Читать книгу The Last Illusion - Diana Hamilton - Страница 5

‘HE WANTS you to do what?’

Greg sounded as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and Charley gripped the receiver more tightly and repeated, ‘Stay put for four weeks. If I do, he’ll agree to the divorce. If I don’t, he won’t.’ She lowered her voice, even though she was alone in the book-lined room Sebastian used as a study. ‘We would have to wait another year before I could even start proceedings. I thought it was worth it,’ she added quickly, although she wasn’t too sure about that.

‘What’s he up to? Does he want a reconciliation?’

Greg’s tone was suspicious, and she couldn’t blame him. But the very idea was laughable, and she assured him, ‘Of course not.’ He had never wanted her, except as a body upon which to get an heir. When he’d claimed that he’d fallen in love with her, almost on sight, he’d been lying. Sebastian Machado was good at lying.

But there was no way she could reassure Greg, because she didn’t know what lay behind her unwanted husband’s stipulation. A downright refusal to agree to a divorce she could have understood and put down to spite. But his promised agreement after four weeks of her company was beyond her comprehension. Something devious and tricky, no doubt...

‘Well, something’s going on,’ Greg said peevishly. ‘When Glenda and I got our divorce there was no trouble. She walked out on me, and as there were no children...’ The word was bitten off and then he asked warily, ‘You don’t have children, do you?’

‘Do you think I’d have kept it from you if I had?’ Charley snapped. If there had been children, then Sebastian would have instigated divorce proceedings himself as soon as the mandatory two years had passed, and made good and sure he got custody—she would have been lucky to get even limited access! And she could understand Greg’s unease about this turn of events, but he had no call to be suspicious where she was concerned!

‘Of course not, darling,’ he soothed. ‘I’m sorry, but the whole thing looks suspect from where I’m standing. Are you sure that living with him again won’t prejudice everything?’

It hadn’t entered her head, and she bit her lip, frowning at the window-panes, which were reflecting the fiery descent of the sun. And she answered slowly, ‘I don’t think so. It isn’t as if I’ll be sharing his bed.’ The very thought of sharing his bed made her whole body clench with a huge, painfully intense spasm which she quickly translated as revulsion, and, gathering herself, she went on quickly, if a little hoarsely, ‘I’ll phone my boss in the morning and explain the need for extra leave.’

‘Dev won’t like it.’ Not any more than he did, Greg’s sharp tone implied, but Charley silently excused him, because the circumstances were exceptional.

‘He’ll manage. There weren’t any problems or upheavals on the horizon, and Dawn’s very competent.’ Dawn was the secretary she shared with Mark Devlin, the manager of the complex, and as she, Charley, had been Dev’s personal assistant for over three years and never once used her full holiday entitlement she couldn’t foresee any great problems where extra leave was concerned.

But it wasn’t going to be her idea of a holiday, she thought as she said her goodbyes to the still disgruntled Greg and replaced the receiver, promising to keep in touch.

Her original intention had been to spend a week in Spain, leaving Cadiz first thing in the morning, having obtained Sebastian’s agreement to a divorce, hiring a car, and taking the rest of the week to say her farewells to this exuberant, flamboyant, passionate yet hauntingly soulful corner of Andalucía.

Instead, she was being forced to squander her leave, staying here as a hostage to Sebastian’s no doubt devious schemes, unable even to enjoy this beautiful city, because she would be on tenterhooks—wouldn’t she just?—watching and waiting for the smallest clue to his diabolical intentions.

Her mood was self-admittedly foul as she walked out of the study into the gloom of the hall. The day was dying quickly, and rather than hang around, kicking her heels, she would run Teresa to earth in the kitchens. At least with her she knew exactly where she was. With Sebastian, she knew nothing!

The housekeeper’s face had lit up with pleasure when she had answered Sebastian’s summons and found Charley waiting, wooden-faced with distaste for the way she was being coerced into staying here. But Teresa’s rapid-fire Spanish, half scolding, half welcome, soon brought a grin to her face as she pleaded in that language, ‘Slow down! I’m rusty—I need more practice!’

‘Then that I will give you—Andrés, too. He is still here—everyone is still here; all is the same as it was. All waiting for you to come home.’

It was only Sebastian’s cool demand that the señora’s room be made ready that stopped the flow, and that only after the stout elderly woman had imparted, ‘All has been in readiness for four years, Don Sebastian, make no mistake. And now, perhaps, we will not see such a high head and such a long face!’

