Читать книгу Passionate Protection - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 6

‘HONESTLY, JESS, I don’t know what that family of yours would do without you,’ Colin Weaver told his assistant with a wry smile. ‘Well, what is it this time? Has your aunt locked herself out again, or your uncle forgotten to collect his new cheque book?’

‘Neither,’ Jessica Forbes told him, hiding her own smile. It was true that her aunt and uncle did tend to ring her at work for assistance every time there was a family crisis, but they weren’t really used to the hectic pace of the modern-day commercial world—Uncle Frank, for instance, still lived in a pre-war daydream fostered by the leisurely pace of life in the small market town legal practice he had inherited from his father, and Aunt Alice wasn’t much better; nervous, dithery, she was given to complaining in bewilderment that life had changed so much, she barely recognised it anymore, and as for Isabel! Jessica sighed; the problems dumped on her by her eighteen-year-old cousin made those of her aunt and uncle seem mere nothings.

‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry for criticising your beloved family,’ Colin apologised with a wry smile. ‘I suppose I’m just jealous really,’ he admitted plaintively. ‘Would you drop everything and come running for me if I locked myself out?’

‘It wouldn’t do any good if I did,’ Jessica pointed out with a grin. ‘You live in a penthouse apartment, my aunt and uncle live in a rambling old vicarage with a pantry window that simply won’t close, but which neither of them can fit through, whereas yours truly …’

‘Umm, I’m beginning to get the point,’ Colin agreed, glancing appreciatively over her slender five-foot-eight frame, ‘but that doesn’t stop me from wishing they would stop depriving me of your valuable assistance.’

‘I have to go this time—it’s Isabel.’ Jessica frowned, chewing the soft fullness of her bottom lip, dark eyebrows drawn together in a worried frown. The problem was that her aunt and uncle had been slipping gently into middle age when Isabel had arrived unexpectedly on the scene and neither of them had ever totally recovered from the shock.

‘Oh, Isabel,’ Colin said grimly. ‘That girl’s lethal,’ he added with a grimace. ‘I remember when you brought her here …’

‘Here’ was his exclusive London salon where he showed the alluring ranges of separates that bore his name. Jessica had worked for him ever since she left art school. She loved her job as his assistant, and if he needed mollycoddling occasionally, he more than made up for his lapses when they were over. In Jessica’s view there was no one to match him in the design of separates. His secret, he had told her on more than one occasion, lay as much in the careful choice of fabric as the style the materials were eventually made up in. ‘Couture Classics’ were how Vogue described them, and Jessica reckoned there could be few wealthy women in Britain aspiring to the well-dressed lists who didn’t have something of his in their wardrobe. For some clients he designed individual ranges, but it was, as Jessica knew, his great dream to take his designs and elegance into the high streets at prices every woman could afford.

‘She is a little immature,’ Jessica agreed, repressing a sigh at the thought of her cousin—pretty, headstrong Isabel, who reminded her of a frisky lamb, throwing herself headlong into whatever came her way on a momentary whim.

‘She’s exactly two years younger than you were when you first came to work for me,’ Colin reminded her a little grimly. ‘You all keep that girl wrapped up in too much cotton wool, Jess, you spoil her, and she laps it up. What were you doing at eighteen? I bet you weren’t still living at home, financed by Mummy and Daddy?’

‘No,’ Jessica agreed sombrely. Her parents had died three months before her eighteenth birthday. They had been killed in a car crash on their way home from visiting friends. She could still remember Uncle Frank trying to break the news; Aunt Alice’s white face. They had offered her a home, of course, but by then she had her career planned, first art school and then, she hoped, a job in fashion design, and so instead she had used some of the money left to her by her parents and had bought herself a small flat in London, but she had stayed in close contact with her aunt and uncle; after all, they were the only family she had left, and as she grew older the ties between them had strengthened. Family came to mean a lot when there was so little of it left.

Isabel had been a little girl of ten at the time of the accident, too young to remember very much about Jessica’s parents, and somehow Jessica had found that as the years went by she was called upon to mediate between impatient youth and dismayed late middle age in the storms that swept the household as Isabel grew into her teens, Isabel urging her to support her on the one hand, while her parents were pleading with Jessica to ‘make Isabel realise’ on the other.

