“Are you a true Spaniard?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“Are you a true Spaniard?”

As she quietly asked the question, Lorne let her eyes wander over Francisco’s proud aristocratic features.

“Yes, I am a true Spaniard, my little English infanta,” he said softly. “I have the fire of this savage heritage in my veins. This is not the place for a little English girl with silver hair and eyes like bottomless pools. There are no knights in shining armor here.”

“Just knights in black velvet?”

Francisco looked puzzled for a moment and then laughed softly. “You think am a knight? A kind, good man who fights the dragons? Oh, Lorne, what an innocent you are....”

Helen Brooks lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium but her hobbies include reading and walking her two energetic and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Mills & Boon.

Knight in Black Velvet
Helen Brooks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘HEY...señorita... You lika nice Spanish boy, eh? You wanna say hello maybe?’

Lorne forced her legs, which had increased their pace since the crowd of Spanish youths had started following her into practically a jogging stance, into a slower, calmer rhythm. She mustn’t panic! Mustn’t give in to this fear that was causing her flesh to prickle with horror. It was broad daylight, for goodness’ sake! Admittedly she was in the middle of nowhere on a hot dusty road that seemed to lead into infinity with not a house or building in sight, but they wouldn’t do anything, would they? The suggestive remarks and cat-calls had grown more daring with the minutes but that didn’t mean anything, not really... did it?

‘Señorita... You Inglésesa? Americana? You gotta boyfriend, eh?’

The heat was shimmering off the winding road in great waves, the sky an empty vivid blue in which the sun sat like a queen, and Lorne cast yet another desperate glance at the broken chain on her old bike as she marched resolutely forward, pushing her only means of transportation, which was worse than useless, her bulging rucksack rubbing her back and causing the perspiration to trickle between her shoulderblades.

‘You tired, eh? You wanna rest a little?’ They had closed the twenty yard or so gap since she had last turned round; she could feel it in the hairs that were prickling on the back of her neck. What was she going to do? Terror was a huge lump in the base of her throat that restricted breathing and was beginning to make her feel sick. Harsh vivid memories of old headlines flashed into her mind. ‘GIRL RAPED AT KNIFE-POINT’. ‘FOUR YOUTHS FOUND GUILTY OF THE RAPE OF—’ And now it could be her! She could become yet another nameless statistic that would cause most people to click their tongue in sympathy before their eyes ran down the rest of the page. How could she have been so stupid as to put herself in such a vulnerable position?

A burst of ribald laughter just behind her caused her stomach muscles to clench in protest and she wished with all her heart that she had learnt Spanish as the youths continued to shout and encourage each other in their native tongue. But she didn’t need to understand what they were saying to know what was on their minds. The thick excited laughter, the shrill note that had entered the young male voices was a portent of things to come.

‘Look, why don’t you just clear off?’ As she swung round she saw her sudden attack had momentarily surprised them as the four young men stopped dead in the road facing her. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than bother me and frankly you’re not funny. OK?’

The narrowing of their eyes and sudden darkening of a couple of the faces told her they understood English far better than she understood Spanish, and also that she had tried the wrong tack. One of the youths, broader and a little older than the rest, stepped forward, his good-looking face surly as he let his dark eyes travel over her body in insolent slowness from the top of her silver-blonde head down to the long, smooth brownness of her legs revealed in their entirety in the old worn denim shorts she was wearing. The only skirt she had brought with her, and which she usually wore every day in spite of the heat to deflect just such a situation as this, had met its end, mangled and torn, in the bicycle chain just a few hours before, necessitating a quick change from the rucksack. ‘You think you too good to talk to us, eh?’ There was no humour or banter in the youth’s voice now. ‘Sí?’

Lorne stared into the hard, unsmiling face as sheer undiluted fear turned her soft grey eyes almost black. The reasons that had driven her to take this long lonely holiday, Sancho’s betrayal, along with the resulting humiliation, pain and embarrassment, suddenly seemed to fade into insignificance beside this thing that was about to happen to her. And it was. She knew it.

The same movement that threw the inoffensive bicycle into the middle of the now silent, predatory group watching her so closely also turned her on her feet to run, and it was some seconds before the drum of chasing footsteps sounded on the old dirt road. She ran as she had never run before, as if her life depended on it, which maybe it did, but even as the blood pounded in her ears and she felt the cut of the sharp spiky stones littering the road through her thin black pumps she knew she wasn’t going to make it. They were young, fit and strong and they were gaining on her.

The blur of red coming towards her registered a moment before the harsh blaring of the car’s horn, but even as she raised her hand in the age-old gesture of appeal for help she twisted her foot on a small boulder and fell, sprawling in the red dirt in a tangle of limbs and long silver-blonde hair and excruciatingly fierce pain. The sandy grit was in her mouth, her eyes, and she could feel the sting of raw flesh on the palms of her hands where she had tried to cushion her fall, but the blinding pain that ripped through her right ankle took every other sensation from her body as she tried to move. For a moment she thought she was going to lose consciousness as the world swirled and flew round her in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colour, but the thought that the approaching car might not have stopped, that she might have been left to the tender mercies of her pursuers, kept her from fainting outright.

By the time she had raised herself into a sitting position at the side of the road she became aware that the car had stopped some yards away, that the four youths were mere racing dots in the distance, and that the occupant of the brilliant red Ferrari was hurrying to her side. The relief made her head swim again and the figure at her side was a blur as he knelt down and took her hands in his. ‘Are you injured? Have you hurt yourself?’

She couldn’t answer. All her will was concentrated on not making a bigger fool of herself than she had already by being sick at the feet of this Good Samaritan.

‘Habla Inglés? French? Swedish?’

‘I’m English.’ The mist was clearing and she took a few long deep breaths before raising her head to focus on the stranger’s dark face. ‘Thank you for stopping. I was afraid you might not.’

He waved away her thanks with a sharp movement of his hand and as she caught the glimpse of gleaming gold on his wrist from what was obviously a very expensive watch she became aware that he was dressed in formal dinner clothes, the black velvet jacket and dark trousers beautifully cut.

‘Como se llama usted?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,’ she said faintly as the pain in her ankle surged into renewed life when she moved slightly. ‘I’ve been meaning to learn but—’

‘Your name?’ He was still kneeling at her side and somewhere in the back of her mind she noticed that the austere, coldly handsome face and cool, imperious voice added up to a very disturbing whole.

