Her grandfather was dying. Six months to live. Maybe twelve at a stretch.

Dying!

Simone swiped away a tear from her cheek, stumbling a little as she ran between the rows of vines clinging to the mountainside. Her grandfather would hate it if he knew she was crying over him.

She stopped at the edge of the estate, where the recently erected fence marked the new border between her grandfather’s remaining property and the neighbouring Esquivel estate.

How could she make these last few months better for Felipe? How to ease the pain of all he had lost? There was nowhere near enough money to buy back the acreage. And, given the long-running rivalry between the two neighbouring families, there was no way the Esquivels were going to hand it back now they had seized such a powerful advantage.

Which left her with only one crazy option.

So crazy there was no way it could ever work.

But was she crazy enough to try?

About the Author

TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career, and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true.

Recent titles by the same author:

 BARTERING HER INNOCENCE

 THE SHEIKH’S LAST GAMBLE

 DUTY AND THE BEAST

 SECRETS OF CASTILLO DEL ARCO

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Price
Worth Paying?

Trish Morey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A huge heartfelt thank you to Val, Julio, Matteo and Leti, Lyn and Phil, for sharing a wonderful part of the world with such delight and generosity of spirit. We had a brilliant time with you all in Spain, although it was way, way too short. Clearly we will just have to come back! I hope I have done justice to your fabulous part of the world and its people.

Heartfelt thanks must also go to Marion Lennox and Carol Marinelli and a wonderful place called Maytone where dreams happen and very often do come true. This one did:-)

And last but not least, with thanks to Joanne Grant. Thank you for your never-ending patience, guidance and enthusiasm during a year filled with all kinds of distractions and excitement and even the odd swim with dolphins. It’s a privilege to know you. Working with you is the bonus.

Trish

xxx

CHAPTER ONE

FELIPE WAS DYING. Six months to live. Maybe twelve at a stretch.

Dying!

Simone swiped away a tear from her cheek, stumbling a little as she ran between the rows of vines clinging to the mountainside. Her grandfather would hate it if he knew she was crying over him. ‘I am old,’ he’d said, when finally he’d let her learn the truth, ‘I’ve had my time. I have few regrets …’ But then his eyes had misted over and she’d seen the enormity of those ‘few’ regrets swirling in their watery depths.

The sorrow at losing his wife of fifty years to her battle with cancer.

The despair when his recently reconciled daughter and her husband—Simone’s parents—were lost in a joy flight crash whilst holidaying not three months later.

And the shame of succumbing to drink and then to the cards in the depths of his resultant depression, gambling away three-quarters of the estate before he was discovered and dragged bodily from the table by a friend before he could lose his own home.

It was the regret that was killing him. Oh yes, there was cancer too—that was doing its worst to eat away at his bones and shorten his life—but it was the regret that was sucking away his will to fight his disease and give in to it instead; regret that was telling him that there was no point because he had nothing left to live for.

And nothing anybody could say or do seemed to make a difference. Not when every time he looked out of his window he saw the vines that were no longer his, and he was reminded all over again of all that he had lost.

She stopped at the edge of the estate, where the recently erected fence marked the new border between her grandfather’s remaining property and the neighbouring Esquivel estate. Here, where there was a break between the rows of vines staked and trellised high above her head, she could look down over the spectacular coastline of northern Spain. Below her the town of Getaria nestled behind a rocky headland that jutted out into the Bay of Biscay. Beyond that the sea swelled in brilliant shades of blue that changed with the wind and with the sun, a view so unlike what she had at home in Australia that it took her breath away every time she looked at it.

She inhaled deeply of the salt-tinged air, the scene of terraced hills, the tiered vines, the ancient town below all too picture perfect to be real. It wouldn’t seem real when she was back home in Melbourne and living again in one of the cheap, outer-city student flats she was used to. But Melbourne and her deferred university studies would have to wait a bit longer. She’d come expecting to stay just a few weeks between semesters. Then Felipe had fallen ill and she’d promised to stay until he was back on his feet. But after this latest news, it was clear she wasn’t returning home any time soon. Because there was no way she could leave him now.

Dying.

Hadn’t there been enough death lately without losing Felipe too? She was only just getting to know him properly—the long-term rift between him and his daughter keeping the families apart ever since she was a child, Felipe and his wife here in Spain, their wayward daughter, her forbidden lover and their granddaughter living in self-imposed exile in Australia.

All those wasted years, only to be reunited now, when mere months remained.

How could she make those last few months better for Felipe? How to ease the pain of all he had lost? She shook her head, searching for answers as she gazed across the fence at the acres of vines that were once his and that now belonged to others, sensing the enormity of his loss, his guilt, his shame, and wishing there was some way she could make things better.

For there was no way to bring back his wife or his daughter and son-in-law.

There was no money to buy back the acreage he had lost.

And given the long-running rivalry between the two neighbouring families, there was no way the Esquivels were going to hand it back when they had seized such a powerful advantage.

Which left her with only one crazy option.

So crazy there was no way it could ever work.

But was she crazy enough to try?

‘You sacked her!’ Alesander Manuel Esquivel forgot all about the coffee he was about to pour and glared incredulously at his mother, who stood there with her hands folded meekly in front of her looking as cool and unflurried in the face of his outburst as a quintessential Mother Superior. Her composure only served to feed his outrage. ‘What the hell gave you the right to sack Bianca?’

‘You were gone the entire month,’ Isobel Esquivel countered coolly, ‘and you knew what a dreadful housekeeper she was before you left. This apartment was a pigsty. Of course I took the opportunity to sack her and engage a professional cleaner while you were gone. And just look around you,’ she said with a flourish of her diamond-encrusted fingers around the now spotless room. ‘I don’t know how you can possibly be so irritated.’

His mother thought him irritated? Now there was an understatement. After a fifteen-hour flight from California, he’d been looking forward to the simple pleasure of a hot shower before tumbling into bed and tumbling a willing woman beneath him in the process. He suppressed a growl. During her brief tenure, Bianca had proven to be particularly willing.

Finding his mother waiting for him in Bianca’s place had not been part of his plans. And so he dredged up a smile to go with the words he knew would irritate his mother right back. ‘You know as well as I do, Madre querida, that I didn’t employ Bianca for her cleaning skills.’