The plan was that Isabel would go on to university after leaving school, but in the sixth form she had suddenly decided that she was tired of studying, that she didn’t want a career at all, and so at eighteen she was working in her father’s office, and complaining bitterly to Jessica about it whenever they met.

‘I wanted to talk to you about our visit to Spain as well,’ Colin said sulkily, interrupting her train of thought. Jessica gave him a teasing smile. At forty-eight he could sometimes display all the very worst characteristics of a little boy in the middle of a tantrum, and he was not above doing so to make her feel guilty or get her attention when he felt the need arise. Jessica excused him on the grounds that he was a first-rate designer and an excellent employer, flexible and with sufficient faith in her ability to make her job interesting. The Fabric Fair was something he had been dangling in front of her for several months. Initially he had planned to go alone, and then he had suggested that she should go with him. He heard by word of mouth about a Spanish firm who had discovered a series of new dyes for natural fibres, and that the results were stunningly spectacular. Their fabrics were sold only to the most exclusive firms, and Jessica knew that Colin was angling for an introduction to their Managing Director.

‘I don’t know whether I’ll be able to go,’ Jessica frowned, hiding a sudden shaft of amusement as his manner changed from smug satisfaction to anxious concern.

‘Not that damn family of yours again!’ he protested. ‘This time you’ll have to tell them to do without you. I need you, Jess,’ he told her plaintively.

‘Very well, but no more unkind comments about Isabel,’ she reprimanded him severely. ‘I know she’s a little headstrong …’

‘Headstrong! Stubborn as a mule would be a better description, but I can see nothing I have to say is going to have any effect on you, so you may as well finish early tonight.’

COLIN REALLY was a love, Jessica reflected fondly an hour later, opening the door to her flat. They had an excellent working relationship, and if she sometimes chafed against his avuncular manner it was a small price to pay for working with such a talented and experienced man. There was no one to follow him in the business, and he had already mentioned that he might be prepared to offer her a partnership if things went well. They would make a good team, he had told her, and Jessica agreed. In spite of his experience, he would always listen to her suggestions, and often adopted them.

She grimaced at her reflection as she caught sight of it in the mirror. She had hurried away from the office without combing her hair or renewing her lipstick, and both looked untidy; her lipstick because she constantly nibbled on her lower lip, and her hair from running impatient fingers through its sable length.

Without doubt her hair was her greatest asset, in her eyes; long, thick and glossy, it fell smoothly past her shoulders in a gentle bell. Sometimes she twisted it into an elegant chignon, on those days when Colin wanted her to meet clients and she wanted to create the right impression. One of the bonuses of working for a well-known designer was the fact that she got most of her clothes at cost; another was that her lissom shape and long legs were ideally suited to the subtle tweeds, silks and linens Colin preferred to use.

‘I do love seeing my clothes on a real woman,’ he had told her once, appreciatively. ‘Models are caricatures of the female species, clothes-horses, the complete antitheses of the heavy county types who buy from me, but you … You might have been made for them,’ he had told her.

Isabel laughed about her cousin’s employer. ‘An old woman’ was how she referred to him, and while it had traces of truth, Jessica chided her. Colin was shrewd and extremely talented, and while he might not be as charismatic as many of the men Jessica came into contact with, he was genuine, with a genuine love for his chosen career.

Another thing Isabel derided was Jessica’s own fastidious reluctance to indulge in what she was pleased to term ‘fun’.

‘Fun’ to Isabel encompassed a wholly idealistic impression of what it was like living alone in London. In Jessica’s place there was no end to the ‘fun’ she might have, but unlike Jessica, who was footloose and fancy-free, she was tied to the boring old parents, and dull Merton with its farmers and relaxed pace of life.

After one or two attempts to correct her misapprehensions Jessica had acknowledged that her cousin had no intention of letting herself be disillusioned, and besides Jessica’s ‘freedom’ was a useful tool to wield against her parents when rebellion stirred. It had struck Jessica more than once lately that her aunt and uncle were beginning to look tired. Uncle Frank was talking about retiring, and Jessica sensed that in some ways it would be a relief to them when Isabel eventually married and someone else took on the responsibility of their rebellious daughter. But so far Isabel had shown no signs of wanting to marry, and why should she? Jessica reflected. In her opinion eighteen was far too young—or perhaps that was just one of the penalties of still being single at twenty-six; one became super-cautious of marriage, of the risks and dangers involved in making such an enormous commitment to another human being, and demanding so much from them in return.