‘Lorne, Lorne Wilson.’ For a moment she almost held out her hand in spite of the situation. There was a stark formality, an inherent coldness about the man that was drying up the words in her throat.

‘I am Francisco de Vega, Miss Wilson.’ Two jet-black eyes pierced her white face. ‘Were you alone?’

‘Alone?’ She stared at him in confusion as she glanced round the empty barren countryside through which the road ran like a winding snake. ‘There were these men—’

‘I am aware of that.’ The voice was sharp and tight. ‘I am asking you if there was anyone else with you when this situation developed. A friend, maybe, who was not so fortunate as yourself.’

‘Fortunate?’ She stared at him as though he were mad. ‘Fortunate? I’ve been followed for miles and hassled and—’

‘They did not touch you?’ he asked stiffly.

‘No.’ Her voice was flat now. ‘But I was frightened and—’

‘Then I repeat, you were fortunate.’ The black gaze swept over her again, resting on the tousled blonde hair for a second before meeting her eyes. ‘Do you always dress so... indiscreetly when travelling alone?’

‘Indiscreetly?’ The full import of what he was insinuating caused hot colour to surge into her white face and now her eyes were sparking grey flashes as she raised her head proudly to meet his accusing gaze. ‘How I dress is my business, don’t you think? Surely I’m entitled—’

‘Freedom is a dangerous thing when put in the hands of children,’ the dark voice said smoothly, cutting into her furious tirade as though she hadn’t spoken. It was the fourth time in as many minutes that he had interrupted her and now all thoughts of gratitude fled as she took in, really took in, for the first time, the proud aristocratic face with its fine aquiline nose, well-shaped thin lips and icy cold eyes. What an overbearing, arrogant, haughty swine of a man! If he thought she needed his help he was very much mistaken!

‘Well, thank you for coming to my rescue, Mr de Vega,’ Lorne said frostily. ‘I’m sorry I seem to have inconvenienced you but I’m fine now so if you’d like to go on your way...’ She waved a dismissive hand towards the car in the distance. The effect was spoilt slightly by the fact that she was still sitting in a heap at the side of the road covered in dust and grime and blood from the copious grazes and scratches covering every inch of exposed flesh. And there was quite a bit of it. Not that she would ever admit that to him!

‘Are all English girls so difficult?’ he asked coldly as he rose in one lithe movement to his feet.

‘Difficult? I’m not difficult,’ she protested sharply, raising her face up and up until she met his eyes. Goodness, she hadn’t realised he was so tall, or so broad, or so very...male. Suddenly the Spanish youths seemed like young boys.

‘No?’ The humourless smile didn’t touch the glittering black eyes. ‘Has it escaped your notice that your right ankle has swollen to three times its normal size? How, exactly, do you intend to recommence your journey?’

‘On my knees if necessary.’ Lorne eyed him tightly. ‘I didn’t ask to be attacked, you know. There’s no need to be so downright aggressive.’

‘Can you stand?’ He ignored her defiance with regal indifference.

‘Of course I can.’ Her ankle was throbbing so badly that she could feel it in her head and there was no way she was going to try to struggle to her feet in front of his superior gaze. She’d try when he’d gone. And she hoped it would be soon! ‘You are obviously on your way out somewhere. Thank you again for your assistance and—’

‘This is not England, you know.’ He eyed her sourly. ‘There won’t be a nice safe bus along in a few minutes to take you where you want to go. How did you get this far? By taxi?’

‘No, I’ve got...’ she paused as her gaze flickered back down the road ‘...well... I did have a bike but the chain had broken and then it probably got more damaged when I threw it at those louts.’

‘You threw your bike at them?’ The momentary satisfaction at seeing him lost for words was sweet. He said something under his breath in his native tongue that sounded extremely caustic but the flash of admiration that lit the black eyes for a brief moment was not lost on her and it brought her chin up a fraction higher. She wasn’t some pathetic helpless female in spite of all the evidence to the contrary! And it was about time he knew it. ‘I won’t say I understand, Miss Wilson, because I do not.’ He bent down and lifted her up so swiftly that for a moment she couldn’t believe she was in his arms. ‘But one thing I do know is that that ankle needs attention and you need a stiff drink after such an unpleasant experience.’ In spite of the content of the words his cold stance hadn’t mellowed one iota but she was past caring. The pain in her ankle was blazingly fiercely again and she bit her lip until it drew blood in an effort not to cry out.

He glanced once at her white lips as he carried her quickly to the car, placing her in the front seat with a gentleness that belied the grim face. ‘What on earth are your parents thinking of to allow such a child to wander about in a strange country like this?’

‘Me? Do you mean me?’ Now her leg was still again she could just about cope with the pain and her eyes spat fury at his dark face. ‘To start with I am not a child, I’m twenty-two and—’

‘I do not believe it.’ The cool words were not spoken in politeness or as a social comment but stating fact. ‘You cannot be a day over seventeen.’

‘Look, Mr de Vega...’ He slid into the car beside her as she spoke and suddenly the words dried up in her throat. He was so close, so overwhelmingly Latin, so different...

‘Francisco.’

‘What?’ She stared at him, her eyes huge in the paleness of her face from which pain had taken all colour.

‘My name is Francisco, Miss Wilson, and let us stop the playing of the game.’ It was the first time his excellent English had let him down and she had to stifle the smile that sprang to her lips. So he was human after all. ‘How old are you and how is it that you are all alone in my country?’

‘Hang on a minute.’ She grabbed at his arm in panic as he started the engine. This could definitely be a case of the frying-pan being much hotter than the fire! ‘Where are you taking me?’

Her thoughts were patently visible in both her face and her voice, and the dark, cruel face hardened still further as he glanced down at her. She wished she hadn’t touched him. The hard, bunched muscles in his arm spoke of power and authority and just at the moment neither was attractive.

‘I am taking you to my home, Miss Wilson, so that your injuries may be attended to and just for the record I am not in the habit of attacking young girls who find themselves at a disadvantage. Do I make myself clear?’ His voice was icy and his eyes glittering chips of coal full of righteous contempt as he cast one more withering glance at her frightened face before he carefully removed her hand from his arm and negotiated the car in a semi-circle that brought a cloud of dust wafting into the still hot air.

‘You have not answered my question.’ They were travelling at a breakneck speed along the empty road and the suddenness of the change in her circumstances coupled with the sickening pain in her ankle was causing Lorne to feel more than a little light-headed.