His mother sighed distastefully, turning her face towards the view afforded by the large glass windows that overlooked the Bahia de la Concha, the stunning bay that made San Sebastian famous. ‘You don’t have to be crude, Alesander,’ she said wearily, her back to her son. ‘I understand very well why you “employed” her. The point is, the longer she was here, the less interested you were in finding a wife.’

‘Oh, I assumed finding me a wife was your job.’

Her head snapped back around as the seemingly cool façade cracked. ‘This is not a joke, Alesander! You need to face up to your responsibilities. The Esquivel name goes back centuries. Do you intend to let it die out because you are too busy entertaining yourself with the latest puta-del-dia?’

‘I’m thirty-two years old, Madre. I think my breeding potential might be good for another few years yet.’

‘Perhaps, but don’t expect Ezmerelda de la Silva to wait for ever.’

‘Of course I would expect no such thing. That would be completely unreasonable.’

‘It would,’ his mother said speculatively, her eyes narrowing, but nowhere near enough to hide the hopeful sheen that glazed their surface. She took a tentative step closer to her son. ‘Do you mean to say you’ve come to your senses while you’ve been away and decided to settle down at last?’ She gave a tinkling little laugh, the sound so false it all but rattled against the windows. ‘Oh, Alesander, you might have said.’

‘I mean,’ he said, his lips curling at his mother’s pointless hopes, ‘there is no point in Ezmerelda waiting a moment longer when there is no way on this earth that I’m marrying her.’

His mother’s expression grew tight and hard as she crossed her arms and turned pointedly back towards the window. ‘You know our families have had an understanding ever since you were both children. Ezmerelda is the obvious choice for you.’

‘Your choice, not mine!’ He would sooner choose a shark for a wife than the likes of Ezmerelda de la Silva. She was a beauty, it was true, and once in his distant past he had been tempted, but he had soon learned there was no warmth to her, no fire, indeed nothing behind the polished façade, nothing but a cold fish who had been raised with the sole imperative to marry well.

Whether married or not, he would settle for nothing less than a hot-blooded woman to share his bed. Was it any wonder he had populated his bed with nothing less?

‘So what about grandchildren then?’ Isobel pleaded, changing tack, her hand flat over her heart. ‘If you won’t consider marrying for the sake of the family name, what about for my sake? When will you give me grandchildren of my own?’

It was Alesander’s turn to laugh. ‘You overplay your hand, Madre. I seem to recall you don’t like children all that much. At least, that’s how I remember it.’

The older woman sniffed. ‘You were raised to be the best,’ she said without a hint of remorse. ‘You were raised to be strong.’

‘Then is it any wonder I wish to make my own decisions?’

His mother suddenly looked so tightly wound he thought she might snap. ‘You cannot play this game forever, Alesander, no matter how much you seem to enjoy it. Next week it is Markel de la Silva’s sixtieth birthday celebration. Ezmerelda’s mother and I were hoping that you might accompany Ezmerelda to the party. Couldn’t you at least honour the friendship between our families by doing that much?’

To what end? To have the news of their ‘surprise’ betrothal announced the same night as some bizarre kind of birthday treat? He wouldn’t be surprised. His mother was particularly fond of concocting such treats. She would love to put him on the spot and force the issue.

‘How unfortunate. I do believe I’m busy that night.’

‘You have to be there! It would be a deliberate snub to the family not to appear.’

He sighed, suddenly tired of the sport of baiting his mother. Because of course he would be there. Markel de la Silva was a good man; a man he respected greatly. It wasn’t his fault his daughter took after her grasping mother.

‘Of course I will be there. But what part of “there is no way I’m marrying Ezmerelda”, did you not understand?’

‘Yes, you say that now, but you know there is no one else suitable and sooner or later you will have to fulfil your destiny as sole heir to the Esquivel estate,’ his mother said, giving up any pretence that securing a marriage between their two families wasn’t her ultimate goal. ‘When are you going to realise that?’

‘I can’t give you the answer you want but, rest assured, Madre, when I do decide to marry, you’ll be the first to know.’

His mother left then, all bristling indignation and pursed lips in a perfumed, perfectly coiffed package, her perfume lingering on the air along with his irritation long after she’d gone. He stared out of the same window Isobel had blindly stared out of a short time ago, but the view didn’t escape him. Between the mountains Igueldo and Urgull, with its huge statue of Christ looking down and blessing the city, sprouted the wooded Isla de Santa Clara, forming a magnificent backdrop to the finest city beach in Europe.

He’d bought this apartment some years ago sight unseen after yet another argument with his mother. At the time he’d simply wanted a bolt-hole away from the family estate in Getaria, a twenty-minute drive away.

He’d got more than a bolt-hole as it turned out. He’d got the best view in the city. Today the white sandy curve of the bay was less crowded than it had been when he had left a month ago at the height of summer, most tourists content in September’s milder weather to promenade around the Concha rather than swim in its protected waters.

His gaze focused in on the beach, the insistent ache in his groin returning. Bianca used to spend her days on the sand, working on her tan. To good effect, if he remembered correctly, even if his mother couldn’t see the advantages of long tanned limbs over a spotless floor.

He scanned the beach. Maybe Bianca was down there right now. He pulled his phone from his pocket and searched for her number. Isobel must have paid her extremely well for her to keep the news of her sudden eviction from him. But if she was still in the area …

Halfway to calling he paused, before repocketing the phone. What was he doing? It was one thing to have her waiting here for him. It was another entirely to go searching for her. Did he really want to give her the wrong idea? After all, she’d been almost at her use-by date as it was.

Bianca had known that. He’d made it plain when she’d started that she’d be looking for another position inside three months. Which probably explained why she’d gone so quietly. Because she’d always known the position was temporary.

Still he growled his displeasure as he tugged at his tie and pushed himself away from the windows. Because on top of having to find himself a new live-in cleaner, it meant that tonight he’d just have to settle for a cold shower.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WASN’T JUST crazy. It was insane.

Simone stood with her back to the bay and looked up at the building where Alesander Esquivel lived and felt cold chills up her spine despite the warm autumn sun. His apartment would have to be on the top floor, of course, and so far above her she wondered that she dared to think he would lower himself long enough to even let her in, let alone seriously consider her proposal.

And why should he, when it was the maddest idea she’d ever had? She’d get laughed out of San Sebastian, probably laughed out of Spain.

She almost turned and fled back along the Playa de la Concha to the bus station and her grandfather’s house in Getaria and certain refuge.

Almost.