Jessica was aware that Isabel had a far lighter approach to life than she did herself and would consequently probably have a much easier ride through life. She sighed, and chided herself for getting old and cynical as she showered quickly, barely sparing the briefest glance at the slender length of her body before draping it in a towel and padding into her bedroom.

Jeans and a T-shirt would suffice for the drive down to her aunt and uncle’s, and she pulled them on quickly, zipping up the jeans before brushing her hair with a swift economy of movement. Her skin was good, thank goodness, and she rarely used much make-up; less when she was ‘off duty’. Her eyes were a tawny gold—an unusual combination with the satin sable hair, oval and faintly Oriental, even if she did lack Isabel’s pretty pouting beauty.

It was just after eight-thirty when she turned her small car into the familiar road leading to the Vicarage. She frowned as she remembered her aunt’s tearful telephone call. What on earth had Isabel done this time?

Silence greeted her as she stopped the car and climbed out. Nine o’clock was normally supper time, so she walked round to the back of the house, knowing she would find her aunt in the kitchen.

Alice James gave a small start, followed by a relieved smile as she saw her niece, enveloping her in a warm hug.

‘Jess! You made it—oh, I hoped you would! We’ve been so worried!’

‘Is Belle here?’ Jessica asked her, pulling a stool out from under the kitchen table and perching comfortably on it. She knew from old how long it took to drag a story out of her aunt.

‘No. She’s out, with … with John Wellington, he’s the young partner your uncle’s taken on. Belle seems pretty keen on him.’

‘And that’s a problem?’ Jessica enquired humorously, correctly reading the note of doubt in her aunt’s voice. ‘I thought this was what you’d been praying for for the last couple of years—that she’d find someone safe and steady and settle down.’ She was still at a loss to understand the reason for her aunt’s concern. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted for her? A nice safe marriage?’ she prompted again.

‘Everything we wanted for her,’ her aunt confirmed. ‘And now it’s all going to be spoiled, because of that wretched holiday!’

‘Holiday? What holiday?’ Jessica asked, a frown creasing her forehead.

‘Oh, it was several weeks ago. She wanted to go to Spain with a girlfriend. John didn’t want her to go—he’s quite jealous—but you know what she’s like. The very fact that he didn’t only seemed to make her keener. Anyway, she went, and it was while she was there that it happened.’

‘What happened?’ Jessica asked patiently, quelling her rising dismay, her mind alive to all the fates that could befall a girl like her cousin, bent only on ‘having a good time’.

‘She got herself engaged—well, almost,’ her aunt amended. ‘To some Spanish boy she met over there. They’ve been writing to one another—none of us knew a thing about it, until she showed me his last letter. Jessica, what on earth are we going to do? She’s as good as promised to marry John, and if he finds out about this …’

‘Why should he?’ Jessica asked practically, mentally cursing Isabel. Trust her to have two men dangling; she was all for the competitive spirit, Jessica acknowledged wryly. ‘All she has to do is to write to this Spanish boy and simply tell him that it’s over.’ Privately she was surprised that Isabel’s Spaniard had bothered to write; most of them made a hobby out of ‘falling in love’ with pretty tourists.

‘She daren’t. She’s terrified that he’ll come over here to find out what’s happening, and then what on earth will she tell John?’

If Isabel didn’t feel able to tell John the plain truth now, it didn’t bode well for their marriage, was Jessica’s private opinion, but she refrained from voicing it, practically deciding that her aunt’s obvious distress was what needed her attention right now.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she soothed her. ‘It will all be all right.’

‘Oh, Jess, I knew you’d be able to sort it all out,’ her aunt confided, promptly bursting into tears. ‘I told Isabel you’d help.’

Jessica spread her hands ruefully. ‘Of course, but I don’t see what I can do …’

‘Why, go to Spain, of course,’ her aunt announced as though she were talking about a trip to the nearest town. ‘You must go and see him, Jess, and explain that Isabel can’t marry him.’

