Читать книгу In Name Only - Diana Hamilton - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

‘PERHAPS the warmth of the Andalusian sun will unfreeze your vocal cords,’ Campuzano tendered with a derisory narrowing of smoky grey eyes.

Stepping out of the small airport building ahead of him, Cathy had to admit that his remark was justified. Her thoughts had been too clamorous, too spiced with anxiety, to allow her to do more than offer monosyllabic mutters in return for his conversational overtures, until he had given up, relaxing into his club-class seat, apparently falling asleep with total ease.

His ability to switch off completely was something she envied. She had spent the entire two and a half hours of the flight in an excess of agitation, misgivings and self-recrimination. Thankfully, the baby had slept in her arms since take-off at Gatwick, but he was now beginning to stir. She lifted him gently against her shoulder and Campuzano offered, ‘Let me take him. He is heavy.’

‘No.’

Unconsciously Cathy’s arms tightened around the small body, every fibre of her being on the defensive, and Campuzano said softly, his dark voice a confident near-whisper, ‘As you like. But I wouldn’t put money on how soon you will gladly hand over the burden of his care. I never bet on certainties.’

A remark which was almost totally justified by the lies she had allowed him to believe, she thought sickly, although it hardly excused his lack of basic politeness, and she closed her eyes briefly against the glare of the midday sun, the deep and improbable blue of the sky. Spring in England this year had been unusually cold and wet, and the intense warmth of the Spanish sun, even in early May, sent a reactionary shudder through her, not relaxing her one little bit. And Campuzano said, his voice aloof now, ‘You are tired. Tomás should be here with the car at any moment.’ And, as if his words had the instant power of command, a large black Mercedes drew up in front of them and, at the flick of imperious fingers, the airport official who had rushed to take charge of the luggage—mostly Johnny’s—pushed the trolley forward with a self-important bustle.

How arrogant he was, she thought wearily. A flick of his fingers was enough to have everyone around rushing to please. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, and if the occasion ever arose when he didn’t get instant gratification his initial reaction would be, she guessed, total amazement. Followed by swift and terrifying anger.

Well, she was about to amaze him, wasn’t she? He wanted Johnny—or Juan, as he insisted on calling him. He wanted, and intended to get, total control where his nephew was concerned. And that he would never have, she vowed staunchly.

Ever since Cordy had made it plain that she had no time for the child, she, Cathy, had taken the good-as-motherless scrap straight to her heart. She had done everything for him, and gladly, even giving up her job as an illustrator with the advertising agency she’d worked at since leaving college so that she could be with the baby day and night. So no, this time Javier Campuzano was not going to have things all his own way.

That she had had no option, in the circumstances, other than to fall in with his commands that she bring the child to Jerez was something she wasn’t going to think too deeply about. She preferred to look on the few weeks she had agreed to spend here as an opportunity to demonstrate just what a caring, responsible mother she was. Javier Campuzano would probably remain stubbornly blinkered in that respect, but surely she would find an ally in the baby’s grandmother? A mother herself, she would understand that Johnny’s place was with her, in England, that devoted maternal love weighed more heavily than all the material advantages of the Campuzano dynasty.

The airport official and the swarthy, stockily built uniformed chauffeur, Tomás, had finished stowing the luggage in the boot of the car and now held the rear door open. Cathy, her heart down in her shoes, stepped unwillingly forward. Every day since the Jerezano had appeared on her doorstep had seen the steady, inexorable erosion of her desired position, and getting into this car now seemed to signify the closing of the door to her past hopes and intentions.

Sliding into the air-conditioned coolness, Cathy told herself not to be a fool and settled the baby more comfortably on her lap. Somehow she would find a way out of the mess she was in. Then she flinched as Campuzano got in beside her. Automatically her body tensed. He was too close, overpoweringly so. She caught the downward drift of his smoky eyes, the scornful, mocking curl of his sensual mouth, and knew he had registered her reaction. And she told herself that the way she tensed up whenever he was near had everything to do with the threat he posed to her rights over Johnny and nothing whatsoever to do with all that unforced masculine magnetism.