Except what other choice did she have? Getting laughed out of the city, the country, was better than doing nothing. Doing nothing would mean sitting back and watching her grandfather’s life slide inexorably towards death, day by day.

Doing nothing was no choice at all. Not any longer.

How could she not even try?

She swallowed down air, the sea breeze that toyed with the layers of her favourite skirt flavoured with garlic and tomatoes and frying fish from a bayside restaurant. Her stomach rumbled a protest. She could not stand here simply waiting to cross this busy road for ever. Soon she must return to her grandfather’s simple house and prepare their evening meal. She had told him she needed to shop for the paella she had planned. He would be wondering why she was taking so long.

And suddenly the busy traffic parted and her legs were carrying her across the road, and the closer she got to the building, the larger and more imposing it looked, and the more fanciful her plan along with it.

She must be crazy.

It would never work.

He’d just stepped out of the shower when the buzzer to his apartment sounded. He growled as he lashed a towel around his hips, wondering what his mother had forgotten, but no, Isobel was not the sort to give advance warning, not since he’d once lent her the key she’d made a habit of forgetting to return.

So he chose to ignore it as he swiped up another towel to rub his hair. He did all his work at his city office or out at the Esquivel estate in Getaria. Nobody called on him here unless they were invited. And then the buzzer sounded again, longer this time, more insistent, clearly designed to get his attention.

And he stopped rubbing his hair and wondered. Had Bianca been waiting for his return, keeping a safe distance from his mother? She had known his travel plans. She’d known he was due back today.

Serendipity, he thought, because she could hardly read anything into one last night if she’d invited herself back. Why not enjoy one last night together for old time’s sake? And tomorrow or the next day, for that matter, he could tell her that her services were no longer required.

‘Bianca, hola,’ he said into the intercom, feeling a kick of interest from beneath his towel and thinking it fortuitous he wouldn’t have to waste any time getting undressed.

His greeting met with silence until, ‘It’s not Bianca,’ someone said in faltering Spanish, her husky voice tripping over her words and making a mess of what she was trying to say. ‘It’s Simone Hamilton, Felipe Otxoa’s granddaughter.’

He didn’t respond for a moment, his mind trying to join the dots. Did he even know Felipe had a granddaughter? They might be neighbours but it wasn’t as if they were friends. But no—he rubbed his brow—there was something he remembered—a daughter who had married an Australian—the one who had been killed in some kind of accident some months back. Was this their daughter, then? It could explain why she was murdering his language. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in English.

‘Please, Señor Esquivel,’ she said, and he could almost hear her sigh of relief as the words poured out, ‘I need to speak to you. It’s about Felipe.’

‘What about Felipe?’

‘Can I come up?’

‘Not until you tell me what this is about. What’s so important that you have to come to my apartment?’

‘Felipe, he’s … Well, he’s dying.’

He blinked. He’d heard talk at the estate that the old man wasn’t well. He wasn’t unmoved but Felipe was old and he hadn’t exactly been surprised at the news. He still didn’t see what it had to do with him.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but what do you expect me to do about it?’

He heard noises around her, of a family back fresh from the beach, the children being scolded by their mother for tracking sand back to one of the lower apartments, a father, grunting and grumpy and wearying of his so-called holiday and probably already dreaming about a return to the office. She tried to say something then, her words drowned out by the racket before she sighed and spoke louder. ‘Can I please come up and explain? It’s a bit awkward trying to discuss it like this.’

‘I’m still not sure what I can do for you.’

‘Please. I won’t stay long. But it’s important.’

Maybe to her. As far as he was concerned, Felipe had been a cantankerous old man for as long as he could remember and, whatever the distant reason for the feud between their two families, Felipe had done nothing to build any bridges over the intervening decades. But then, neither had his father during his lifetime. In a way it was a shame he hadn’t been alive the day some lucky gambler had knocked on Alesander’s door and offered him the acres of vines he’d won from Felipe in a game of cards. His father had been trying to buy the old man out for years.

He raked his fingers through his hair. The vines. That must be why the granddaughter was here. Had Felipe sent this hesitant little mouse with some sob story to plead for their return? He would have known he’d get short shrift if he tried such a tactic himself.

Maybe he should let her in long enough to tell her exactly that. He glanced down at his towel. Although now was hardly the time. ‘I’m not actually dressed for visitors. Call me at my office.’

‘My grandfather is dying, Señor Esquivel,’ she said before he cut the connection. ‘Do you really think I care what you are wearing?’ And the hesitant mouse with the husky drawl sounded as if she’d found a backbone, and suddenly his interest was piqued. Why not humour his neighbour’s granddaughter with five minutes of his time? It wasn’t as if it was going to cost him anything and it would give him a chance to see if the rest of her lived up to that husky voice.

‘In that case,’ he said, smiling to himself as he pressed the lift release, ‘you’d better come right up.’

Simone’s heart lurched as the lift door opened to the small lobby that marked the entrance to the top floor apartment, her mind still reeling with the unexpected success of making it this far, her senses still reeling from the sound of Alesander’s voice. Her research might have turned up his address and told her that Alesander Esquivel was San Sebastian’s most eligible bachelor, but it hadn’t warned her about his richly accented voice, or the way it could curl down the phone line and bury itself deep into her senses.

Yet even with that potent distraction, she’d somehow managed to keep her nerve and win an audience with the only man who could help her right now.

Alesander Esquivel, good-looking heir to the Esquivel fortune, according to her research, but then how he looked or how big his fortune was irrelevant. She was far more interested in the fact he was unmarried.

Thirty-two years old, with no wife and no fiancée, and he’d agreed to see her.

She dragged in air. It was a good start. Now all she had to do was get him to listen long enough to consider her plan.

‘Piece of cake,’ she whispered to herself, in blatant denial of the dampness of her palms as she swiped them on her skirt. And then there was nothing else for it but to press on the apartment’s buzzer and try to smile.

A smile that was whisked away, along with the door, somewhere between two snowy towels, one hooked around his neck, stark white against his black hair and golden skin, the other one lashed low over his hips.

Dangerously low.

She swallowed.

Thought about leaving.

Thought about staying.

Thought about that towel and whether he was wearing anything underneath it and immediately wished she hadn’t.