Recalling the look of smothered irritation on the dark devil’s face, Charley relaxed her soft lips reluctantly into a smile. Teresa was no respecter of persons—no matter how exalted they believed themselves to be. In Charley’s year-long experience of her rule, Teresa was never afraid to speak her mind, though she herself doubted if her enforced presence here would make much difference to Sebastian’s ‘high head and long face’! Unless it was a sly smile of satisfaction at having forced her, yet again, to dance to his tune.

Nevertheless, she might do well to emulate the housekeeper’s bluntness where her unwanted husband was concerned. She might even be able to cut him down to size once in a while. Because, although she had given in to his demands on this one occasion, it wouldn’t happen again. Four weeks here, under his roof, was as far as it would go!

She found Teresa in the kitchen, ordering Pilar—the maid-of-all-work—around in stentorian tones, and had her own offer of help rejected in the same decisive manner.

‘The kitchen is not the place for you, señora. Tomorrow I will come to you for your instructions. Have you forgotten all I taught you?’

‘Dare I ever?’ Charley riposted drily, remembering with affection how immediately Teresa had sized up her lack of experience, had thrust her firmly beneath her wing and taught her all she needed to know about running a Spanish household of this size. And now the housekeeper seemed to think she had come back to stay, and at the moment she didn’t have the heart or any real inclination to explain that she was only here for four weeks, and that under duress.

Charley left the room disconsolately, because helping with the preparations for the evening meal would have taken her mind off what she had let herself in for. And not knowing what exactly she had let herself in for, what Sebastian had had in mind when he had made his agreement to a divorce conditional upon her staying here, was going to give her nightmares. Already she had the beginnings of a niggling headache, and she guessed she ought to go to her room and try to relax. She would need to be on top form, have every last one of her wits about her, if she were to hold her own with him over dinner tonight, demonstrate that she wasn’t the feeble push-over she’d been when he’d first met her.

To her quiet amazement she found her way through the passages as if she’d never been away, and laid the palm of her hand on the sumptuously carved door to her room as if she had only walked out of it an hour or so ago.

She had proudly believed that she’d forgotten everything, erased the year of her marriage—and all that had gone with it—right out of her mind. Now she knew that it wasn’t in her power to forget, and quickly, before she panicked and blindly ran from the Casa de las Surtidores and the memories it contained, she pushed the door open and resolutely stepped inside.

The wide, long room was exactly as she had left it, she saw as she flicked the switch down and the lamps in their delicate holders sprang to glittering life along the length of the room.

Everything—the row of tall shuttered windows, the arch of the carved and painted ceiling, the ornate furniture and near-priceless carpet—everything, right down to the crystal vase of the long-stemmed white roses she had always used to pick from the garden to place on the table near the bed.

The lump in her throat made her grit her teeth. It was like stepping back in time, watching the hands of the clock of her life spin relentlessly backwards, like finding a part of herself she had presumed lost.

And she couldn’t bring herself to look at the bed.

They’d had separate rooms, right from the start. She hadn’t been able to understand it at first. It had been the first hurt he had inflicted. The first of many. Transplanted into this vibrant, alien land, surrounded by the undreamt-of elegance and luxury of old and arrogant wealth, by deferential servants whose language she couldn’t understand, swept away from her quiet, studious background, from everything she was familiar with, she had been too unsure of herself to question the sleeping arrangements and had comforted herself by deciding that it must be a Spanish custom.

Of course he had visited her from time to time, his lithe body dominating her between the silken sheets, sweeping her away on an avalanche of rapture she hadn’t known how to handle. But she had slept alone for many long, lonely nights, willing him to come to her, if only to hold her comfortably in his strong arms and sleep at her side, then gradually coming to understand the pattern, recognise how he never came near her when Olivia was in residence.

He hadn’t needed to.

Only when the scalding of tears flooded her eyes did she take a firm grip on herself. This wouldn’t do! Surely she had more self-respect than to weep for the slice of her past she had already consigned to a mental dustbin?

Jerking her chin up, she turned and looked at the bed and made herself see it for what it was: simply a superb piece of furniture, a great, voluptuous four-poster, the carvings depicting a riot of flowers and fruit and improbable cherubs, the whole thing swagged and swathed with fine jade-green silk.

At least she should get a good night’s sleep, she told herself prosaically. If she remembered correctly, it was supremely comfortable. And of course everything remained the same—why shouldn’t it? She doubted if much had been changed since the house had been built!