Very aware of the powerful male thigh so close to her own, and knowing that he would undoubtedly construe further silence on her part as immature sulkiness, she asked stiltedly, ‘Are we far from Jerez?’

It would soon be time for Johnny’s feed, and he needed changing, and Campuzano noted the tiny anxious frown between her violet eyes and answered drily as the car moved smoothly away from the airport, ‘A mere seven kilometres. And it is pronounced Hereth. However, you must wait in patience to enjoy the luxuries of my town house. We shall be staying at the finca for the first few days.’

‘And how far is that, whatever it is?’ She spoke more snappishly than was wise, aggrieved because he had automatically assumed that her anxiety to reach their destination sprang from her desire to sample the lifestyle of the rich and powerful. Was that how he had viewed her complete capitulation a mere twenty-four hours after he had delivered his initial ultimatum?

‘“It” is the land, the vineyard, the house. And there we shall stay, for the time being.’ His haughty expression did nothing to disguise his implacable will. ‘And it is roughly nine kilometres from the airport in the opposite direction from Jerez.’ His voice dropped, very silky, very smooth. ‘But since you have assured me that you no longer crave a hectic social life, the isolation shouldn’t trouble you.’

Had she been who she had said she was—Cordelia Soames, model, sybarite and scalp-hunter—then the isolation would have bothered her to the point of screaming. As she was merely sister Cathy, two years older in years but aeons younger in experience, it didn’t bother her a scrap, and what she had to do was convince his high-and-mightiness that she, in her role as Cordy, had completely changed.

Johnny was growing fractious, fists and feet punching the air, and Cathy said sweetly, ‘You can hold him now,’ and passed him over, earning herself a glance of pleased surprise, then turned to look out of the window, hiding her own wicked smile, because Señor Javier Campuzano was just about to discover how difficult it was to keep control of a strong, eighteen-pound baby who was determined to wriggle, not to mention the havoc a leaking nappy could wreak on a pair of expensively trousered knees!

‘I am looking forward to meeting your mother,’ she pronounced with the truth born of hope, injecting a liberal sweetness as she added, ‘Is her English as good as yours?’ She kept her gaze on the sun-drenched, rolling low hills which rose above the widely sweeping coastal plain, but, puzzled, her eyes were drawn back to him, unprepared for the rich vein of amusement in his voice.

‘Almost. But the pleasure will have to be postponed for a while. She rarely visits the finca, preferring the house in Jerez.’

And that wiped the smile from her face. The sooner she made contact with Johnny’s grandmother, the sooner she would find an ally to stand at her side against the man who was, moment by moment, reinforcing his position as her enemy. And what was almost as disappointing was the way he positively seemed to enjoy handling the lively baby, not one scrap put out by the way the tiny fists were creating havoc in the soft darkness of his expensively styled hair or by the ominous damp patches on those immaculately trousered knees!

Damn him! she muttered inside her head. Why couldn’t he have left well alone? She and Johnny had been doing just fine until he had poked his arrogant nose into their affairs. The adoption would have eventually gone through, she just knew it would, despite the warning Molly had given her.

Molly Armstrong had been appointed guardian ad litem—a large and ponderous title for such a tiny, bubbly lady, Cathy had always thought—and, out of the many visits she’d made to compile her reports before the courts could consider the granting of an adoption order, a warm and friendly relationship had been born. And it had been Molly she’d phoned in a panic after Campuzano had left that first evening, and Molly, bless her, had made time for her in her busy schedule, appearing on the doorstep at nine the following morning, just as she’d finished giving the baby his bath.

‘You’ve got problems?’ Molly had said, taking the sturdy, towel-wrapped baby on her knee while Cathy had disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee. ‘So tell me about them. Slowly. Don’t gabble as you did down the phone last night.’

So over their drinks Cathy had told her, guiltily missing out the fact that she had lied, had allowed Javier Campuzano to believe she was Johnny’s mother. She didn’t feel easy about what she had done, but that erroneous belief had to strengthen her case where he was concerned. If he ever discovered that Johnny’s real mother had walked out on him he would leave nothing undone—not a single thing—until he had legal and total control over his nephew.