‘I’m sorry?’ She cast a questioning glance at the harsh profile.

‘I doubt it. I doubt if that emotion has ever been a particular weakness of yours. Don’t you realise how stupid—?’ He stopped abruptly. ‘How old are you, really, and how is it that you are travelling alone?’

‘I told you.’ She cast an exasperated glance at the dark profile but as she let her eyes rest on the handsome, cold face something jerked deep inside her and she snapped her eyes away quickly. ‘I am twenty-two, whether you believe it or not. I’ve got my passport in my rucksack; I’ll prove it.’

‘That is not necessary.’ He raised a bronzed hand for a second from the leather-clad steering-wheel. ‘I am going to take you to my house in order for your ankle to receive attention and then I will arrange for you to be driven to your place of accommodation. Sí?’

‘Look, please don’t bother, Mr de Vega.’ Lorne was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. Where on earth was his house anyway and how could she tell him she had run out of money a couple of days ago and was making the small amount she had left make do for the next few days by sleeping under the stars? ‘If you could just drop me somewhere where I can get my bike mended... My bike!’ Her voice was so shrill that he jumped visibly. ‘We must go back; I’ve left my bike—’

‘An old bicycle, and damaged, you said?’ The car didn’t slow down. ‘It has let you down this time, which could have resulted in a tragedy. I suggest you get yourself a new bicycle, Miss Wilson, or travel about on your excursions in a taxi like everyone else. Sí?’

‘No!’ she all but shouted at him and the hard square jaw stiffened into concrete. ‘You must go back; I can’t get another bike; please...’

‘I have no intention of returning from whence I have come,’ he said tightly. ‘I am already very late for an important business appointment and do not wish to miss my dinner engagement in addition.’

‘But you don’t understand...’ Her voice trailed away as he raised one black sardonic eyebrow in caustic agreement.

‘On that point you are right, Miss Wilson,’ he said silkily, ‘but whether I understand or not for once in your life you are going to do as you are told. You have already proved you aren’t safe to be let out alone. You can telephone your hotel and speak to whoever is waiting there for you and explain the situation. And then my chauffeur will drive you to wherever you want to go.’

‘Your chauffeur?’ she asked weakly. He didn’t reply and she sank back into the soft leather seat helplessly. If she told him she had no hotel, no transport, no money and only the clothes she stood up in with a change of underclothes and a clean T-shirt in the rucksack it would confirm every low opinion he had of her. She would have to brazen it out somehow, she had no choice, but where was she going to sleep tonight and how soon could she get back to rescue the remains of her bike?

She had been so immersed in her thoughts that she had barely taken note of her surroundings, but now she saw that the unfenced rocky land stretching away on both sides of the dusty road was growing greener. Where exactly were they? She wrinkled her brow. She had left the town of Extremadura several days ago after pottering around there for a week soaking up the history of the place. She had heard that the harsh environment of south-west Spain had been the cradle of the conquistadors, the home of the men who had opened up new worlds for the Spanish empire in the golden age when the heroes had returned with their spoils of gold and fabulous wealth to live in ornate splendour and fabulous luxury, and it hadn’t disappointed her. But after several weeks of exploring historically rich towns and feeding her mind and eyes on imperial palaces, crumbling fortresses and churches and impressive monuments she had felt the need to recharge her batteries in peace and quiet. An English tourist had mentioned the Coto Doñana National Park and she had decided to travel in that direction. An unwise decision, with hindsight!

As the car slowed and turned into a narrow man-made road leading through a sweet-smelling pine forest she darted another glance at the man sitting next to her so silently. ‘We are nearly there,’ he said quietly. ‘I have medication that will ease the worst of the pain.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m fine really.’ He didn’t even bother to reply to such an inane remark and she couldn’t really blame him. She glanced down at her swollen ankle in frustration. What if it was broken? What would she do? She would have to find a British consul somehow, contact Tom in England...oh, hell, what a mess! And things had just begun to work out. She had just been able to sleep again the last few nights without thoughts of Sancho and Janie taunting her like tiny needles...

As they passed through massive open gates set in a high stone wall the feeling of apprehension intensified. The car scrunched along a pristinely clean drive between immaculate opulent gardens festooned with flowers and shrubs and bordered in the distance with orange, lemon and fig trees. As she saw the palatial mansion in the distance the heat in her cheeks spread all over her body. This wasn’t his home, was it? It was like every stately home she had seen in England rolled into one, and even then some.

‘Is this...?’ She paused and licked dry lips. ‘Is this your home?’

‘Sí.’ They were approaching the house now and the evening sunshine, still hot and fierce, sent countless shadows over the mellowed stone from the massive oak and cedar trees shading the high walls. The house was huge, stretching endlessly in Moorish beauty rich with turrets, decorative iron fretwork and tiny, exquisitely wrought towers that had been used to maximum aesthetic affect. The geometrical design formed by the mockbattlements and different shades of stone was offset by the blaze of colour from the climbing vines that had found their way over most of the house’s exterior forming vivid splashes of crimson, mauve and pink against dark green foliage. It was beautiful, it was unreal and it fitted this man perfectly.

‘Sit still, Miss Wilson.’ His voice was terse and he had uncoiled himself from the car and appeared at her side almost in one movement, lifting her from the interior in spite of her protestations that she could walk. ‘Please do not be ridiculous.’ He glanced down at her as he carried her up the deep stone steps that led up to a beautifully carved front door that was a work of art in itself, complete with an impressive coat of arms, and she saw his eyes weren’t really black but of such a deep dark brown that they appeared so. She had always thought brown eyes were soft and appealing in the past but these eyes were of a different hue. Hard, brilliantly alert, they had all the softness of glittering steel.

The door opened as they reached the top step and two uniformed maids appeared in the entrance, fluttering agitatedly before being called abruptly into order by a rapier-sharp voice behind them. ‘Señor de Vega.’ A tall, stately looking man pushed the women aside as he hurried to take Lorne from Francisco’s arms but Francisco merely barked a few words in rapid Spanish as he walked with her into a room leading off the huge marble hall. She had never seen so much marble in her life—the floors, the walls, the magnificent winding staircase, all in dusky-pink-veined marble. But she had no time to reflect on what she was seeing. As Francisco deposited her gently on a long low couch the manservant was back again carrying a small black bag.

‘Gracias, Alfonso.’