And as for the white roses—well, Teresa must have remembered how she had enjoyed cutting them herself from the gardens, under Andrés’s watchful yet friendly eyes, how the small task had given her something to do, how she’d enjoyed the way the blooms had perfumed the room, the welcome sight of their pale purity comforting her a little when she emerged from her often bitter dreams.

And someone had deposited her case on the chest at the foot of the bed. Footsteps firm, she walked over and snapped open the catches. She had brought very little with her, just one or two cotton skirts and tops, a serviceable pair of washed-out jeans, a swimsuit and enough changes of underwear to last the week she had allowed herself.

So if Sebastian still dressed for dinner, tough. He would have to put up with her looking like the budget-class tourist she had planned on being, driving around the province, staying at low-cost hostels or restaurants with rooms, saying goodbye to the places she had grown to love, knowing she would never return.

Selecting a gathered skirt in fine black cotton and a sleeveless cream-coloured cotton top, she laid them on the bed and carried the rest of the things over to the cavernous wardrobe, and felt her heart clench with shock as she dragged open the heavy doors.

All the things she had left behind were still here: the silks, glistening satins, the froths of chiffon and the elegant severity of tailored linen and heavy sleek cotton. Charley stared at the expensive garments, her mouth going tight.

Sebastian had been generous with his money; she could never accuse him of stinginess. But then—her mouth went even tighter—being generous when he had enough to keep him in luxury for half a dozen lifetimes was hardly a big deal!

And she had been so lonely at times—lonely for his company—that she had forced herself to make treats for herself, enlisting the help of one of Teresa’s many nieces, Francisca, arranging for her to accompany her to Seville—even Barcelona or Madrid—staying a few nights in luxurious hotels and buying everything in sight. But no matter how much she’d spent, how beautiful the clothes, she had still felt gauche when Olivia had been around.

Olivia had been so beautiful, so svelte and charming, that Charley had felt like a bunchy, overdressed schoolgirl. So she’d given up trying to compete, had stopped spending Sebastian’s money, and had concentrated fiercely on the language lessons she was having, mostly from Andrés as she pottered around with him as he worked in the gardens, but sometimes from Pilar, Teresa or Francisca—whoever could spare her the time.

She hadn’t told Sebastian she was learning his language; that was to be her big surprise. Olivia was able to converse fluently—a necessity, she had once told Charley, her manner vaguely patronising. For although Cadiz had a longer history than any other city in the Western world it didn’t turn itself inside out to attract foreign tourists. Cadiz stayed exactly as it was because that was the way the Gaditanos wanted it, and very few people spoke English. If you wanted to become accepted, do business with them, or socialise, then speaking the language was essential. The Gaditanos were full of defiant independence.

So Charley had beavered away, and as soon as she had been confident enough she had taken the conversational initiative over the dinner-table, sure that her achievement would be applauded, taken as a compliment, by her very own defiantly independent Gaditano.

But she hadn’t properly thought it out. If she had done, she would have waited until Olivia was back in England, stamping around in her role of manager of the UK branch of the Machado import-export company. Because Olivia had raised one perfectly arched brow, her smile slightly withering as she’d commented, ‘Well done. But what a deplorable accent! Who taught you? A gitano?’

Sternly ignoring the sudden ache in the region of her heart, Charley pushed the exquisite clothes as far as she could along the hanging rail to make room for the few bits and pieces she’d brought with her.

This room was having a bad effect on her, bringing back floods of unwanted memories. She was going to have to do something about it.

Beginning with getting rid of all those clothes. If Teresa didn’t know someone who could make use of them, then Pilar or Francisca would. She wouldn’t be using them herself. No way. Besides, she thought with a heartening quirk of her lips, nothing would fit.

Getting her act together wasn’t so difficult, was it? she chided herself. It was an easy matter to push all those unpleasant memories aside. As long as she kept reminding herself that she wasn’t the same person she’d been all those years ago she would manage just fine.

But, coming out of the adjoining bathroom after a refreshing shower, coming face to face with Sebastian, she wasn’t so sure.

A mixture of shock and outrage, coupled with something she couldn’t define, had her frozen, her hands above her head as she rough-dried her hair, her fingers turning to stone in the fluffy folds of the towel she was using. Then the sultry slide of his black eyes released her locked muscles and she whipped the towel down, covering her nakedness.

The gall of the man! The utter, utter gall! Oh, how dared he...?

