t know why she wasn’t relieved by his explanation. ‘My name is Dominic Montoya. Serena’s my aunt.’

Cleo swallowed. ‘I see,’ she said. But what did that mean?

‘She’s yours, too,’ he added, unsteadying her still further. ‘Robert was my father, as well.’

Cleo couldn’t speak. This man was her brother? She didn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.

‘That’s impossible,’ she managed at last, and he pulled a wry face.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the way it is.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Get used to it.’

‘It can’t be true—’

‘Cleo?’

She had never been more relieved to hear Eric Morgan’s voice. The young man from the apartment on the floor above was coming down the stairs just along the hall from her door.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asked, coming to join them, and Cleo could tell from his tone that he’d heard at least some of what they’d been saying.

His eyes flickered suspiciously over the man standing by her door, but Cleo had to admit his words had more bluster than substance. In his navy duffel coat and club scarf, Eric was at least half a foot shorter than Dominic Montoya, and in any physical contest she doubted he’d stand a chance. Nevertheless…

‘It’s fine, Eric,’ she said now, grateful for his concern. She gestured towards her visitor. ‘Mr Montoya was just leaving.’

Dominic knew a momentary sense of irritation. Serena had been right, he thought impatiently. Cleopatra—Cleo—whatever she called herself, was arrogant. And stubborn. It would serve her right if he and his aunt abandoned the whole business.

But she was labouring under a misapprehension if she thought his grandfather would give up. Jacob Montoya was not that kind of man.

‘Are you ready, Cleo?’

The little man was annoying, inserting himself between them as if he had a right to be there, and Dominic had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from making a foolish mistake. If he wanted to speak to her again, he had to keep this civil. But the temptation to blow them both off was incredibly appealing.

‘OK,’ he said now, taking a step back from the door, his eyes holding hers with a narrowed insistence. ‘Enjoy your evening—uh—Cleo. We’ll talk again, when you have more time.’

He strode away, descending the stairs without a backward glance, and Cleo expelled a breath that was neither relieved nor convincing. She’d wanted him to go, she told herself. So why did she feel this sense of frustration? Why did she care that she’d been less than polite?

‘You OK, Cleo?’

Eric was obviously aware that something wasn’t quite right, but Cleo was in no mood to explain things to him now.

‘Just a misunderstanding,’ she said, pulling out her woolly hat again and putting it on. ‘Shall we go?’

‘But who was that man?’ Eric asked, as she turned out the light and locked her door. ‘Does he work for the education authority?’

As if, thought Cleo bitterly, and then wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to pass Dominic Montoya off as someone she’d met at work.

But no, she was no good at lying. ‘He’s not important,’ she said, starting down the stairs so that Eric was compelled to follow her. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain. I haven’t brought an umbrella.’

Cleo noticed the car as soon as she came out of school the following afternoon.

It was already getting dark. A slight drizzle was falling and the huge black SUV idling at the kerb just outside the playground entrance did look slightly sinister.

The children had long gone, so she knew she didn’t have to worry about infant predators. Just an adult one, perhaps, with his quarry already in his sights.

Putting up her umbrella, she angled it so that she couldn’t see the SUV any more and, stepping onto the pavement, turned determinedly towards the bus stop. She’d timed her exit to coincide with the bus’s timetable. A woman alone didn’t linger long in this area, particularly after dark.

The SUV was facing in the opposite direction, so she reckoned that if her bus was on time she ought to be able to board it before the car turned round.

But she hadn’t accounted for the fact that the vehicle might simply use its reverse gear. And the road was quiet enough, so it presented no danger.

Even so, the main thoroughfare frequented by the city’s buses was just ahead and she quickened her pace. She didn’t want to run, even though every nerve in her body was urging her to do so.

Then the car stopped just ahead of her, the driver’s door was pushed open and a man got out. A tall man, wearing jeans and a sports jacket over a black T-shirt. He was at once familiar and unfamiliar, and Cleo found she was clutching her shoulder bag to her chest, as if for protection.