‘Go to Spain?’ Jessica stared at her. ‘But, Aunt …’

‘You were going anyway,’ her aunt said hurriedly, avoiding her eyes, ‘and you can speak Spanish, Jessica, you can explain to him in his own tongue, soften the blow a little. Think what it would do to Isabel if he were to come here. She genuinely cares for John, and I think he has the strength she needs.’ She sighed. ‘I sometimes think your uncle and I should have been stricter with her, but …’ she broke off as the kitchen door suddenly burst open and a small, fair-haired girl hurried in. She stopped dead as she reached the table.

‘Jess!’ she exclaimed joyfully. ‘Oh, you’ve come—thank goodness! Has Mum told you …’

‘That you’re being pursued by an ardent suitor? Yes,’ Jessica told her cousin dryly. ‘Honestly, Belle …’

‘I really thought I loved him,’ Isabel began defensively. ‘He was so different from John, and it was all so romantic … Oh, there’s no need to look like that!’ She stamped her foot as Jessica raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘It’s different for you, Jess, you’d never get involved in anything like that, you’re so sensible, so unromantic, but me …’

Jessica winced a little as her cousin’s unthinking comment found its mark. How often had she heard that comment ‘You’re so unromantic’? Every time she refused to go to bed with her escort? Every time she refused to get involved? And yet she had always thought secretly that she was too romantic; that her ideals were too high.

‘You’re really sure then about John?’ Jessica questioned her cousin later in the evening when they were both preparing for bed.

‘As sure as I’m ever likely to be,’ Isabel told her with a rare flash of honesty. ‘But it will spoil everything if Jorge decides to come over here to find out why I’ve stopped writing to him. You will go and see him, won’t you, Jess?’ she appealed. ‘I don’t think I could bear it if I lost John!’

There were tears in her eyes, and unwillingly Jessica felt herself giving way. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to try and see this boy while she was in Spain; even perhaps add a few days to the trip to make sure she did see him, although she was quite convinced that it was highly unlikely that he would turn up in England.

‘But you don’t understand,’ Isabel wailed when she pointed this out to her. ‘We were practically engaged. He will come over, Jess, I know he will!’ She practically wrung her hands together in her fear, and Jessica, feeling immeasurably more than only eight years her senior, sighed.

‘Well, I’ll go and see him then, but honestly, Belle, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily.’

‘YOU MEAN to tell me you actually agreed to go and see this impetuous Romeo on your cousin’s behalf?’ Colin expostulated three days later when she explained to him that she would like to add a couple of extra days’ holiday to their trip to Spain. ‘Can’t she do her own dirty work?’

‘Not in this case,’ Jessica assured him, quickly outlining the facts. ‘And of course, I do speak Spanish.’

In actual fact she spoke several foreign languages. They were her hobby and she seemed to have a flair for them.

‘Well, I can see that nothing I can say is going to cure you of this protective attitude towards your family,’ Colin admitted. ‘All I can say is—thank goodness I don’t have one!’

‘And my extra days’ holiday?’

‘They’re yours,’ he agreed. ‘Although I’d much rather see you spend them on yourself than squander them on young Isabel. She’s a leech, Jess, and she’ll suck you dry if you let her. You must see that, so why?’

‘She’s family,’ Jessica said simply. ‘She and my aunt and uncle are all I have left.’

Often she had wondered after her parents’ shocking deaths if the accident had somehow not only robbed her of her mother and father, but her ability to love as well, because ever since then she had held the world at a distance, almost as though she was afraid of letting people get too close to her; afraid that she might come to depend on them and that she would ultimately lose them.

SEVILLE WAS a city that appealed strongly to the senses. Jessica fell in love with it almost from the moment she stepped off the plane into the benevolent spring sunshine. Madrid was more properly the home of Spanish commerce, and Jessica had been there on several previous occasions, but Seville was new territory to her.

Initially she had been surprised when Isabel told her that Jorge lived in Seville; she had expected to find him somewhere on the Costa Brava, but Isabel had told her that Jorge had been holidaying like herself at the time they met.

Colin, running true to form, had insisted on her staying at the hotel the extra few days at his expense, and although Jessica had demurred, he had insisted, and in the end she had given way. Knowing Colin, the hotel he would have chosen would be far more luxurious than anything she could have afforded, and this supposition was proved correct when her taxi drew up outside an impressive Baroque building.