‘That looks like a doctor’s bag.’ She tried to smile but the whole situation had robbed her of her normal intrinsic vivacity; in fact she had never felt so frightened or overwhelmed in all her life. Something of what she was feeling must have communicated itself to the tall man in front of her because Francisco’s voice was more mellow as he spoke.

‘It is a doctor’s bag. I qualified ten years ago.’

‘You’re a doctor?’ She raised startled grey eyes to meet the piercing blackness of his.

‘I said I qualified, that is all. Events happened which determined I was not able to follow my chosen profession. However, I think I still remember enough for this circumstance.’ He gave a small smile, but it was a real smile this time, and for a second his face was illuminated as though someone had turned on a light, and then he was kneeling at her feet as he lifted her foot into his hand, the black velvet dinner-jacket making the situation seem even more unreal. A doctor who wasn’t a doctor living in a house that was beyond most people’s wildest dreams—She gasped as a shaft of pain cut into her thoughts.

‘It is painful, yes?’ Francisco raised his face as he spoke and then she was looking down on him again, his bent head with its shock of tight curly black hair giving her the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach. And there was the feel of his warm flesh as he gently moulded and kneaded her foot. It was...unsettling. ‘I do not think you have any broken bones.’ He rose as he spoke after gently placing her foot back on the couch. ‘But what you do have is probably more painful than a break. I think the ligaments and tendons have been badly torn and the swelling is very severe. I would suggest you ask your hotel receptionist to make arrangements for X-rays to be taken at the local hospital to be on the safe side, of course, but possibly two or three weeks of rest will return the foot to new. Now, you wish to telephone your hotel?’

‘No, no, thank you, it’s all right.’ She had spoken too quickly and saw the small frown of puzzlement between his eyes with a feeling of alarm. ‘If someone could just take me back I’ll be fine... really. You must leave now; you’re already late and—’

‘A drink?’ He cut into her stumbling speech abruptly as his eyes flashed over her face. For a spine-chilling moment she had the feeling he could read her mind and then shrugged the ridiculous notion away. She was imagining things and she was normally so level-headed. What was the matter with her? ‘Brandy is good for the nerves, or maybe you would prefer a glass of wine or a soft drink?’ Francisco continued quietly. ‘And I will give you something for the pain.’

‘Please, you just go, I’ve delayed you enough already...’ Her voice stumbled to a halt as he searched her features with another long, considering glance before turning to pull the long bell-cord at one side of the magnificent ornate fireplace.

When Alfonso entered seconds later Francisco spoke to him in rapid Spanish before extracting a bottle from the black bag and handing Lorne two small white tablets. ‘Alfonso is bringing you a glass of iced water.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked up at him with a small smile but the hard face eyed her coldly without a glimmer of warmth.

‘And then I suggest you and I have a chat, Miss Wilson.’

‘Lorne.’ She didn’t try a smile this time; she had the feeling nothing would penetrate that icy mind. ‘The name is Lorne.’

‘As you wish.’ He inclined his head before walking over to the huge cocktail cabinet on the far side of the room and pouring what looked like brandy into a cut-crystal goblet. ‘Will you join me?’

‘No, thank you.’ Alfonso returned at that moment with the water and she thanked him with a warm smile before turning back to Francisco. ‘This will be fine.’ As she swallowed the tiny tablets under the hard black gaze her eyes wandered round the luxurious room, which was furnished exquisitely in varying shades of silver and grey with small occasional tables in dark polished wood to offset the pale carpet. People actually lived like this, she thought disbelievingly. The wealth contained in this room alone would keep her for the rest of her life!

‘Now, Lorne.’ The sound of her name on his lips brought her head snapping round to meet his gaze. ‘I am going to ask you some questions and I want truthful answers. Is that understood?’ His voice was cool and tight.

She stared at him without answering. She had always disliked authoritative people, whether male or female, but he took the word to another dimension! Just who did he think he was anyway? He might be king-pin in this little corner of the world but if he thought he could bully her he was very much mistaken! Her chin lifted slightly with her thoughts.

‘Your name is Lorne Wilson and you are twenty-two years of age?’ She nodded slowly. ‘Where are you staying and who are you travelling with?’

‘Look, Mr de Vega, I’m very grateful for your assistance this evening but could we just leave it at that?’ she asked quietly, keeping all irritation out of her voice. ‘I’m a grown woman and quite capable of taking care of myself. In fact—’

‘It looked like it.’ Now his voice was biting. ‘Do you not realise what a narrow escape you had, girl? You are such a tiny little thing, you would not have stood a chance against those men if things had got difficult.’

‘Well, it didn’t come to that, did it?’ she said flatly. ‘And I repeat, I am very grateful to you for appearing at the right time but I would like to go back now, please.’

‘Back where?’ His eyes had narrowed and she suddenly felt he knew... he knew she had nowhere to stay. ‘Exactly where, Lorne?’ She stared at him dumbly as her mind raced, trying to come up with a plausible answer. ‘I am not an idiot so please stop attempting to treat me like one.’ He downed his drink in one swallow and walked over to the cabinet, pouring another good measure into his glass before turning to face her again. ‘You are one of these student people, is that it?’ The beautifully modulated voice was scathing. ‘Thumbing a lift here and there, living recklessly—’

‘I have not been thumbing lifts,’ she said indignantly. ‘I told you, I had my bike.’

‘Ah, yes, the bicycle.’ He walked over and knelt down beside her so that his dark face was a breath away. ‘But you have the bicycle no longer, do you, so how do you intend to manage, especially with that ankle? You have nowhere to stay tonight, do you? Answer me.’

‘No.’ The word had been forced out against her volition; there was something in those black eyes that was mesmerising. He relaxed then, sinking back on his heels as he eyed her coldly, shaking his head a little as he rose.

‘And you are by yourself.’ It was a statement and she didn’t bother to confirm what he knew. ‘I cannot believe this.’ He stood looking down at her as she lay on the couch, his long, muscled legs slightly apart and his hands on his hips. ‘Don’t you realise how vulnerable you are? You look about sixteen, all hair and eyes, and you seem intent on displaying as much of that... attractive body as you can. I really do not believe—’

‘It’s not my fault my skirt got caught in the bike chain,’ she said weakly. When he had knelt down so close the smell of him had been intoxicating and her senses were still coping with the shock of it. She didn’t like him, in fact he was one of the coldest, rudest people she had ever met in her entire life, but whatever he was he was all male.