‘Hi,’ he said, apparently indifferent to the weather, rain sparkling on his dark hair in the light from the street lamp. He came round the bonnet of the car to block her path. ‘I’m sorry. Did I scare you?’

Cleo expelled a nervous breath. ‘No. Why would you think that?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘I’m often stalked by strange men after school.’

Dominic sighed. ‘I wasn’t stalking you.’

‘What would you call it, then?’

‘I was waiting for you,’ he said mildly. ‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift home.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘Dammit, I know it’s not necessary!’ exclaimed Dominic tersely. He blew out a breath, calming himself. ‘OK. What would you rather do? Go to a pub and have a drink? Or come back to the hotel and speak to Serena? It’s all the same to me.’

‘And what if I don’t want to do any of those things?’ Cleo asked, aware that the words sounded childish even to her ears.

‘Oh, please…’ Dominic counted to five before continuing, ‘This isn’t going to go away, Cleo. Your grandfather has terminal cancer. Do you want him to go to his grave knowing his only granddaughter was too stubborn—or too proud—to admit that she might be wrong?’

Cleo met his gaze defiantly for a moment, and then she looked away. ‘No,’ she mumbled reluctantly.

‘So what’s it to be?’

‘What do you mean?’ She was wary.

‘Your place, a bar, or the hotel? It’s your call.’ Dominic glanced about him. ‘Make up your mind. I’m getting wet.’ Cleo hesitated.

If she took him back to the apartment, there was a risk that Norah might come home early. And so far she hadn’t had a chance to tell her friend about his visit the night before.

But equally, she had no desire to go to his hotel room. What if Serena wasn’t there? That troubled her, too, more than she wanted to admit.

‘Um—perhaps we could have a drink,’ she murmured at last, and Dominic breathed a sigh of relief.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘where? Is there somewhere near here?’

‘No, not here,’ said Cleo quickly, and Dominic arched a quizzical brow.

‘No?’

‘You wouldn’t like any of the pubs around here,’ Cleo assured him firmly, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder again, almost poking him in the eye with her umbrella as she did so.

But she didn’t want to have to explain to any of her colleagues, who might be lurking in the saloon bar of the King’s Head, what she was doing having a drink with a—well, sexy stranger, who was evidently far out of her usual sphere of escorts.

‘Where, then?’

He sounded impatient and Cleo licked dry lips before saying awkwardly, ‘There’s a hotel at the next crossroads. Could we go there?’

‘You tell me.’ Dominic swung open the passenger-side door. ‘D’you want to get in?’

‘Oh—yes. Thanks.’ Cleo closed her umbrella without causing any more damage and climbed into the front of the car.

It smelled deliciously of warmth and leather, and when Dominic got in beside her she detected his shaving lotion also. It wasn’t obvious; just pleasantly subtle. But it created an intimacy around them that caused Cleo to shift a little nervously in her seat.

‘Is something wrong?’

Dominic had noticed and was looking her way now. Cleo managed a convulsive shake of her head.

‘Just getting comfortable,’ she murmured, far too aware of the taut fabric moulding his thigh just inches from her own.

She endeavoured to concentrate on the vehicle. It was superbly sprung, superbly comfortable, and Cleo was half sorry she was only going to enjoy it for such a short time. But perhaps it was just as well. She was far too aware of the man beside her.

Her brother!

But no. There had to be some other explanation. A surreptitious glance in Dominic’s direction assured her that they were nothing alike. They were both dark-haired, of course, but so were at least a third of the population. And he owed the colour of his skin to the heat of a Caribbean sun, whereas she—

‘Is this the place you meant?’

She’d hardly been aware of them moving, let alone that he’d driven in the right direction and was now slowing for the turn into the grounds of the hotel she’d mentioned.

‘Oh—yes,’ she said, recovering herself with an effort. ‘I—er—I can’t stay long. I’ve got a lot of marking to do tonight.’