‘You and Senor Campuzano are both related to Johnny in the same degree,’ Molly said, her neat head tipped on one side. ‘Naturally, he could apply for an order to give him the right to see the child regularly, to exercise some control over his future upbringing and welfare.’

Which was precisely what Campuzano had said, but Cathy knew, she just knew, he wanted complete and total control. And she had no doubt at all that he would move heaven and earth to get it if he ever discovered that Johnny’s real mother had walked out, preferring the glamour and excitement of a modelling career to the hard work of bringing up a child. So, ‘And if the baby were still with his real mother?’ Cathy asked, hoping she didn’t look as hot and guilty as she felt. ‘Would his father’s family still have rights?’

‘Well, I have warned you,’ Molly answered, her smile sympathetic, ‘that the adoption order might not go through, despite the natural mother saying she wanted nothing more to do with the child. The courts could take the view that, following the birth, she is suffering some kind of hormonal imbalance and could change her mind at a later stage. Only time will tell, of course, and, in the interim, you could be given a residence order with parental responsibility.’ She was taking the question at face value, in view of the warnings she’d already given, and that made Cathy feel more devious than ever, her long hair falling forward, hiding her uncomfortable face as she dressed the baby. And Molly was telling her, ‘And yes, the father’s family would still have rights; a child needs the care and love of all its family.’ Which was not at all what Cathy had wanted to hear.

And because of that she had had to back down, to agree to come to Spain. All she had to do now was convince the not-to-be-convinced that she was a responsible, loving mother.

She was in her own thoughts. Her mouth took a grim line and, made aware that he was looking at her, saying something, she shrugged half-heartedly. ‘Sorry?’

‘We are almost there. You can see the house from here.’ The emphatic patience of his tone told her he was repeating himself. And then, with an edge of steel, ‘I would have thought you would be eager to see where your child will be spending most of his boyhood.’

Unforgivable. Untrue. He was trying to make her believe that Johnny’s future was already settled. She refused to dignify his taunt by making any comment. Casting a dismissive glance at the low white building perched on top of a rounded hill overlooking the vineyards, the rows of newly leafing vines curving around the hillsides in perfect symmetry, Cathy hunched one shoulder in a negligent shrug. She utterly refused to be impressed.

Johnny didn’t need vineyards, or anything else Campuzano could give him. He needed love, and cherishing, and she could give him that in abundance. Unfortunately, the Spaniard seemed to be offering just that. The sternly arrogant features were relaxed, irradiated with intensely tender pleasure as he bounced the squealing baby on his knee.

Jealousy, white and piercing and utterly unpleasant, darkened her eyes, and her voice was thin and sharp as she instinctively reached for the child.

‘Do you want to make him sick?’ she asked, and was immediately, humiliatingly ashamed of herself, hardly able to contain her relief when the Mercedes swept through a wide arch in a long white wall and came to a well-bred halt in a courtyard that billowed with scarlet geraniums in huge terracotta pots.

However, for all her shame, she refused to hand Johnny over as Campuzano held the car door open, managing with unsteady defiance to lever herself to her feet, feeling the heat of the sun-baked cobbles burn through the soles of her sensible low-heeled shoes.

Seen at close quarters, the house was impressive: low and sprawling with thick, white-painted walls and a sturdy double-storey square tower at one end. The arcaded front elevation seemed to offer a cool refuge from the sun, with the harsh contrasts of the white walls, the deep blue of the sky, the vibrant, living colour of the purple bougainvillaea, all those spicescented scarlet geraniums.

Cathy closed her eyes on a wave of homesickness, overpowered as much by the personality, the lithe strength, the sheer untamed grace of the Spaniard as by the almost bludgeoning vitality of his native Andalusia.

Transplanted from the soft greens and greys and blues of a reluctant English spring, she felt suddenly that the enormity of having to do battle with Javier Campuzano on his own territory was beyond her.

But, despite her quiet temperament, she was a fighter, she reminded herself. She would not simply give in, as the Spaniard was so obviously convinced she would. Straightening her drooping shoulders, she produced a hopefully imperious tone.

‘Show me where I can feed and change the baby. He needs to be out of this sun.’ Out of her need to hold her own she had managed to make it sound as though the vibrant energy of the Andalusian heat were in some obscure way obscene, and the eyes that challenged him were glinting with a purple spark of defiance.