‘Your skirt?’ He waved his hand irritably. ‘What has your skirt got to do with anything?’

‘Everything!’ Suddenly it was all too much. Sancho’s desertion, Janie’s betrayal, the shock and terror of the preceding hours and the pain in her ankle culminated in a break in the dam that she had been holding in for weeks. She didn’t recognise the wailing noise was coming from her at first but as the tears coursed down her face and her last scrap of control went with them she knew she was making a terrible fool of herself, but suddenly she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything any more. She was tired of being brave, tired of coping on her own, tired of trying to keep going, just altogether, totally, absolutely tired.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HERE.’ The big white hankerchief was thrust under Lorne’s nose at the same time as she became aware that Francisco had sat down beside her, pulling her head on to the broad expanse of his chest as his other hand stroked her hair comfortingly. ‘Whatever it is it cannot be as bad as all that, little one.’ The unexpected kindness made her worse and it was some considerable time later before she had composed herself enough to raise a tear-drenched face from its soft resting place.

‘I’ve ruined your jacket.’ She looked aghast at the wet velvet streaked with dirt from her fall on the road, but Francisco smiled slowly, his dark face enigmatic.

‘It is of no consequence.’ He moved his arm from her shoulders as he shrugged off the jacket, slinging it casually on the floor. The snowy white shirt it revealed accentuated broad shoulders and a hard-muscled chest, and as he rose and fetched her a glass of neat brandy she felt something leap in her body that made her flesh tingle. ‘Drink that, all of it, and then I think we must have the—how do you say it—chat, sí?’ He didn’t sit beside her again, standing just in front of her after handing her the drink, his dark face expressionless.

‘You must think I’m mad...’ She took a long gulp of the brandy and then choked helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not used to this.’

‘That is one thing in your favour,’ he said drily. ‘And now, Miss Lorne Wilson, you will begin at the beginning. How is it that you are all alone with no money?’ He raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I presume you have no money?’

‘Not much,’ she admitted slowly. ‘That’s why I hadn’t stayed anywhere. I thought I could just manage if I slept out in the open somewhere and eked out the food.’

‘You thought you could just manage?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘And how long have you been “just managing”?’

‘A while.’ She sniffed dismally. ‘I was just going to have a look at the Coto Doñana National Park and then think about going home.’

‘Have a look...?’ His voice trailed away in a mixture of disgust and wonder. ‘Do you realise how vast that place is? It is not somewhere that one wanders alone. Maybe a guided tour or something similar but the lynx and wild boar that lodge there would be very pleased to make your acquaintance on a dark night. It is a wild place, Lorne, not suitable for a little English girl with hair like spun silver and wrists that one could snap in a second.’ As he gazed at her something dark and warm in his face caught and held her eyes and the moment stretched until he shook his head suddenly, a shadow passing over his face that turned it cold and withdrawn. ‘This is crazy.’ The muttered words held a note of anger and the hostility was back in his voice when he spoke next. ‘Start at the beginning.’

‘I came to Spain eight weeks ago with some friends,’ she began slowly, the chill that had entered his voice making her suddenly lonelier than she had felt for days. ‘There were four of us who have just graduated from university and we thought it would be fun to travel a bit, take some time out for a year or so.’

‘That would be fun, yes,’ he agreed with shuttered eyes.

‘But it didn’t work out.’ She was beginning to flounder and he would think she was trying to hide something, but how could she possibly explain to this cold, austere man how happy she had been when Sancho had suggested showing her his homeland? She had only got to know him in the last few weeks of university life although she had admired him from afar for the last four years, but he had always had a different model-girl type on his arm every time she had seen him. And then it had been her on his arm and she had been wild with delight and all her friends had been green with envy. Especially Janie. Janie... with her long red hair, even longer nails and come-to-bed eyes. But she had seemed so happy with Steve and they had been going out together for nearly a year. Even now it was hard to believe—

‘It didn’t work out?’ The deep voice with its foreign accent brought her back to the present with a jolt and she shook her blonde head slowly.

‘No.’ That was the understatement of the year, she thought grimly. When Sancho had endorsed Janie’s suggestion that she and Steve join them on the tour round Spain she had been delighted. The financial saving had been considerable and it had all worked out fine, or so she had thought. How naive could a person be? That was what Janie had thrown at her when Lorne had found her best friend and Sancho in bed together. Steve had left on the next flight home but she had been determined to complete the proposed trip. No one was going to send her skulking home like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs, least of all an over-sexed Spaniard and a tramp of an English girl.

‘Would you care to elaborate on that?’

She shook her head again as she looked him straight in the eyes. ‘I can’t, I really can’t. Suffice it to say one of us went home, the other two are in the south of Spain somewhere and I’m here. We were touring, on our bikes,’ she finished weakly.

‘Well, as an explanation it is pretty poor but I suppose it will do,’ he said sardonically. ‘The final line is that you are now injured, homeless and without funds?’

‘That’s about it.’ She eyed him warily.

‘There is an English word that describes you very well,’ he said coolly, ‘and I really cannot think of a suitable substitute in Spanish. The word is dimwit. Have you heard it?’

‘How dare you?’ She winced visibly as the sudden jerk of anger tweaked her ankle. ‘Look, you said you would run me back to my hotel; it’s no different if you get me back to my bike and I can take it from there.’

‘The hell it is.’ His accent made the words almost attractive. ‘I do not know what sort of men you are used to running around with, Lorne Wilson, and frankly I think I would prefer not to know—’ his eyes flashed condemningly over her bare legs in the brief shorts ‘—but you are now my responsibility and I do not intend to send you off into the night like a bird with a broken wing. You are clearly quite incapable of looking after yourself; in fact I think a child of ten would have more sense than you. You will stay here tonight and we will review the situation in the morning.’

‘What?’ She stared at him with big saucer eyes, ignoring the insults for the moment.

‘And I think we can probably provide something more... suitable for you to wear in the meantime.’ His nose all but wrinkled. ‘My sister has her own apartment here when she pays a visit and although considerably taller she is as slender as you.’

‘There’s no need for that and—’

‘Oh, but there is,’ he corrected tightly. ‘This is not a tourist resort and you may have noticed that young females do not display themselves quite so wantonly in this part of Spain. The young men who followed you probably thought, quite legitimately, that you were encouraging them to do so, especially in view of the fact that you were not accompanied.’