Dominic didn’t make any comment. Instead, he pulled into a parking bay, shoved open his door again and thrust long legs out of the car. Cleo hurriedly followed suit and he slammed her door behind her, pressing the fob to lock the vehicle.

Cleo had only been in the hotel once before and that had been on the occasion of a friend’s wedding. The reception had been held in the conference room and she remembered lots of seafood, vol-au-vents and cheap champagne.

On reflection, she thought perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest place to bring a man like Dominic Montoya. He was bound to think it was seedy and not up to his usual standard.

In fact, the lobby was encouraging. Someone had placed a large tub of late chrysanthemums on a table in the middle of the floor, and the signs indicating the various public rooms of the hotel were well-lit.

‘Shall we go into the cocktail bar?’ she asked, with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I imagine we can get tea or coffee in there.’

‘Tea or coffee?’ Dominic’s lips twitched. ‘Well, yeah, if that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’ Cleo spoke firmly. ‘I don’t drink, Mr Montoya.’

She started across the floor and to her relief he accompanied her. But she couldn’t help being aware of the speculative glances they were attracting from female staff and patrons alike. They were probably wondering what a hunk like him was doing with someone like her, she thought ruefully.

Even in casual clothes, Dominic Montoya exuded an air of power and authority that was hard to ignore. Whereas she, in a dark green sweater, khaki trousers and an orange parka jacket felt—and probably looked—as if she was out of her depth.

Thankfully, the cocktail bar was almost empty at this hour of the afternoon. They had their choice of tables and Cleo chose one that was both clearly visible from the bar and near the exit.

A waitress came at once to take their order, not turning a hair when Dominic requested coffee for two.

‘Is that OK with you?’ he asked, taking the armchair opposite. ‘I can’t say I’m a great fan of tea myself.’

‘Coffee’s fine,’ agreed Cleo tensely. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hey, no problem,’ he responded, picking up a coaster and flicking it absently between his fingers. Long brown fingers, Cleo noticed unwillingly. ‘So…’ He arched his brows enquiringly. ‘Have you thought any more about what I told you?’

Cleo hunched her shoulders. ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it,’ she admitted. She’d literally thought about little else, unfortunately.

‘And?’

‘And I don’t see how what you say can be true,’ she offered carefully.

‘Why not?’

‘Um—’ She moistened dry lips before continuing, ‘If you and I are supposed to be—brother and sister, we don’t look much alike, do we?’

Now, why had she chosen that particular item out of all the things he and his aunt had told her to question first? She was pathetic!

‘Well, that’s easily explained.’ Dominic lay back in his chair, steepling his fingers and regarding her over them with lazy green eyes. ‘I was adopted. Your father’s wife couldn’t have any children.’

‘Will you stop calling him my father?’ exclaimed Cleo fiercely, even while the relief she felt was zinging through her veins. He wasn’t her brother.

But then, what did it matter? She probably wasn’t his adopted sister either.

Probably?

The waitress arrived with the coffee and the few minutes she took unloading her tray gave Cleo time to think. What was she supposed to make of his answer? That his wife’s inability to give him a child was why Robert Montoya had had an affair with Celeste Dubois?

It annoyed her that the woman’s name sprang so easily to mind. She’d only heard it mentioned a couple of times and yet it felt as if it was emblazoned on her soul.

The waitress poured the coffee, and offered cream and sugar. Cleo accepted, but her companion declined. Then the young woman departed again, but not without a calculated backward glance at Dominic. Which he didn’t return, Cleo noted, annoyed at herself for doing so.

Dominic tasted his coffee and then pulled a face. ‘When will the English learn to brew a decent cup?’ he demanded, shaking his head. He intercepted the look she cast him and gave a rueful grin. ‘I bet you could do better than this.’

‘I doubt it.’ Cleo wasn’t prepared to be cajoled into an invitation. She put down her cup. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you think the Novaks aren’t my real parents?’