‘Of course.’ He was clearly unimpressed by her attitude, and the lowering black bar of his brows put an edge on the courtesy of his smooth reply. He said something rapid in Spanish to Tomás, who was already extracting the luggage from the car. And the hand that gripped her elbow, steering her over the cobbles, wasn’t gentle at all and she tugged distractedly away, shocked by the electrifying sensation produced by the hard pads of his lean fingers against her skin.

‘Ahhh! El niño!’

A short, amazingly stout woman emerged from the arcaded shadows at a trot, black-clad arms extended, her wrinkled face wreathed with smiles, her attention all for the wide-eyed Johnny, the merest dip of her still glossy dark head for Cathy herself.

Admiring baby-talk had a universal language all of its own, Cathy learned as Johnny’s chubby solemn face quickly dissolved in a smile of heart-wrenching brilliance, little arms held out to the newest member of his fan club. And before Cathy could catch her breath the baby was expertly whisked out of her arms and was carried away, chortling perfidiously, into the cool shade of the house.

‘He will be perfectly safe,’ Campuzano said with a taunting smile that set her teeth on edge. ‘I’m sorry Paquita didn’t stay long enough to be introduced, but you must excuse her lapse of manners—the Spaniard’s love of children is legendary.’

‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ Cathy sniped. How could she get through to him, make him understand that she wouldn’t be taken over, and, more importantly, wouldn’t allow her baby to be, either?

He had moved infinitesimally closer and the harsh light of the sun illuminated the grainy texture of his tanned skin, the darker shadowing of his hard jawline, the golden tips of the black fan of the lashes that lowered in an unsuccessful attempt to hide the gleam of satisfaction in the smoky depths of his eyes.

Cathy’s breath caught in her throat, an unborn sob, half frustration, half something else entirely—something she couldn’t put a name to—choking her. And she looked away quickly, her soft lips drawn back against her teeth as she reiterated edgily, ‘I told you—he needs to be fed and changed. He’s not a plaything; he’s—’

‘I know precisely what he is.’ His voice was a lash of rebuke. ‘He is my nephew. And Paquita knows exactly what she’s doing. She and Tomás, besides keeping house for me here, have brought up nine children of their own to lusty maturity.’

‘Bully for them!’ Cathy snapped with a cold curl of her lips. She knew what he was up to. She was to be relegated to the status of a spare wheel, a punctured one at that. The taking-over of the child had begun and all Campuzano had to do was wait until she grew bored enough to take herself off, back to her former glitzy career—or so he thought.

And her heated suppositions were proved entirely correct when he extended a slight smile—one that didn’t touch his beautiful, cynical eyes—and offered, ‘I will show you to your room. We dine at nine—I’m sure you can occupy yourself somehow until then.’

He moved towards the house, the effortless, almost unbelievable male arrogance and grace of his easy, long-legged stride making her hate him. Anger took her by the throat and her eyes were smouldering with resentment as she caught up with him, demanding, ‘You can show me where that—that woman has taken my child. Looking after him will keep me occupied.’ She wasn’t about to be pushed into the background of Johnny’s life. That wasn’t the reason she had agreed to come to Spain, and the sooner he understood that, the better.

But he looked at her coldly, the ice in his eyes taking her breath away as he warned harshly, ‘Be careful, señorita. I don’t like your attitude any more than I like your morals. Paquita’s position in my household demands respect. See that she gets it, and mind your manners. Come.’

Bristling with temper, Cathy followed stiff-leggedly into the house. She was aware of space and airiness, of white walls and cool, tiled floors, but of nothing much else until he paused before a plain cedarwood door, gave her a cursory dip of his handsome head, and said smoothly, ‘Your room. Rosa, Paquita’s youngest daughter, will come for you at nine to show you to the dining-room. I suggest you relax and try to mend your temper.’

He turned on his heels and was gone, leaving the memory of a definitely feral smile, leaving her even more incensed at his high-handed treatment of her. Pushing the door open, her lips tight, she scowled into the silent, beautiful room, noted that the cases she had brought from England were stacked at the foot of a handsomely carved fruitwood bed, and closed the door again, leaning against it briefly as she glanced up and down the long corridor.