‘Simone Hamilton, I presume,’ he said, and his delicious Spanish accent turned her name into a caress. She blinked and forced her eyes higher, up past that tightly ridged belly and sculpted chest, forcing them not to linger when it was all they craved to do. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

His dark eyes were smiling down at her, the lips on his wide mouth turned up at the corners, while the full force of the accent that had curled so evocatively down the telephone line to her now seemed to stroke the very skin under her clothes. She shivered a little as her breasts firmed, her nipples peaking inside her thin bra and, for the first time in a long time, her thoughts turned full-frontal to sex, her mind suddenly filled with images of tangled limbs and a pillow-strewn bed and this man somewhere in the midst of it all—minus the towels …

And the pictures were so vivid and powerful that she forgot all about congratulating herself for making it this far. ‘I’m disturbing you,’ she managed to whisper. I’m disturbed. ‘I should come back.’

‘I warned you I wasn’t dressed for visitors.’ He let that sink in for just a moment. ‘You said you didn’t care what I was wearing.’

She nodded weakly. She did recall saying something like that. But never for one moment had she imagined he’d be wearing nothing more than a towel. She swallowed. ‘But you’re not … I mean … Maybe another time.’

His smile widened and her discomfort level ratcheted up with every tweak of his lips. He was enjoying himself. At her expense. ‘You said it was important. Something about Felipe?’

She blinked up at him and remembered why she was here. Remembered what she was about to propose and all the reasons it would never work. Added new reasons to the list—because the pictures she’d found hadn’t done him justice—he wasn’t just another good—looking man with a nice body, he was a veritable god-and because men who looked like gods married super-models and heiresses and princesses and not women who rocked up on their doorstep asking for favours.

And because nobody in their right mind would ever believe a man like him would hook up with a woman like her.

Oh God, what was she even doing here?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Coming here was a mistake.’ She was halfway to turning but he had hold of her forearm and, before she knew it, she was propelled inside his apartment with the promise of fresh coffee on his lips and the door closed firmly behind her.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered, gesturing towards a leather sofa twice the length of her flat at home and yet dwarfed here by the sheer dimensions of the long, high-ceilinged room that seemed to let the whole of the bay in through one expansive wall of glass. ‘Maybe now you could tell me what this is all about.’

She sat obediently, absently rubbing her arm where he’d touched her, the skin still tingling as if his touch had set nerve endings dancing under her skin. But then, why wouldn’t she be nervy when she didn’t know which way to look to avoid staring at his masculine perfection; when every time her eyes did stray too close to his toned, bronzed body, they wanted to lock and hold and drink him in?

How could she even start to explain when she didn’t know where to look and when her tongue seemed suddenly twice its size?

‘All right,’ she said, ‘if you insist. But I’ll give you a minute to get dressed first.’

‘No rush,’ he said, dashing her hopes of any relief while he poured coffee from a freshly brewed jug. He didn’t ask her how she wanted it or even if she wanted it, simply stirred in sugar and milk and handed it to her. She took it, careful to fix her gaze on the cup, equally careful to avoid brushing her fingers with his and all the while wondering why she’d ever been crazy enough to think this might work. ‘So tell me, what’s wrong with Felipe?’ he asked, reminding her again of the reason why she was here, and she wondered at his ability to make her forget what should be foremost in her mind.

Giving Felipe a reason to smile.

She’d made it this far. She owed it to Felipe to follow through. She’d return to Melbourne one day after all. The humiliation wouldn’t last for ever …

So much for wondering if she matched her husky voice. Instead she looked like a waif, he thought, lost and lonely, her grey-blue eyes too big and her mouth almost too wide for her thin heart-shaped face, while her cotton shirt bagged around her lean frame. She stared blankly at the cup in her hands, whatever fight she’d called upon to secure this interview seemingly gone. She looked tiny against the sofa. Exactly like that mouse he’d imagined her to be when she’d first spoken so hesitantly on the phone.

‘You said he was dying,’ he prompted. And suddenly her chin kicked up and she found that husky note that had captured his interest earlier.

‘The doctor said he has six months to live. Maybe twelve.’ Her voice cracked a little on the twelve and she put the cup in her hands down before she recovered enough to continue, ‘I don’t think he’ll last that long.’

She pushed honey-blonde hair that had fallen free from her ponytail behind her ears before she looked up at him, her eyes glassy and hollow. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, swiping a rogue tear from her cheek. ‘I’ve made a complete mess of this. You didn’t need this.’

He didn’t, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a little bit curious about why she thought it so necessary to knock on his door to ask for his help. He had his suspicions, of course—but he had to admit that the whole granddaughter turning up on his doorstep to plead her case was unexpected. ‘Why do you think Felipe won’t last that long?’

She shrugged almost impatiently, as if the reason was blindingly obvious and there was nothing else it could be. ‘Because he’s given up. He thinks he deserves to die.’

‘Because of the land?’

‘Of course, because of the land! It’s about losing his wife and daughter too, but don’t you see, losing the land on top of everything else is killing him faster than any disease.’

‘I knew it.’ He padded barefoot to the window, strangely disappointed, regretting the impulse to let her in, and not only because his curiosity about Felipe’s long lost granddaughter with the husky drawl had been satisfied with one look at this skinny, big-eyed waif. But because he’d been right. Of course it had to be about the land. And yet for some reason being right gave him no pleasure.

Maybe because he knew what would come next, and that any moment now she’d be asking for the favour she’d obviously come here to ask—for him to either return the land out of the goodness of his heart, or to lend her the money to buy it back.

He should never have let her in. Felipe should never have sent her. What had the old man been thinking, to send her to plead his case? Had he been hoping he’d feel sorry for her and agree to whatever she asked? A coiling anger unfurled inside him that anyone, let alone his father’s old nemesis, would think him so easily manipulated.

‘So that’s why he sent you, then? To ask for it back?’

Maybe his words sounded more like accusations than questions, maybe he sounded more combative than inquisitive, because she flinched, her face tight, her eyes clearly on the defensive. ‘Felipe didn’t send me. He doesn’t even know I’m here.’ She hesitated before saying anything more, before she glanced at the watch on her slim wrist and looked up again, already gathering herself, her face suddenly resolute, as if she’d decided something. ‘Look, maybe I should go—’

He stalled her preparations to leave with a shrivelling glare. ‘You do realise it wasn’t me who gambled the property out from underneath him, don’t you? I bought it fair and square. And I paid a hefty premium for the privilege.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then surely you don’t expect me to hand it calmly back, no matter how ill you say your grandfather is.’

Her blue eyes flashed icicles, her manner changing as swiftly as if someone had flicked a switch. ‘Do you think I’m that stupid? I may be a stranger here, but Felipe has told me enough about the Esquivels to know that would never happen.’