His eyes swept up to meet her own, and the look in the burning depths made hot colour sweep over every last inch of her skin. She hadn’t blushed for years—not since she had taken charge of her own life—and the fact that this ogre had the power to do that to her made her very angry indeed. And her voice was harsh as she hurled at him, ‘Get out of my room, damn you!’

‘You were not always so unwelcoming, Charlotte.’

The velvet, sexily accented softness of his voice, the way he said her name, his despicable reminder of the way she had been, confused her emotions, jumbling them up until she didn’t know whether she was on her head or her heels, and through that turmoil grew the need to retaliate, to hurt him as he had hurt her. And her voice was thin and acidic, and she clutched the towel against her until her knuckles gleamed whitely, telling him, ‘I didn’t welcome you. I just put up with you. There is a difference.’

‘Mentiras!’ The lithe, powerful body stiffened immediately, his jawline taut with cold aggression as he accused her of lying. He could accuse her, but he could never be sure. The thought was a triumph in itself. She was learning lessons from him and learning them fast. Before she lost the stimulus she manufactured a look of total uninterest and told him coolly, ‘As it’s all well in the past, the subject’s academic, wouldn’t you say?’ She shrugged, taking care not to dislodge the towel by so much as a millimetre. ‘Anyway, what was it you wanted?’

‘Simply to tell you that Teresa will serve dinner in fifteen minutes.’ His voice would have frozen a raging inferno, and the cold breath of his anger touched her, raising goose-bumps. Merely a reaction to the high she’d been on, she told herself, and nothing at all to do with the way he looked.

As if he would like to kill her but wouldn’t demean himself by touching her.

For the first time she noted he was already dressed for dinner, in sleekly fitting black trousers, oyster silk shirt and a superbly cut, colour-toned lightweight dinner-jacket. He was, as ever, spectacular, the icy anger of his wounded Andalucían pride giving a diamond-hard brilliance to his brooding dark male beauty.

It wasn’t outward appearances that counted, she reminded herself, looking quickly away from him, because the merest glimpse of him had always sent her senses haywire. It was what was on the inside that mattered, and inside Sebastian Machado was as rotten as a hundred-year-old egg!

‘You’ve changed your habits,’ she remarked, doing her best to sound offhand, not willing to let him know that being in the same room with him threw up the kind of emotions that were definitely bad for her health. ‘Dinner was never served before ten, and it was more often nearer eleven before we sat down to eat. And I’m not very hungry, anyway.’

‘Hungry or not, you will eat.’ His black eyes glittered into the topaz defiance of hers. ‘The meal was brought forward because you have been travelling for the best part of the day. You must be tired.’

‘How thoughtful!’ Charley made it sound like a sneer. ‘Another change. Thoughtfulness was never one of your strong points, as I recall.’ She would have stalked back into the bathroom, if she’d had the nerve. But she wasn’t too sure about the security of the towel, and she wasn’t at all sure that he wouldn’t stalk right after her and drag her back. No one left the presence unless expressly commanded to do so.

But he merely reiterated, ‘Fifteen minutes,’ and walked out of the room as if he couldn’t bear to be near her for one more moment. And that makes two of us! Charley fulminated, her face going white with temper as she snatched up the skirt and blouse she had put out earlier.

Fully dressed, she didn’t look as if she were about to light any fires. But then that wasn’t the object, was it? And if the features that stared back at her from the mirror were strained and pinched, could it be wondered at?

A heavier hand than normal with the make-up she’d brought with her didn’t make her feel any better, but banished the wrung-out-old-dishcloth look. Got to keep my end up, she rallied herself as she left her room. And so far she was doing fine. If she was keeping score she would give six to one and half a dozen to the other!

Rooting around a bit, she discovered a lavishly arranged table in the smaller, more intimate of the three courtyards that bounded the graceful fortress of the house. In the centre, one of the fountains for which the house was named permeated the soft darkness with the song of water. The Moors, coming from dry lands, had deeply appreciated the gift of water; it refreshed the eyes and ears as much as it refreshed a parched throat. And here, as in many parts of the province, the Moorish influence was strong.

And the night was richly perfumed, an evocative mixture of roses, lilies, rosemary and oleander that went straight to her head, more intoxicating than wine. And added to the music of the water was the rustle of palms from the gardens beyond, and lamps in iron brackets cast a glimmering, magical light, enhancing the quality of soft mystery—merely hinting, never revealing, giving a glimpse of the curving purity of a white rose, heavy with fragrance, drawing a gauzy veil over the half-seen line of a piece of marble statuary...