‘Well, that’s just plain ridiculous,’ she said angrily as her temper rose to boiling-point. ‘Do you mean to tell me that women here have to be covered from head to foot? What are you living in, for crying out loud, the Dark Ages? Women should be able to dress exactly how they want to without becoming targets for the sort of animals that followed me.’

‘Not a feminist too?’ He shut his eyes briefly and she was furious with herself for noticing, at such a time as this, that his eyelashes were incredibly long and curly as they rested for a moment on the hard, tanned cheeks. ‘I really think I need another brandy and then I must make a telephone call. But first you need to refresh yourself. Teresa and Benita will help you bathe and then I will put a bandage on that ankle to try and contain the swelling.’

‘But you have to go out,’ she said faintly. ‘You said—’

‘I think I realised when I picked you up off the road that my evening was not going to plan,’ he said drily. ‘Now please allow me, if not as a man then as a doctor, to take care of you tonight. Tomorrow we can arrange the hospital visit and organise accommodation and a ticket home.’

‘But why are you helping me like this?’ She stared at him, her grey eyes huge and liquid in her tear-smudged face and her silky blonde hair a cascade of silver falling over slender shoulders. ‘You don’t have to...’

‘In my country we do not forget the rules of hospitality,’ he said coldly after a long pregnant moment when he had searched her face with his piercing eyes. ‘You are a stranger in my land and you are in need, it is as simple as that. Also the fact that I cannot understand how you have not been eaten alive before now compels me not to—how would you put it?—push your luck?’

‘Eaten alive?’ There was a darkness in his face that frightened her. ‘But there are no wild animals in this part of Spain, are there?’

‘The human animal is far more ferocious than any wild cat when its appetite is aroused,’ he said grimly, ‘and unfortunately often less noble.’

‘Oh...’ As burning colour flooded her cheeks at the memory of the Spanish youths’ hot eyes and predatory mouths she dropped her eyes quickly. He thought her a fool, a complete and utter fool, and she was beginning to agree with him.

An hour later, bathed, creamed and with her hair newly washed, she lay on the vast bed in the suite of rooms she had been shown to with her head spinning and her mind racing. After the two maids had helped her to bath and wash her hair they had half carried her to the bed where she had found a pair of trousers, a thigh-length blouse in raw silk and even a change of underwear laid out for her. The wildly expensive clothes so casually given, the unimaginable wealth all around her that spoke of power and authority on a scale she had never touched before and the cold, fierce personality of the man who seemed to be master of this empire was numbing her mind. What have you blundered into? she asked herself soberly as she glanced again round the fabulous room. The sooner she was out of here the better. She had never been a snob in even the mildest sense of the word but she had to admit that this particular situation had, temporarily, overwhelmed her.

A light knock on the closed door brought her out of her reverie and, thinking it was one of the maids again, she called for them to enter. As the door opened and Francisco’s tall, broad shape stood framed in the doorway, her heart jumped painfully in her chest. He had changed since she last saw him and the black silk shirt and casual black jeans that he now wore seemed to project still further the innate cold austerity of the man while adding to the cruel, handsome face a piratical effect. For a moment she could have believed they had travelled back in time and she was facing one of the original conquistadors, fiercely proud, intrinsically cruel and without mercy.

‘Don’t look so frightened.’ It was the last thing she expected him to say and as her mouth opened in a small O of surprise she saw a fleeting smile touch the firm, hard mouth. ‘If all my patients would have reacted like you I think it is probably as well fate led me in another direction than that of a doctor, do you not agree?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She pulled herself together with a visible effort as he walked slowly across the room, carrying his bag.

‘Is it still as painful?’ After examining the swollen flesh that was already turning a faint blue he began to wind a tight bandage expertly round her foot.

‘No, no, it’s not,’ she said quickly, trying to concentrate on the ache in her ankle rather than the feel of his warm, competent fingers on her skin. The sight of this severe, forbidding man performing such a gentle task was such an antithesis that it was causing her heart to pound again. She didn’t know why he affected her so strongly but affect her he did, and she found it acutely disturbing.

‘The clothes are lovely,’ she said after a few seconds, more for something to say than anything else. The silence had begun to scream at her.

‘Good.’ He raised his head as he spoke after tying the bandage lightly in place. ‘I thought they would fit with a little adjustment.’ His eyes glanced at the trousers that she had rolled up a few inches.

In spite of herself she couldn’t stop a pink flush from staining her cheeks at the thought of the tiny scraps of lacy underwear spread out on the bed. The female shape was clearly no mystery to him. Again, it was as though he could read her mind.

“There is no need to be embarrassed.’ The cool voice was mocking but not unfriendly. ‘I have not reached the age of thirty-eight without having become... familiar with the items ladies wear under their clothing.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said as lightly as the hectic flush in her cheeks would allow, ‘but I’m not used to men choosing my clothes for me.’

He stiffened as he looked down at her, her long silver hair spread out in a shining pillow round her head and her slender shape defenceless in the middle of the huge bed.

‘I do not play with children, Miss Lorne Wilson, so you may let your anxiety lessen.’ His voice was expressionless and she couldn’t read anything beyond the black glitter in his eyes. ‘You have had one distressing experience today; let that suffice.’

‘What does that mean?’ she asked hotly. ‘That you consider me a child? You still don’t believe I am twenty-two, is that it?’

‘Your numerical age has nothing to do with it,’ he said calmly, ‘or even the fact that you look about five years younger than you are. I can read in your eyes, your body, your whole outlook on life that the world hasn’t touched you with its unpleasant, darker side yet. That is good; you must hold on to that for as long as you can and be with companions of like mind.’

‘And you aren’t?’ She didn’t know what made her ask such a pertinent question but it was out before she could hold it back. He froze for an infinitesimal moment and then breathed out slowly, his eyes hooded.

‘I’m not,’ he agreed grimly, his eyes softening a little as they took in her bewildered young face. ‘Stay in the sunshine for as long as you can, my little English infanta, the shadows will beckon soon enough.’

‘Infanta?’ She didn’t like this constant reference to the fact that he considered her incapable of behaving in an adult fashion. Admittedly she might have made a mistake in trying to travel round a foreign country by herself without knowing the language but she had survived rather well, all things considered! She was past the age of consent, she was no child, and she was sick of his superior, condemning attitude! ‘What does infanta mean?’ she asked testily. ‘Infant, baby, I suppose?’