Every last one of the million and one things that a baby needed were packed in those cases. Which meant that Paquita couldn’t be attending to his now urgent needs but probably tossing him like a cuddly football around her own multitudinous offspring, displaying the newest member of the oh, so dominant Campuzano family to an admiring audience. But admiration didn’t satisfy hunger pangs or change wet nappies!

Determined to rescue him if it was the last thing she did, Cathy set off down the corridor, her chin at a pugnacious angle, opening each and every door. The arrogant Spaniard was going to have to learn that he couldn’t, as of divine right, have everything his own way.

The three other bedrooms she glanced into were as beautiful and as silent as her own and, after the corridor angled, she found the communal living-rooms, places to eat, relax. And one study full of highly technical data and communications systems.

And then the kitchen, which must be the ground floor of the two-storey tower, because a curved wooden staircase led up from among the quietly humming electrical equipment which gleamed against the whitewashed stone walls. She spared a reluctant thought for the nice mix of ancient and modern, the great stone chimney breast, the terracotta-tiled floors and lovingly polished carved dressers, before her eyes narrowed to glinting purple slits as she heard the unmistakable sound of crooning Spanish baby-talk coming from the room above.

So! She had tracked Johnny down, as she had known she eventually would. And this was where Paquita learned that she couldn’t snatch the baby out of her arms and carry him off to play with him without so much as a ‘May I?’ while Campuzano stood by, gloating, that look of satisfaction on his hard, impossibly arrogant features!

Anger, fuelled by the fiercely protective mothering instinct that had hit her the moment it had become clear that Cordy regarded the new-born baby as little more than a pawn in the game she’d been playing, drove her up the stairs like a miniature whirlwind. But her rapid pace faltered almost as soon as she’d gained the upper room. Fitted out as a nursery, it contained everything a baby could need, and there was even a single bed alongside the capacious, comfortable crib. And far from being tossed around like a human football, Johnny was safely tucked into the arms of an exceedingly pretty girl of around eighteen years of age, a blissful expression on his chubby face as he sucked his bottle.

He had been changed and was wearing a romper she had never seen before, the all-in-one garment a soft blue cotton that had to be more suitable for this climate than anything she had brought with her. And the tiny fingers of one plump hand were entwined in the soft dark curls of the girl who was nursing him, she noted with a wrench. Johnny always played dreamily with her own long blonde locks as she fed him, part of the bonding process.

‘Mama comes!’ The hugely stout Paquita was hovering, her face wreathed in smiles, her rich voice soothing as she met Cathy’s hurt, bewildered eyes. ‘Mi hija—Rosa, mi hija. Inglés not so good. Rosa good. All children educado! Muy bueno!’

‘Mama is proud that all her children speak some English. Some better than others.’ Rosa’s tone was gentle but her smile was brilliant, her voice attractively accented as she turned her attention to Cathy. ‘Baby Juan has had his oatmeal; that is right, yes? And when Don Javier telephoned his instructions for what would be needed he told us the brand of the milk formula you used.’ The teat was eased from the little drowsy mouth and Rosa expertly lifted the sleepy baby on to her shoulder.

‘Let me.’ Cathy stepped forward, taking the child, her loving arms enfolding him. She had no doubt that Javier Campuzano had planned every last tiny detail. Those cool eyes had missed nothing on his many visits to her London flat before they had left for Spain, while his clever brain had already determined that legal custody of his nephew was already as good as his—whether the means of obtaining it were fair or foul.

Cathy shivered as a deep, instinctive fear put ice in her veins, and Rosa got up from the nursing chair, gathering the empty bottle, the oatmeal bowl, asking, ‘You are pleased with the nursery? I shall sleep here with him. I will look after him well, I promise.’

None of this was Rosa’s fault, so Cathy swallowed the impulse to snap, The hell you will! and took her time over tucking the baby in his crib.