He bristled at her emphasis on the word ‘never’. It was true, Felipe and his father had had their differences in the past, and yes, the Esquivels took their business seriously, but that did not mean they did not act without honour. They were Basques after all. ‘Then why did you come? Is it money you want?’

She gave a toss of her head, setting her ponytail lurching from side to side, the ends she’d poked behind her ears swinging free once more. ‘I don’t want your money. I don’t care about your money.’

‘So why are you here? What other reason could you possibly have for turning up on my doorstep demanding a private hearing?’

She stood up then, all five feet nothing of her, but with her dark eyes flashing, her jaw set in a flushed face and an attitude that spoke more of bottled rage than the meek little mouse who had turned up on his doorstep.

‘All right. Since you really want to know, I came here to ask if you would marry me.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘MARRY YOU?’ HE didn’t wait for her to say any more. He’d heard enough. He laughed out loud, the sound reverberating around the room. He’d known she’d wanted something—land or money—and she had wanted something, but a proposal of marriage had never been on his radar. ‘You’re seriously proposing marriage?’

‘I know.’ His visitor clenched and unclenched her hands by her sides, her eyes frosty and hard with anger, her features set as if she didn’t hold it all together, she would explode. ‘Crazy idea. Forget I said anything. Clearly I was wrong to think you might lift so much as a finger to help my grandfather. Sorry to bother you. I’ll see myself out.’

She wheeled around, her skirt flaring high as she spun to reveal legs more shapely than he would have imagined she possessed before they marched her purposefully towards the door, her words rankling more with each stride. How dare she come out with a crazy proposal like that and then make out that he’d let her down?

He caught up with her as she pulled the door open, slamming it shut the next second with the flat of his hand over her shoulder. ‘I don’t remember you asking me to lift a finger.’ She wasn’t listening. Either that or she simply took no notice. She worked the handle frantically with both hands, her slim body straining as she pulled with all her might, while the door refused to budge so much as an inch with his weight to keep it closed.

‘Let me out!’

He stayed right where he was, with the tiny fury beneath him working away on the door, bracing herself against the wall for leverage. ‘On the other hand, I do recall you asking me to marry you.’

‘It was a mistake,’ she said, frantic and half breathless from her efforts.

‘What, you mean you meant to ask someone else?’

She gave up on the handle, staring at the door as if willing it to disappear with the sheer force of her will. ‘I thought you might help. Turns out I was wrong.’

‘And so now you make out that I’ve somehow let you down? Because I’m honest and laugh when you suggest something as ridiculous as marrying you?’

‘Ridiculous because you’re such a catch, you mean? God, you’re unbelievable! Do you actually believe I want to marry you?’

She gave the door a final kick and spun around and almost immediately wished she hadn’t, suddenly confronted by the naked wall of his chest just inches from her face. Bronzed olive skin roughened with dark hair and two hard nipples jutting out at her. God, why the hell couldn’t the man just put on some clothes? Because this close she could see his chest hair sway in the breeze from her breath. This close she could smell the lemon soap he’d used while bathing; could smell the clean scent of masculine skin.

And she really didn’t need to know that she liked the combination.

‘You tell me,’ he answered roughly. ‘You’re the one doing the asking.’

He had her boxed in on two sides, one arm planted beside her head, the door at her back, with only one avenue of escape left to her. Tempting as it was, she got the distinct impression this man would love it if she tried to flee again. He would no doubt feed off the thrill. So she stayed exactly where she was and forced her eyes higher to meet his.

‘A few months,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t asking for forever. I’m not that much of a masochist.’

Something flickered in his eyes as he leaned dangerously down over her, and she wondered at the logic of throwing insults at the only man who could help her. Though that had been before he’d laughed her proposal down without even bothering to listen to her. Now there was obviously nothing to gain by being polite—and nothing to lose by telling him exactly how little she wanted this for herself. ‘If there was any other way, believe me, I’d grab it with both hands.’

His dark eyes searched hers, his chin set, the tendons on his neck standing out in thick cords. ‘What kind of game are you playing? Why are you really here?’

She might have told him if she thought he might actually listen. ‘Look, there’s no point going on with this. Let me go now and I promise never to darken your door again. Maybe there’s even a slight chance we might forget this unfortunate event ever took place.’

‘Forget a scrawny slip of a girl I’ve never met asking me to marry her? Forget a proposal of marriage that comes dressed in barbs and insults from a woman who, by her own admission, wishes there was some other way? I don’t think I’m going to forget that in a hurry. Not when she hasn’t even explained why.’

‘Is there any point? I’d say you made your position crystal clear. Obviously there’s no way you’d lower yourself to marry “a scrawny slip of a girl”.’

Her eyes flashed cold fire as she spat his words back at him, anger mixed with hurt. She was smarting at his insult, he could tell, and maybe she had a point. Maybe she was more petite than scrawny, though it was hard to tell, her body buried under a chain-store cotton skirt and top that left everything to the imagination. But she was no mere girl. Because, from his vantage point above her he could see the slight swell of her breasts as her chest rose and fell. This close he could see her eyes were more blue than grey, the colour of early morning sky before the sun burned away the mist from the hillsides. And this close he could smell her scent, a mix of honey and sunshine and feminine awareness, the unmistakable scent of a woman who was turned on.

His body responded the only way it knew how, surprising him, because she was nothing like his usual type of woman and he wasn’t interested. If he had been interested he would have known it the moment he’d opened the door and laid eyes on her, the way it usually worked.

And once again he regretted the sudden absence of Bianca. Clearly it had been too long if he was getting horny over any random big-eyed waif who turned up on his doorstep. He willed the growing stiffness away, his decision not to put any clothes on intended more to amuse himself rather than any attempt at seduction. And then his eyes drifted down again, lingering over the spot where the neckline gaped, exposing skin that looked like satin.

Admittedly a big-eyed waif with unexpected curves …

‘Then again, maybe not so scrawny,’ he said, unable to resist putting a hand to her shoulder in spite of the fact he wasn’t really interested, his thumb testing the texture of her skin, finding it as smooth as his vision had promised.

She shivered under his touch, her blue eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling, right before she shot away sideways. ‘Don’t touch me!’

He turned, amused by his unexpected visitor and her propensity to move from flight to fight and back again in a heartbeat. ‘What is this? You ask me to marry you and then say I can’t touch? Surely you must have come prepared for an audition.’