‘Not at all.’ He had settled back against the pillar of the four-poster bed, his arms crossed and his face devoid of all expression. ‘It means princess. You see, I was not being insulting.’

‘Well, that makes a change.’ She found she suddenly couldn’t control her tongue at all. The need to prove that she wasn’t completely stupid, that she could manage her own affairs very well, was goading her on. ‘I’m not quite the little innocent you seem to be making me out to be, you know,’ she said crossly. ‘I’ve had four years at a university doing an English degree for which I got a 2-1; that’s pretty good incidentally.’ He raised dark eyebrows but said nothing. ‘And I supported myself the whole time, working in the holidays to supplement my grant. I arranged my lodgings when necessary, I dealt with any financial problems, I have taken care of my life for the last few years.’

‘Why?’ The one word stopped her flow and she stared at him. ‘Why has it been necessary for you to do all that? Where are your parents, your family?’

‘My parents died when I was ten,’ she said flatly, ‘and I lived with my older brother and his wife and family till I left for university at eighteen. They haven’t much money, they couldn’t afford to support me; besides, Tom has health problems and they’ve got enough difficulties of their own without worrying about me.’

‘There is no other family?’ he asked quietly, his eyes watching her every expression.

‘Not really.’ She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘Besides, I like looking after myself. In spite of what you may be thinking, I usually do it quite well, too.’

‘Do you indeed?’ She had no idea of the ethereal, delicate picture she made lying on the large bed, her hair a shining mass of silver and her small, heart-shaped face pale against the dark orange of the silk shirt. Finely boned and small, she had always disliked her slimness and lack of height, but to the dark, bronzed man watching her so intently she was breathtakingly lovely. ‘And men?’ His voice was still cool but with a husky note now that made her stomach tremble. ‘Where have men fitted into this independent life?’

‘I’ve had boyfriends,’ she said defiantly as she raised herself to a sitting position against the mass of soft, deep blue pillows. ‘Quite a few, as it happens; in fact it was my last boyfriend who brought me to Spain in the first place.’

‘I see.’ He moved to her side again and bent to pick up the bag lying on the floor. ‘Then maybe I was mistaken in my opinion about you. Maybe you are a woman of the world, used to dealing with life and love in the modern fashion? Uncaring, hard; are you like that, little infanta?’

As he raised his head on a level with hers their eyes locked and as he slowly bent towards her with a smothered groan it was as though he was fighting something deep within himself, the turmoil he was feeling reflected in the darkness of his face.

Her heart began to pound and the blood raced madly through her veins in an agony of excitement. She had wanted this to happen from the first moment she had seen him, she realised with a little shock of horror, had wanted to know what the feel of his lips would be like.

He rested his hands either side of her slim shape as he took her mouth in a gentle, exploratory kiss that changed within seconds as he felt her mouth quiver beneath his. His lips became hard, demanding, and she felt her bones turn to water at the deeply searching invasion of his mouth. No other man had kissed her like this before! The thought burnt into her mind at the same moment as she shuddered against him, unable to resist the powerful desire that was sending shafts of pleasure trembling through her body.

As he felt her response he lowered himself on to the bed until he was lying above her, close enough for her to feel his evident arousal but without the full weight of his body resting against hers. She couldn’t believe that another human being was making her feel like this as frantic, hot excitement had her tumbling into another dimension. Before Sancho most of her dates had been nonentities with a relatively chaste embrace on the doorstep; in fact she knew she had gained something of a reputation for being an icy cool blonde. Sancho had made her feel different but even he hadn’t got past that certain something that had made her call a halt to his lovemaking before it got out of hand. She had known that one of the reasons he had suggested the Spanish trip was to overcome her resistance. But it hadn’t been necessary. Janie had had no such inhibitions.

The thought didn’t have the power to touch her at all; all her emotions, all her senses, were tied up in a whirlwind of touch and smell. She wasn’t aware of the bewildered note in her cry as his hands on her skin made her moan against the hard face but suddenly, abruptly, he had lifted himself from her and was standing away before walking across to the other side of the room.

‘Do you see now?’ His voice was deep and violent. ‘I was right, was I not? You have not yet made the transition into full awareness—you are a child after all’ The hard reality of his words hit her painfully as she stared into the glittering black eyes. He seemed angry, furiously angry, and she didn’t understand why. She hadn’t pushed him away, hadn’t told him to stop...’

‘I do not need a complication like you in my life,’ he said tightly. ‘I should never have brought you here. I should have left you back there, on the road.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ she whispered dazedly. ‘What have I done wrong?’ How could he be so hostile, so cold, when just a few minutes before ...?

‘You think you would enjoy a nice little flirtation in this safe little world in which you live?’ he asked grimly. ‘Is that what you think? But I am not one of your college friends with the time to court and woo you and persuade you into my bed. And there are others like me out there. Go home, Miss Lorne Wilson. Go back to where it is safe and controlled and ordinary before you find yourself hurt badly. You are a lamb among wolves here.’

The slam of the door reverberated round the room and she was still staring at it minutes later as she tried to take in what had happened. His words had lashed her but even as she thought about them she didn’t fully understand why he had been so enraged.

She hadn’t been the one to pull away, she hadn’t initiated the embraces in the first place, and it had been Francisco who had insisted she accompany him home despite her protests. She relaxed against the pillows after a long, taut moment, shutting her eyes as her head hammered with images and harsh, cruel words.

‘This is all unreal,’ she muttered dazedly as she settled deeper into the soft bed. He was unreal; this magnificent, larger than life house was unreal; she would wake up soon from this crazy dream and find herself curled up under a tree somewhere as she had done the last few days on the road. That was it, it was a dream, a strange and worrying and curiously thrilling dream... It was her last coherent thought before sleep overtook her.

CHAPTER THREE

THE tap on the door brought Lorne instantly awake and fully alert in a moment as though part of her mind had been keeping watch all the time. The room was dark, full of a rich, heavy dusk that carried the perfume of sweet-scented jasmine and verbena from the open window. Another gentle knock compelled her to answer and as Alfonso’s grey head appeared round the door she breathed a sigh of relief. She needed to compose herself and get her thoughts in order before she faced Francisco again.