Her fluent Spanish brought a swift smile to the face of the girl behind the reception desk, and in no time at all she was stepping out of the lift behind the porter carrying her case and waiting while he unlocked the door to her room.

The hotel had obviously once been a huge private house, and had been converted tastefully and carefully. Jessica’s room had views over the city; the furniture, although reproduction, was beautifully made and totally in keeping with the age and character of the room. There was a bathroom off it, rather more opulent than she would have expected in the hotel’s British equivalent, a swift reminder that this part of the world had once been ruled by the Moors, who had left behind them a love of luxury and a sensuality that had been passed down through the generations.

Once she had unpacked Jessica went down to the foyer, where she had seen some guidebooks and maps on sale. The evening meal, as she was already aware, was the all-important meal in the Spanish home, and she wanted to make sure that her visit to Jorge did not clash with this.

As she had suspected, the receptionist was able to confirm that in Seville it was the general rule to eat later in the evening—normally about ten o’clock—which gave her the remainder of the afternoon and the early evening to make her visit, Jessica decided.

She had already formulated a plan of action. First she intended to discover if Jorge’s family were listed in the telephone directory. If they were she would telephone and ask when she might call, if not she would simply have to call unannounced.

She lunched lightly in the hotel’s restaurant—soup, followed by prawn salad, and then went up to her room to study the telephone directory. There were several Calvadores listed in the book, but none under Jorge’s address, and Jessica was forced to the reluctant conclusion that she would simply have to call unannounced.

A call to the reception desk organised a taxi to take her to her destination. She showered and changed into soft jade green silk separates, from Colin’s new range; a pleated skirt that swirled softly round her legs and a blouson top with full sleeves caught up in tight cuffs. The colour suited her, Jessica knew, and to complement it she brushed toning jade eye shadow over her lids, thickening and darkening her lashes discreetly with mascara.

Soft kid sandals of jade, blue and cerise completed her outfit. It was warm enough for her to be able to dispense with a jacket, and she was just flicking a comb through the silken length of her hair when her phone buzzed and the receptionist announced that her taxi had arrived.

Because she spoke Spanish so well, Jessica had no qualms about giving the driver instructions herself, but she began to wonder if, after all, she had made some mistake, when they drove into what was obviously a very luxurious and exclusive part of the city. Imposing buildings lined the streets, here and there an iron grille giving a tantalising view of the gardens beyond. Fretworked balconies and shutters lured the eye, but Jessica was left with an overall impression of solitude and privacy strictly guarded, so that it was almost as though the buildings themselves seemed to resent her intrusion.

At last the taxi stopped, and rather hesitantly she asked him if he could return for her in half an hour. That surely would give her sufficient time to explain the situation to Jorge? She only prayed that he was in!

Quickly checking the address Isabel had written down on the scrap of paper she had given her, she climbed unsteadily out of the car and glanced hesitantly at the imposing frontage of the building. There was no need for her to feel nervous, she reassured herself; the building, impressive though its outward appearance was, probably housed dozens of small apartments. However, when she reached the top of the small flight of stone steps there was simply one bell. She pressed it and heard the faint ringing somewhere deep in the recesses of the building. An aeon seemed to pass before she heard sounds of movement behind the large studded door.

Honestly, it was almost like something out of a horror movie! she reflected as the door swung back, creaking on its hinges.

The man who stood there had ‘upper-class servant’ stamped all over his impassive countenance. He looked disapprovingly at Jessica for several seconds and appeared to be on the point of closing the door in her face when she babbled quickly, ‘My name is Jessica James and I’ve come to see Señor Calvadores. Is he at home?’

The man seemed to consider her for an age before grudgingly opening the door wide enough for her to step into a hallway large enough to hold her entire flat. The floor was tiled with the famous azulejo tiles, so beautiful that she almost caught her breath in pleasure. If only Colin could see these! The colours were fantastic, shading from softest blue to a rich deep azure.

‘If the señorita will please wait,’ the manservant murmured, opening another door and indicating that Jessica was to precede him into the room. Like the hall, it was enormous, furnished in what she felt sure must be priceless antiques. Whoever Jorge was, he quite obviously was not a poor man, she reflected, gazing in awe at her surroundings.