She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. ‘No! There will be no audition! The marriage is for Felipe. Only for Felipe.’ Outside the windows the light was starting to fade, the afternoon sun slipping away, while inside her cheeks were lit up, her eyes flashed cold blue flame and her hands were balled in fists so tight that, unlike the rest of her, her knuckles showed white. ‘Haven’t you got a robe or something?’

He smiled at the sudden change in topic, holding his arms out by his sides innocently. ‘Do you have a problem with what I’m wearing?’

‘That’s just it. You’re not really wearing anything.’ She paused suddenly, biting her lip, almost as if she’d said too much and revealed too much of herself in the process. Then she hastily added, ‘I’d hate for you to catch cold or something.’

As if that was her reason. His amusement was growing by the minute, his visitor unexpectedly entertaining. It wasn’t just because the idea was so crazy he wondered how this woman, who seemed more timid than tigress despite her attempts, had found the courage to carry it off, but maybe because his mother had been here not an hour ago berating him on his reluctance to find a wife. He half wished she’d been here to witness this. Though no doubt she would be more appalled than amused, but then, that thought only amused him even more.

‘Then you will be relieved to know I have a very healthy constitution,’ he said, ‘but the last thing I wish is for you to feel uncomfortable.’ He excused himself for a moment to pull on fresh clothes, though not so much for her comfort level but because it suited him to do so. He’d had his sport and the last thing he wanted was for her to think he was interested in her sexually. He was intrigued, it was true, and now that the shock of her surprise proposal was over, he was curious to hear more, but there was no point encouraging her.

She was still here. Simone let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and turned to gaze out of the windows over the million euro view. He hadn’t thrown her out and neither had he let her flee. She was still here and he was going to cover himself up.

Surely that counted as success on two counts?

And now, for whatever reason, he actually seemed willing to listen to her.

Even better, maybe once he had covered up that chest and all that toned olive-gold skin, she might even be able to think straight. She could only hope. Being forced to look at all that masculine perfection without actually looking like she was looking at it was one hell of a distraction otherwise. When he’d had her backed against the door and touched his fingers to her shoulder, she’d felt the sizzle shoot straight to her core. Although maybe it was the hungry look in his eyes that had turned his touch electric …

God, what must it be like to be a woman who actually wanted him to touch her? She shivered, her body remembering the electric thrill. Dangerous, she thought, definitely dangerous. Thank God she wasn’t going there.

‘I apologise for keeping you waiting.’

His richly accented voice stroked its way down her spine, almost convincing her that he meant every word he said. She turned to find him dressed not in a robe, as she’d been half-expecting, but in light-coloured trousers and a fine knitted top that skimmed over the wall of his chest in a way she really didn’t want to think too much about. So she pushed her wayward hair behind her ears and looked elsewhere and found his feet instead. ‘Nice shoes,’ she said lamely, for want of anything better to say.

He glanced down at his leather loafers. ‘I have a man who makes them for me. He is very good.’

Handmade shoes, she pondered, really studying them this time, wishing she could hide away her own scuffed ballet flats. She’d known he had money, sure, but what was this world she’d dared enter, a world where he probably spent more on a pair of shoes than she had on her entire wardrobe? And it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t know that. It was a wonder he hadn’t let her flee while he’d had the chance. It was a wonder he hadn’t slammed the door in her face.

‘But you didn’t come here to compliment me on my footwear,’ he prompted, gesturing towards a sofa as he sprawled himself into a wide armchair, ‘I am curious to hear more—a marriage between you and me, but for Felipe? How does that work, exactly?’

She lowered herself down tentatively on the edge of the sofa, her heart racing with the possibilities. He wanted to hear more. Was he was simply curious, as he claimed, or was he actually entertaining her proposal? ‘You really want to know? You won’t laugh this time?’

‘You took me by surprise,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘It is not everyday a woman asks me to marry her while at the same time claiming she would rather be torn apart by wild horses or eaten by sharks.’

She pressed her lips together, not bothering to deny she’d used those words, knowing he was poking fun at her and yet thoroughly disconcerted by his smile. He was good-looking even when he was angry, the strong lines of his face too well put together to be distorted by rage, but when he smiled he was absolutely devastating. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not every day that I ask a man to marry me.’

He nodded. ‘I’m flattered,’ he said, sounding anything but. ‘So tell me, what is this marriage all about? Why is it so necessary, you believe, to marry me? What are you trying to achieve?’

‘I want to make Felipe’s last days happy.’

‘You think you will make him happy by marrying the son of a man he was in dispute with almost his entire life?’

‘I believe it will make him happy to believe his vineyard is reunited.’ And when she saw her words made no impact on him, she continued, more passionately, this time. ‘Don’t you see, those vines you bought were Felipe’s life. And right now every time he looks out of his window he’s reminded of his mistake. Every time he looks out of his window, he’s reminded of all that he lost.’ She shook her head. ‘And right now he doesn’t care about the remaining vines. He doesn’t care about anything.’ She gazed up at him, wanting to make him understand. Desperate to make him understand. ‘I know it sounds mad, but if he could see a marriage between our families, he would also see the vineyard reunited, and whatever mistakes he made—well, they wouldn’t matter any more. He might smile again, if he realised that all was not lost.’

‘And so Felipe dies happy.’

She winced at his words and he found himself wondering if she was acting. How could she care so much about a man who must be almost a stranger to her? ‘It would only be for a few months. The doctors said—’

‘You told me.’ He stood suddenly and wandered to the windows, his back to her. ‘Six to twelve months. But why should I believe what you say? It seems to me that you have the most to gain out of this arrangement. How do I know you won’t try to get pregnant and find yet another reason to “reunite” our families, this time on a more permanent basis?’

He thought her capable of doing that? God, what kind of people was he used to dealing with? She gave a tight shake of her head, feeling sick at the thought of there being any chance a pregnancy would result from this union. ‘There is no chance of that. This would be purely a business arrangement. Nothing more.’

‘So you say, but how can I believe you?’

‘Quite easily.’ She looked at him levelly, her blue-grey eyes as cold as the deepest sea. ‘There will be no pregnancy because there will be no sex.’

He looked back at her over his shoulder in surprise, one eyebrow arched. ‘No sex? You really think a marriage can work without sex?’