Charley caught her thoughts and slapped them roughly down. Once, years ago, she would have nearly gone out of her tiny mind at the thought of dining alone with her idolised Sebastian in such a romantic setting. She would happily have licked his boots in adoring gratitude.

But not any more. And when he stepped out from the arcaded shadows she put the wave of pain that tore through her down to a mangled nervous system—brought on, of course, by what he had made her do. For some reprehensible reasons of his own—spawned from that twisted, cruel mind of his—he had forced her to stay here when all she had wanted was his agreement to end formally a marriage that must be as distasteful to him as it was to her.

‘Only two place settings?’ Charley ran light fingers over the white damask cloth that covered the circular table. ‘Olivia not with you at the moment?’ He had already accepted that her physical appearance had changed, and now she had to show him that her whole attitude had changed. She was in control of her life and her destiny, was a fully adult woman and not an overgrown, sheltered child. So to begin with she could show him that she could mention that woman’s name without having hysterics!

He paced towards her and pulled out a chair, an eloquent black brow drifting upwards as he instructed softly, ‘Sit. Olivia has not visited Cadiz, to my knowledge, for a long time. Wine?’

She didn’t believe him, but wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of arguing. In any case, it didn’t matter. The wine he gave her was a wonderfully smooth twelve-year-old Rioja, and even before Sebastian had seated himself opposite, lighting the candle in the centre of the table and slotting the protective glass covering in place, Teresa was with them, a grinning Pilar bringing up the rear, both bearing huge covered dishes.

She was, Charley recognised, being given the works. There were three delicious salads to dip into: pimentos with anchovy, artichoke hearts with tuna, and a Sevillana—lovely crisp lettuce, sweet fresh tomatoes, tarragon, olives and hard-boiled egg. Then came the utterly delicious legacy of the Moors—spinach with almonds and raisins, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. And who would resist Teresa’s sizzling hot giant prawns, cooked in chilli and garlic-flavoured olive oil? Charley couldn’t, though she knew Greg would have frowned on such lavish excess.

The relaxing setting, the superb food and wine—not to mention Teresa’s careful attendance—had helped her to unwind, to forget the vexed question of what she was doing here in the first place and remember that she’d been too uptight to eat any breakfast, or anything on the plane coming over, and only when Teresa and Pilar finally withdrew did she forget the sensual delights of the palate and come back to her senses with a bang.

Subdued, misty lamplight played across the table, on the ivory-toned fabric of Sebastian’s jacket, on the lean, olive-toned fingers as they deftly stripped the peel from an orange, leaving his face shadowy and mysterious. And although she knew that the fruit was far more juicily sweet and delicious than any that could be bought back in England, Charley shook her head and clamped her lips together as he offered her a segment.

Greg would have forty fits if he could see her now. And she wouldn’t blame him. Everything, just everything, was a celebration of the senses: sight, sound, taste and scent, a sybaritic pandering to all that was sensual. It was a setting fit for high romance, certainly not a setting the down-to-earth Greg would have been comfortable with.

But it was nothing but an illusion. Unconsciously, Charley sighed, and Sebastian said harshly, ‘Missing your portly lover, Charlotte? Wishing he were here in my place?’

‘Naturally,’ she came back at once, stiffening her spine defensively. It wasn’t the truth, though.

She missed Greg, of course she did, missed his common-sense attitude and straightforward character. But she couldn’t wish him here. He didn’t go a bundle on illusions. He liked to know what he was getting. A meal like this, in such a setting, would have made him uneasy. He would have preferred a well lit room, two courses of solid English fare—not this relaxed dipping about all over the place—and a decent half-pint of real ale to go with it. That she had—up until now, of course—wholeheartedly enjoyed it all would have annoyed him, because her enjoyment would not have been something he could have shared.

‘Are you in love with him?’

The question was posed with perfect seriousness, but he leaned forward, into the pool of light, and the sultry eyes were mocking. She met them warily, not knowing how to answer. She had been ‘in love’ before, and it had nearly driven her out of her mind. What she felt for Greg in no way resembled the extravagant, profligate passion that had made her a willing slave to this dark devil’s merest glance.

He’d made her an addict, destroyed her self-respect, made her incapable of thinking of anything or anyone but him. So no, what she felt for Greg was nothing like that. And neither did she want it to be! Never again would any man enslave her to such a degrading extent.