‘Señorita James?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I will see if el Señor Conde can see you.’

‘El Señor Conde!’ Jessica stared after his departing back. Isabel had said nothing to her about a title. What was the matter with her? she asked herself sardonically several seconds later; surely she wasn’t impressed by something as outmoded as an inherited title? She, who had always despised those who fawned on the county and titled set, because of who they were rather than what they were!

She was lost in a deep study of a portrait above the fireplace—a Spanish don of the seventeenth century if she was any judge, formidable and with a magnetism that refused to be confined to the canvas—when she heard footsteps outside the door, firmer and far more decisive than the manservant’s. She felt herself tense. Now that the moment was almost upon her she felt ridiculously nervous. What on earth was she going to say? How could she simply say baldly that Isabel no longer wanted him; and that in fact he was an embarrassment to her, now that she was on the verge of becoming engaged to another man.

The door opened and the man who stood there took her breath away. Her first impression was that he was impossibly arrogant, standing there staring down the length of his aristocratic nose at her, his lean jaw tensing, as though he was controlling a fierce anger. Ice-cold grey eyes flicked disparagingly over her, the aquiline profile inclining slightly in an acknowledgement of her presence, which was more of an insult than a courtesy.

He was tall, far taller than she had expected, his hair dark, sleek as ravens’ feathers, and worn slightly long, curling over the pure silk collar of a shirt she was sure had been handmade especially for him.

Everything about this man whispered discreetly of wealth and prestige, and never in a million years could Jessica imagine him holidaying on the Costa Brava and indulging in a holiday romance with her cousin.

For one thing, he must be almost twice Isabel’s age—certainly in his early thirties—and nothing about him suggested the type of man who needed the admiration of a very young girl to boost his ego. This man did not need any woman; his very stance suggested an arrogant pride which would never admit to any need of any kind. He was the result of centuries of wealth and breeding of a type found almost exclusively in the great Spanish families, and Jessica felt her blood run cold at the thought of telling him that her cousin had decided she preferred someone else.

‘Señorita James?’

He spoke perfect accentless English, his voice clipped and cool, and yet despite his outward control, Jessica sensed that beneath the ice-cold surface raged a molten torrent of barely held in rage. But why? Or had he guessed her purpose in coming? This man was no fool, surely he must have realised from the recent tone of Isabel’s letters how the land lay?

‘Señor Calvadores?’

Her voice was no way as controlled as his, and she had the dismal conviction that he knew he had unnerved her and that he deliberately intended to.

It was obvious that he didn’t intend to make things easy for her. So much for Spanish hospitality! Jessica thought indignantly. He hadn’t even offered her so much as a cup of coffee. Well, there was nothing for it but to plunge in; there was no easy way to say what had to be said, and all she wanted to do now was to say her piece and make her escape. His attitude and hauteur had killed all the sympathy she had initially felt towards him. Never in a thousand years could she imagine her flighty young cousin holding her own against this man whose very stance exuded an arrogant contempt that filled the air around them.

‘I’ve come to see you about …’

‘I know what you’ve come to see me about, Miss James,’ he cut in brutally, not allowing her to finish, ‘and no doubt you want me to make things easy for you. No doubt you hoped to sway me with your large, worried eyes, no doubt you’ve been led to believe that I can be persuaded to give way. Unfortunately—for you—that is not to be. To put it in its simplest form, Miss James, and having seen you for myself, having had confirmed every one of my very worst fears—that is to say, having seen for myself that you are a young woman who likes expensive clothes, and doubtless everything that goes with them; that you are at a guess somewhere in your mid-twenties; that you are bold enough to come here demanding to see me; there is simply no way I shall allow you to ruin my brother’s life by trapping him into marriage simply because of an affair you had with him several months ago!’

Jessica was totally lost for words. His brother, he had said. That meant he wasn’t—couldn’t be Jorge de Calvadores, but he obviously thought she was Isabel. She was on the verge of correcting him when she realised what else he had said. ‘An affair’. Isabel had given her the distinct impression that Jorge was the one pressing her into an unwanted engagement, whereas his brother seemed to think the boot was very much on the other foot. Clearly there were some misunderstandings to be sorted out!