‘Why not? It’s not a real marriage so there’s no need for sex. What I’m proposing is a marriage in name only. Besides, it’s not as if we even like each other. We barely even know each other, for that matter. Why would we need or even want to have sex?’

He shrugged aside every one of her objections as irrelevant. He’d never actually considered whether he actually liked someone as a barrier to having sex with them. Then again, from what he could ascertain, his father hadn’t slept with his mother for the last thirty years of their marriage, which proved marriage without sex between husband and wife was possible, even if his father hadn’t gone without, by all accounts.

Which was probably a point worth making …

‘If I agreed to this marriage,’ he said, pausing when he noticed the sudden flare in her eyes and wanting to damp it down before she got too excited, ‘that’s if I agree, and I agreed to your condition of a marriage in name only, you do understand that there will be other women? That I would need to have sex with someone.’

Her lips tightened. Her entire posture tightened. ‘I’m sure you have no shortage of friends and acquaintances who would be only too happy to accommodate your needs. I wouldn’t stand in your way, so long as you were discreet, of course.’

He stroked his chin thoughtfully and her eyes were drawn again to the strong lines of his face, the dramatic planes and dark-as-night eyes and wished his features weren’t anywhere near as well put together. ‘Then possibly it might work,’ he said, ‘And possibly you are also right about not having sex. It’s not as if you’re my type, after all.’

‘Fine!’ she snapped, her eyes wide, her cheeks flaring with colour. ‘So much the better!’

‘Bueno,’ he said, smiling at her snippy response because, for her all her eagerness to announce that she had no interest in having sex with him, it was clear she didn’t want to hear the reasons why he might not be interested in having sex with her. ‘So long as we understand each other. As you’ve mentioned, we don’t know how long such a marriage might last. Several months. A year. You couldn’t expect me to remain celibate for the duration.’

‘I would hate you to have to suppress your natural desires, although perhaps you might try exercising just a little more control.’

‘Why should I? I like sex.’

‘I don’t want to hear it! All I know is that if you agree to this, there will be no sex between us. So there will be no chance of a child. So there can be no “complications”.’

He sighed as he turned back towards the window, the light fading from the sky, the lighting around the Bay coming on, turning the shoreline to gold. Perhaps she was right. Without sex there could be no unwanted pregnancy. No complications, just as she said. Which meant no chance for her to claim against the Esquivel estate.

And meanwhile this marriage would get his mother off his back into the deal.

He almost laughed. There would be no point in Ezmerelda continuing to wait for him to propose because he’d already be married. It was utterly delicious. He couldn’t remember when he’d ever been tempted by such a crazy deal. But would anyone believe it? Would anyone actually believe that, of all the women in the world, he had chosen this particular one to marry? Because he hadn’t been joking. She was nothing like his usual kind of woman. He preferred his woman more overtly sexual, whereas this woman looked like a waif in her baggy clothes.

And even though there was something about her cool blue eyes and her husky voice, and there was something of feminine shape hidden away that he’d caught a glimpse of, if he was to agree to anything, the terms would definitely need some work. He would need a bit more of an incentive if he was going to bother to make their arrangement look convincing.

‘It’s very noble of you, sacrificing yourself on the altar of marriage for your grandfather’s benefit. But why should I go along with it? What would be in it for me, given you’ve ruled out sex?’

She blinked up at him and he could tell she was completely unprepared for the question. He wondered at her naivety. Did she imagine he would go along with this out of the goodness of his heart? ‘Well,’ she began, ‘you do now have most of Felipe’s vineyard.’

‘I told you, I bought that land, fair and square. That land is mine already.’

‘But you knew how he’d lost it. You took advantage of an old man’s misfortune because it suited you.’

‘If I hadn’t bought it, someone else would have.’

‘But you’re the one who bought it and don’t tell me you didn’t jump at the chance. Felipe told me your father had been trying to get him off his land for decades.’

‘And you think that my agreeing to this will ease my conscience over the fact a large chunk of his estate is now mine?’ He shook his head. ‘No, my conscience is clear. I don’t have any trouble sleeping at night. In which case, you’re offering me nothing. And if I’m going to agree to this, I need a real incentive.’

Her heart jumped in her chest. ‘If I’m going to agree to this’? Was he serious? Was she that close to getting him to agree to her crazy plan? She licked her lips. ‘So what would it take to secure your agreement?’ she asked tentatively, almost afraid to breathe as she waited for his response.

‘Am I right in thinking Felipe will leave the balance of the estate to you, as his sole beneficiary?’

She blinked. ‘Um, yes, he still has to see a lawyer to change his will, but he’s mentioned that’s what he wants to do.’

‘Then that’s my price. When Felipe dies and you inherit, I want you to agree that you’ll sign over the rest of the estate to me.’

‘All of it?’

‘There’s not a whole lot left—and you do want me to marry you, don’t you, so Felipe believes his precious vines are reunited once more?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then, subject to your final agreement of my terms, I’d say that makes us officially engaged.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHAT’S IT TO BE, my prospective wife? You decide. Do we have a deal?’

Did they? Her heart was hammering so loud she could scarcely hear herself think. Half of her was already celebrating. She’d done the unthinkable and secured Alesander’s agreement. Soon Felipe would see his precious vines reunited under the mantle of their marriage.

But after he was gone—after their marriage was dissolved—they would stay reunited. Alesander would own the entire estate.

He was waiting for her answer, his half-smile telling her that he was already anticipating her agreement.

Should she accept his terms?

Felipe had promised her what was left of the estate when he died, wanting the vines to stay in the family, wanting to ensure that she would be taken care of financially. After her spendthrift parents had left her with nothing but a few trinkets, it would have been all that she owned. And now, if she agreed to Alesander’s terms, she’d be left with nothing again.

But what good were the vines to her anyway when her plan had always been to return to her studies in Melbourne? What point was there in her keeping them, other than as a link to a past and a life she’d been denied most of her life? She didn’t belong here. Not really. She was no vigneron, whatever her heritage. She couldn’t even speak the language. Not properly. ‘All right,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper, knowing that ultimately she had no choice. ‘You have a deal.’

‘Good, I’ll get my lawyers to draft up the agreement.’

‘This can’t get out! Felipe must not suspect.’

‘You think I want it to become public knowledge? No, my legal people will not breathe a word of this. Nobody will know our marriage is not real.’