But she wasn’t about even to try to explain, to tell him that she had agreed to marry Greg because he would make a good father for the children they both wanted to have some day, because he was steady and sensible and he respected her, and allowed her to respect herself, and would never, ever try to overwhelm her. He wouldn’t know how to begin. So she said baldly, ‘None of your business. The only thing that need concern us is the ending of our marriage.’ She finished the wine in her glass, congratulating herself on putting him in his place. And, just to let him know that he needn’t think he’d got the upper hand just because she’d agreed to stay, she pronounced airily, ‘I might decide to leave in the morning. I could always file for a legal separation.’

‘Which would take twelve months, leaving you no better off than you are now—without my formal agreement to a divorce,’ he pointed out drily. ‘Besides, I wouldn’t bother if I were you. You’re no more in love with your accountant than I am.’ He refilled her glass, right to the brim, and she knotted her brows at him.

‘Clairvoyant, are you? How can you possibly know what I feel—?’

‘I know far more than you give me credit for, mi esposa.’ His voice had the cutting edge of steel. ‘You may wonder what you are doing here, why I should allow you within miles of my home. Let me tell you...’ Lean fingers beat softly against white damask. ‘You once accused me of a deed so shameful that I vowed to have revenge, to make you, too, taste the kind of pain that turns the soul to iron. That is why I had you watched, had your every movement reported back to me.’

Silenced, Charley stared into the glowing darkness of his eyes, her mouth going dry. Revenge was a hateful word, walking down the years, biding its time, waiting for the right, the most devastating opportunity. Was that why she was here now, neatly trapped in this elegant, sumptuous web?

And she had walked right into it. But she wasn’t afraid. Why should she be? He could do nothing to her except make her wait for another year before she could be completely rid of him.

Her eyes never wavering, she gave a tiny shrug and twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers. ‘Bully-boy tactics don’t suit you, Sebastian.’ Then she took the fight right back to him. ‘I accused you of two shameful deeds, or had you forgotten? Which one of the two made you throw your money away on the expense of having me watched? Killing your own brother, or carrying on your affair with Olivia after we were married?’

He ignored her taunts, merely watched her. His half-hooded eyes boring into hers as if he could reach right into her soul, his fingers stilled now, lamplight playing on those darkly beautiful features, making a shifting, unreadable mask of them, a mask she suddenly ached to tear away with frenzied fingers.

She was beginning to shake inside. He alone could make her do that. But she wasn’t going to let him have that effect on her. She wouldn’t tolerate it. She lifted her glass to her lips and swallowed, and reminded him coldly, ‘If you recall, you didn’t refute either accusation. Because you couldn’t?’ If, at the time, he had even attempted to, she would have been only too happy to listen, pathetically eager to believe whatever he said, even then, even after Olivia had told her the truth. She had been bewitched by him.

But he had said nothing, not a single word to defend himself against either accusation.

‘Did I need to?’ Inflexible Gaditano pride spiked every syllable, and his eyes were coldly expressionless as he leaned back into the shadows. ‘I think the fact that you came here in person, instead of putting your request through a solicitor, speaks for itself.’ His velvet voice dropped, softening hypnotically, sending shivers down her spine. ‘Had you really believed me capable of the shameful deed of murder, you would not have come near me—let alone agreed to stay with me. That tells me you didn’t believe, even then.’ White teeth gleamed suddenly against the shadowy darkness of his face. ‘Therefore, what really sent you scurrying away, back to England, where you mistakenly thought you could forget me, was the belief that I went to Olivia’s bed. You were too much of a child then to cope with that kind of jealousy, to think it through.’

He stood up, pushing back his chair, looking pagan in the drifting, shadowy lamplight. ‘You are a child no longer; the appeal is still there, but enhanced by excitement. You have become an opponent worthy of my steel. Is that not so?’

He came nearer and she stood up quickly, willing the shakiness out of her legs, managing a commendably wobble-free voice as she pushed her chin in the air and argued, ‘We have nothing to fight about, not any more,’ absolutely unprepared for his softly spoken,

‘Surely you see the battle that emerges? But don’t be afraid—it will reach a successful conclusion.’ A lean hand cupped her elbow as he escorted her inside. ‘May I suggest that you give some thought to what I have said? It would ensure that victory comes more quickly. I grow impatient, querida. I have waited too long. However...’ His shrug was almost too graceful to be borne. ‘Some women, like some wines, take longer than others to mature. It is a process that can’t be hurried, yet the results are worth waiting for.’