‘Señor de Vega wishes me to inform you that dinner will be served in the main dining-room in half an hour,’ the elderly manservant said with formal politeness. ‘Benita or Teresa will come to take you downstairs and the señor thought these may be useful to you.’ He produced a pair of crutches like a magician from behind his back. It was clear from both his attitude and his unsmiling face that he heartily disapproved of this waif that his master had brought home, and as Lorne smiled her thanks the stiff façade didn’t crack by so much as a glimmer. ‘Half an hour, then, señorita.’ As the door shut, Lorne sank back on the bed again for a second before switching on the bedside lamp. At once the room was filled with a soft warm light and as she hobbled to the chair where Alfonso had propped the crutches her ankle reminded her that for the moment, at least, she was dependent on the harsh, cold master of this place for her every need.

Should she telephone Tom? Even as the thought materialised she dismissed it. She had spent the last four years managing on her own and trying to convince him that she was no longer his responsibility. The shock of her parents’ death in a car accident, the arrival of another mouth to feed in addition to his four children and then severe business worries had culminated in her brother’s first heart attack at the young age of thirty-nine just a year before she left for college. His financial burdens were still considerable and although a happy family life alleviated some of the strain she still worried constantly about the state of his health. No—she shook her head determinedly—she wouldn’t contact Tom. She would manage this herself; she had no choice.

‘You are managing the crutches very well.’ As she limped into the huge ornate dining-room with Teresa at her elbow Francisco rose immediately from an easy-chair at the far end of the room and moved quickly to her side, his dark face carefully expressionless. ‘Come and sit down; dinner will be served shortly. Would you care for a glass of wine, sherry?’

‘Sherry would be lovely, thank you.’ She sank gratefully into a wide cushioned chair and flexed her arms for a moment. She had concentrated so fiercely on her balance in order not to go sprawling at his feet that she hadn’t looked at his face, but now as he handed her the beautiful crystal wine glass her eyes met his and the sensation that passed through her body was like a small electric shock.

In the bright light from the magnificent glittering chandelier overhead that dominated the embossed carved ceiling he looked even more dangerous than she remembered. There was a darkness about him, an almost primitive power that seemed to be waiting to break forth from the surface veneer of civilisation. A small shiver snaked down her spine. He was handsome, yes, and that tall, lean body would cause any woman to turn for a second glance, but the aura of cold authority and remoteness that sat on him like a second skin was undeniably chilling. This man would be capable of almost anything. Once the thought had formed she knew it was true. Almost anything...

‘I have delayed dinner for a few minutes in order to talk to you in private.’ As he pulled a chair close to hers and leant forward she stared at him in naked apprehension before forcing a quick smile to her lips.

‘Oh, dear, what have I done now?’

He didn’t respond to her smile but his eyes were like warm velvet as they moved slowly over her pale skin, resting for a minute on the silvery sheen of her hair before returning to meet hers. ‘You have done nothing, Lorne. The fault is mine.’

However could she have thought his eyes were hard? she thought dazedly. Suddenly his whole face was warmer, tender, and for a moment she could see why he would have been a perfect doctor. The transformation was bewildering. Just when she had thought she had got him all taped he had metamorphosed in front of her very eyes.

‘I have never behaved in such a reprehensible manner towards a guest in my home before—do you believe that?’ She couldn’t reply, her mind didn’t seem to be functioning, but her small nod seemed to satisfy him. ‘I would like to offer you my apologies and to assure you that it will not happen again. It was the very opposite of what I intended—’ He broke off abruptly. ‘Quite inexcusable.’

She swallowed hard and then smiled more naturally although his last words had caused a small pang of she knew not what. ‘I’m sorry too; I seem to have caused a great deal of trouble. You’ve missed your appointments...’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’m not usually so stupid.’

‘I am sure you are not but we are not discussing your actions,’ he said softly as he took one of her hands in his, looking down at its tininess in his large hands before setting it back abruptly in her lap. ‘Do you forgive me, Lorne, for behaving little better than your pursuers?’

‘Yes, it’s all right, you didn’t...’ Why did she blush so easily? she thought wretchedly. She must resemble a boiled lobster at the moment whereas he was devastatingly cool and controlled, his dark eyes searching her face with something in their depths she couldn’t read.

Dinner was served ten minutes later and when she was seated at the shiny dark wood dining-table in which the place settings of silver and exquisite arrangements of flowers that festooned the table were reflected in perfect detail the unreal feeling came back, stronger than before. This time yesterday she had been curled up under a somewhat prickly bush on soft sand looking up into a sky that was a dark blanket alive with a pulsing tapestry of stars, and trying to convince herself that the rustlings and movements in the undergrowth near by were her imagination and that the rumbling hunger pains in her stomach were good for her soul.

There were certainly no hunger pains tonight, she thought wryly as she finished the first course of gazpacho, a refreshing cold soup, made from tomato, cucumber, olive oil, bread, garlic and other seasonings and chilled with ice. It was delicious, the best she had tasted since coming to Spain, but she felt so tense and awkward seated opposite Francisco at the vast dining-table being waited on by the attentive Benita and Teresa that she had a job to force the food down.

Francisco sat in enigmatic silence, lounging comfortably in his seat, his dark eyes lazy as they wandered over her face now and again and his big body relaxed. Looking at him now she couldn’t believe the scene in the bedroom when the cold mask had been ripped aside and blazing passion had taken its place but neither was he the cold, austere stranger who had rescued her on the road. Who was he? What was he? He seemed to have a mask for every eventuality and she had the feeling she hadn’t even begun to see the real Francisco de Vega.

‘Have you lived here long?’ They had started on the second course of fresh lobster with aubergine salad and patatas bravas—spicy potatoes—and she felt she just had to break the silence that was grinding at her overwrought nerves.

‘The estate has been in my family for generations,’ Francisco said quietly. ‘I inherited it on my father’s death ten years ago.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Well, it’s very beautiful, very Moorish somehow.’

He nodded, his black eyes closed and hooded against her as their glittering light moved over her face again. ‘The Arabs ruled my country for hundreds of years and the Phoenicians, Greeks and Romans all claimed it for their own. Even now the separate kingdoms which made up the original Spanish nation remain very much in evidence in a diversity of language, culture and artistic traditions. You may have appreciated that in your travels?’ She nodded slowly as his deep rich voice continued. ‘Our history encompasses the Romans, Moors and the “Golden Age” of Renaissance imperialism and in certain parts villages have changed little since Columbus set sail. Most true Spaniards can trace their origins for centuries.’

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