Her first instinctive impulse had been to demand that everything in the nursery be transported to her bedroom. Right now! But this room was ideal; the long windows set in the thick stone walls admitted sunlight and fresh air, and their louvred shutters could be closed during the heat of the day. It was handy for the kitchen, too, where she could make up his formula, store the day’s supply of bottles in the fridge, mix his oatmeal and purée his vegetables. It would be neither sensible nor practical to insist on such a move. So, straightening, casting the baby a fond, lingering glance, she turned to Rosa.

‘I will be looking after Johnny myself. He can take his daytime rests in here, but I shall have him in my room at night. We can carry the crib through after his evening bath and feed.’ Then, seeing the utter desolation chase surprise out of the dark Spanish eyes, Cathy made the only compromise she was willing to consider. ‘If I need to be out for any reason I’ll be happy to leave him in your care.’ Which didn’t do much to lessen the look of hurt disappointment, and made her add, ‘He should sleep for at least two hours now, but I’d be grateful if you’d keep an eye on him while I unpack.’

That she would need to leave the baby in Rosa’s obviously capable hands some time in the near future was in no doubt, Cathy told herself as she stowed her belongings away in the capacious cupboards and drawers. If Johnny’s grandmother didn’t show up at the finca within the next few days, then she would have to go to Jerez and find her. Campuzano would have to learn that she couldn’t be kept here in isolation, a virtual prisoner, separated for most of the time from the child they were tacitly fighting over.

Carrying the crib down to her room later that evening restored Cathy’s confidence in her ability to hold her own with the overwhelming Jerezano. Rosa helped, and as they positioned the crib at the side of the big carved bed the Spanish girl said, ‘Don Javier asked me to show you to the dining-room.’ She consulted her watch. ‘In one hour’s time. And while you eat I will look in on the baby now and then.’

‘I found the dining-room when I was looking for the nursery,’ Cathy returned with a grin, placing the now sleeping child in the crib and covering him with a soft woollen blanket. ‘But I’ll be easier if you check on him, thanks.’ She had taken to the Spanish girl on sight and Johnny responded to her well; the three of them had spent a happy hour and a half, enjoying bath-time, feed-time and playtime, with Paquita puffing up the stairs to join in the fun. So if Johnny woke while she was closeted in the dining-room with Campuzano he would be reassured by a familiar face.

Not that she was looking forward to dining with Johnny’s uncle, of course. The odd, fluttery sensation deep inside her was due to apprehension about the way he would receive the ground rules she was determined to lay down, she assured herself as she stepped out of the shower in the cool green marble en-suite bathroom. He could turn awkward, she acknowledged. A strand of cruelty was woven into his proud Andalusian character, she just knew it. He would not be an easy man to cross.

Suppressing the inching, quivering feeling of alarm, Cathy dressed quickly in the simple, sleeveless black crêpe shift she had already laid out, and braided her long blonde hair. The minimum of make-up and she was ready, ten minutes early. A pity, that. Counting off the seconds to the coming confrontation could only put her already jangling nerves even more on edge.

Meeting her wide violet eyes in the mirror, she made a conscious effort to ease away the tiny frown line between her arching brows, and wondered again how Javier Campuzano could have mistaken her for Cordy.

At five feet seven, they shared the same height, and both had fine, clear skin and blonde hair to shoulder-blade length. But there, as far as Cathy was concerned, the resemblance ended. Cordy’s blue eyes were more sapphire than violet, her cheekbones far more pronounced, her nose longer and slightly aquiline, giving her features far more sophistication than Cathy’s. And whereas Cordy’s figure was model-girl-svelte, truly elegant, Cathy’s curves were far more generous—positively earthy, she sometimes felt.

But then he would no doubt put the weight gain down to recent motherhood, and he had admitted he’d only stayed at the party for a very short time. And she hadn’t put him right, had she?

She wasn’t at all easy about the deception; in fact if she thought about it for too long she ended up feeling definitely ill! But she’d had no option and would keep up the pretence to the bitter end, because if he ever found out that she was merely Johnny’s aunt, that his real mother had done a bunk, then he would take control of the baby and make sure there was nothing she could do about it.

But it wouldn’t come to that. She would lie until she was blue in the face if she had to. And on that positive—if reprehensible—thought she stiffened her spine and strode forth to do battle with the man who was her enemy.