She nodded, feeling her shoulders sag and her very bones droop, suddenly bone-weary. She’d come here and achieved what she’d never thought she’d achieve—the impossible had happened and Alesander Esquivel had agreed to her crazy plan. Soon the vineyard would be reunited and Felipe would have a reason to smile again. She should be over the moon ecstatic right now. And yet instead she felt wrung out, both emotionally and physically. ‘I must go,’ she said, shocked when she glanced out of the window and realised how the light was fading from the day. ‘Felipe will be wondering where I am.’ She looked back at him. ‘I imagine you’ll be in touch when the papers are ready to sign.’

‘I’ll get my jacket. I’ll drive you home.’

‘There’s no need,’ she said, even as he was disappearing into his room. She would be fine on the local bus. She would be even later home but she could do with the time to think. And right now she could do with the space to breathe air not spiced with this man’s scent, a blend of citrus, musk and one hundred per cent testosterone.

‘There’s every need,’ he said, returning with a jacket he shrugged over his shoulders, a set of keys in his hand. ‘There are things we need to discuss.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like how we met, for a start. We need to get our stories straight and I’m assuming you’d prefer I didn’t go around telling people you knocked on my door and asked me to marry you. Plus we need to work out how quickly to progress this arrangement. Given the state of Felipe’s health, I’m guessing you’re not after a long engagement?’

‘Well, no …’ She hadn’t really thought about it. He was right, of course, it was just that she hadn’t given herself the luxury of thinking that far ahead. Not when she’d never actually been confident of pulling this plan off and securing his agreement.

‘Then let’s make it next month—it’ll take that long for the legalities, and meanwhile we need to be seen together and in the right places. We can work that out on the way.’ He snatched up car keys from a drawer. ‘Besides, I think it’s about time I reacquainted myself with my prospective grandfather-in-law.’

His car was low and lean and looked more as if it belonged on a racetrack than on any road. It didn’t help that it was black. She regarded it suspiciously. ‘Are you sure this is street legal?’

He laughed, a low rumbling laugh that she felt uncomfortably low in her belly, as he ushered her into the low-slung GTA Spano that seemed filled with leather and aluminium and cool LCD lighting.

Safe in her leather seat, the car wrapped around her like an embrace, the panoramic glass roof bringing the outside inside.

He didn’t so much drive through the busy streets of San Sebastian as prowled, driver and machine like a predator, waiting for just the right moment to switch lanes or to overtake, using the vehicle’s cat-like manoeuvrability and power to masterfully take control of the streets, until they hit the highway and the car changed gears and ate up the few miles before the turn-off to the coast and small fishing village of Getaria.

Along the way they sorted the story of how they’d met by chance in San Sebastian when she’d stopped him on the street to ask directions. Or rather, Alesander sorted their story, while she tried hard to ignore the blood-dizzying effect of sharing the same confined space with him. She didn’t have to turn her head and see him to know he was right there beside her, she could taste him in the very air she breathed, and somehow the scent of leather only added to the heady mix. She didn’t have to watch his long-fingered hands to know when they were on the steering wheel or when he changed gears because she could feel the whisper of air that stirred against her leg.

It was disconcerting. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever been so aware of anyone in her entire life.

Or especially any man.

But then she’d never asked anyone else to marry her before either, much less have them agree. This was brand new territory for her. Little wonder she was so on edge.

The closer they got to Getaria, the more anxious she grew and she found herself wishing she’d caught the bus after all. Now she’d have no chance to warn Felipe that she’d bumped into Alesander, no chance to let him get used to the idea before having him turn up on the doorstep. He would come around, she was sure, but he was bound to be a little unreceptive at first.

‘Don’t be surprised if Felipe is a little gruff towards you,’ she warned. ‘Given what’s happened, I mean.’

‘Given the fact I own three-quarters of his estate now, you mean?’ He shrugged. ‘As long as I have been alive and, indeed, for a long time before, things have never been easy between our two families.’

‘Why is that? What happened?’

‘What is the reason behind any family rivalry? A cross word. A dark look. And, in this case, a bride stolen out from under my great-great-grandfather’s nose and married to another before he could stop her.’

‘Who did she marry?’

‘Felipe’s grandfather.’

‘Oh, I see. Wow.’ She shook her head. ‘But still, that must have happened years ago. Surely something that happened a century ago isn’t still a sore point. The families are neighbours after all.’

‘Honour is very important to the Basque people and memories are long. One does not forget when one’s pride has been trampled upon.’

‘I guess not.’ And she wondered how she would be remembered when she was gone, after probably the shortest marriage in Esquivel history. It would, no doubt, add cause to keep resentment towards the Otxoa name simmering for the next century or more. Just as well she could disappear home to Australia when the marriage was dissolved. ‘What about your family? How will they take the news of you marrying an Otxoa?’

He smiled. ‘Not well. At least not initially. But I will tell them it is time to move on. I will make them come around and see that we cannot hold a grudge between our families for ever. And then, when it is over, they will delight in telling me that they told me so and that they were right all along.’

‘Will you mind that?’

‘I don’t care what anyone says, not when I’m going to end up with the land.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said. The land that made it all worthwhile. The land she’d bargained away. His family would probably forgive him anything for that.

‘Tell me,’ he said, changing the topic, ‘is there a boyfriend at home in Australia waiting for you to return home? Who might be upset about your getting married and turn up suddenly to stop the wedding?’

She laughed. She couldn’t help it, the thought of Damon turning up to claim her from the clutches of marriage to another man too funny not to laugh out loud. But Damon wouldn’t have the guts to show his face, even if he had decided he wanted to get back with her. ‘No. No boyfriend.’

He looked across at her. ‘You make it sound like there was one.’

‘There was, for a while. But he’s history and he’s staying there. Believe me, he won’t be turning up to stop the wedding.’

‘What about other friends or family? Won’t they be concerned for you?’

‘There’s no family to speak of. Not now.’

‘But your father’s family?’

She shook her head. ‘I know it sounds odd, but I never met them. Dad discovered he was adopted when he was thirteen and he never forgave his adoptive family for keeping the secret from him for so long. And he never met his birth parents but he hated them for abandoning him in the first place. I think that’s why he and Mum got on so well together. They understood each other. They were alone in the world and they were all each other had.’

‘Surely they had you?’

‘They did but …’ She raised her head, searching the night sky through the clear glass roof for the words. How did one go about explaining such personal things to someone who was a virtual stranger, and yet who should not be such a stranger, given they were now engaged to be married? How much did he need to know? How much did she need to tell him?