“We make no claims.” 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 Welcome to Europe Copyright

“We make no claims.”

“Claims are two-edged swords, senorita. You may wish to renounce yours—and that is your right. But I have no intention of renouncing mine. And that is my right. And my duty.”

Cathy understood the threat, felt it like a pain in her bones, tasted it on her tongue like the taste of fear. How could she have ever thought that Javier’s eyes were warm? They were cold, cold as the deadliest Toledo steel.

DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic at heart and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale English Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write, Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.

In Name Only

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

HE WAS tall for a Spaniard and he had grey eyes. A warm, smoky grey, intensified by lashes as thick and as black as his straight, soft hair. But the warmth, the softness, was quite definitely counterbalanced by the grave features, the heavy straight brows, by the unsmiling sensual line of his mouth.

She didn’t know him, but she knew of him, Cathy thought on a flutter of panic as she fingered the square of white pasteboard he had handed her. Javier Campuzano.

And she knew why he had come, or thought she did, and she wanted to shut the door in his handsome, unsmiling face and pretend he was simply a bad dream. Or nightmare. Cathy shivered and the instinctive, convulsive tremor had more to do with his presence than with the unpleasant draught of cold air that sliced up from the drearily dank stairwell.

Behind her, in the tiny sitting-room of her modest north London flat, Johnny gave a cross between a crow and a squeal, carrying the undertones of impatience he always produced at the approach of a mealtime. She saw the Spaniard’s eyes flicker, breaking the unfriendly, steady regard, and she stiffened her spine protectively, reminding herself that although she was in for an unenviable few minutes it would soon be over and the unsavoury Campuzano episode could be safely put behind them.

Unsavoury apart from the end-result, of course—her darling, precious Johnny...

‘Señorita Soames?’ He repeated his question, his slightly accented, intriguingly sexy voice gathering the strength of steel, an impatience perhaps, engendered by the promise of a full-throated bellow from the hungry baby in the background. ‘If you will permit...?’

A strong brown hand made a controlled but decisive gesture towards the interior of the flat, and Cathy pushed her paint-stained fingers through the blonde silk of her hair, thrusting it away from her face, and answered resignedly, ‘Of course. Do come in, Señor Campuzano.’ He wouldn’t stay long, only as long as it took to tell her that no way would his impressive family lay themselves open to blackmail, emotional or otherwise. And she, in loco parentis, would take it, then show him the door.

She had expected the black-coated Jerezano, now head of one of Spain’s most respected and wealthiest sherry families, to show a certain amount of unconcealed distaste for the poky room, cluttered with baby and oil-painting impedimenta, where not even her best efforts with wallpaper and soft furnishings could disguise what it was: an undesirably cramped conversion in a run-down area of the city.

But his eyes were on the baby, a slow, unreadable look which, unaccountably, made Cathy shudder all over again. At five months old, Johnny was a sturdy child, already with a definite character and opinions of his own. He saw few people—strangers had not yet entered his tiny world—and now he stopped jouncing his baby-bouncer over the cheap and cheerful carpet and, his starfish hands clutching the string of colourful beads fastened in front of him, he stared at the tall, dark interloper from deep grey, serious eyes. And if Javier Campuzano couldn’t detect the obvious family likeness in the slightly olive-toned skin, those huge dark eyes, the mop of silky black hair, then he had to be blind.

But she didn’t want him to see the likeness, did she? she reminded herself tersely. Just let him say his piece and leave, never to come near any of them again. And then Johnny smiled, showing two tiny, newly emerged front teeth, and it was like the sun coming out on a rainy day. And, amazingly, Campuzano smiled too—a smile of such sincerity that her breath was whisked away, leaving a vaccum, until the protective urge filled the gap and she scooped the baby from the bouncer, holding him on her slender hip, her violet eyes stormy with an ill-defined antagonism as she stared defiantly at the child’s undoubted uncle, her soft mouth compressed.

‘You’ve come on behalf of your brother Francisco,’ she stated quickly, feeling a wayward pulse beat strongly, warningly, at the base of her throat as his smile vanished into glacial facial rigidity. But better to get this out of the way at once, get it all over and done with. ‘I—we——’ she corrected herself automatically ‘—lay no claim whatsoever on your family. Not now, nor in the future.’ Not for the first time she wished Cordy had never sent that second letter. The complete silence following the first had been telling enough.

Francisco Campuzano, younger brother of the head of the distinguished family whose business empire stretched way beyond the world of vineyards, bodegas and wine shippers, had obviously ignored the fact that he had sired a son. The total silence that had followed that first letter, when Cordy had written to say she was pregnant, had clearly demonstrated that he preferred to forget that he had spent the night with a sexy English blonde who was on a modelling assignment in Seville.

So the head of the family’s presence here now, at this late stage, could only indicate that he meant to put the damper on any ambitions the mother of the child might have regarding the Campuzanos’ wealth and standing. And that was fine by her, she thought, smiling down at Johnny, who had decided to explore her mouth, pushing his tiny fingers against her even white teeth.

‘Mam-Mam-Mam...’

Cathy’s smile broadened and, just for a moment, she forgot the presence of the Spaniard. She was quite unashamed of assuring herself that the first coherent sounds the baby had produced, only a day or two ago, meant that he recognised her as his mother. And she was his mother, she thought staunchly, maybe not biologically, but in every other way that mattered. And soon, if the adoption went through smoothly, he would legally be hers. If she lived to be a thousand she would never be able to understand how Cordy could have abandoned him so callously.

But the quality of the silence had her uneasily raising her eyes to meet the steady grey regard of the Jerezano. And the unconsciously tender smile was wiped from her face as she registered the detailed assessment that ranged from the top of her blonde head down to her comfortable old canvas shoes, an assessment that suddenly, and inexplicably, made her aware of her body in a way she had never been aware before, a way that seemed to blister her skin.

‘Yes, I recognise you,’ Campuzano stated with a cool decisiveness that took Cathy’s already ragged breath away and brought a puzzled frown to her smooth, wide brow. He took a step or two back, just avoiding the easel and canvas, as if to gain further perspective, the faint query in his smoky eyes—as if he doubted his own statement—melting away as he pronounced, ‘At that party in Seville you wore the glamour of your trade. I stayed only moments—as a duty, you understand. You were one of the team who had been working on publicity brochures for my hotels. But I was there long enough to see you draped over Francisco.’ For an infinitesimal moment his voice caught, then firmed, ‘And after seeing the child for myself—won’t you tell me his name?—I can only accept your claims.’

So he believed she was Cordy! Cathy thought with an inner quiver of incipient hysteria. Cordy would be furious if she ever discovered that anyone could possibly get the two of them mixed up! But caution silenced her instinctive denial, and she told him coolly, ‘His name is John.’

She had learned caution or, rather, had it thrust upon her when, after the death of their mother, she had become more or less responsible for her younger sister. Even then, Cordy had been a handful, self-willed, vain and already showing signs of the unscrupulousness that would lead to the abandonment of her child. Cathy had been dismayed, but not surprised, when she had learned of the pregnancy.

‘Juan.’ Javier Campuzano used the Spanish pronunciation and Cathy bit back the objection she might have made as being unworthy and said instead, her voice distinctly edgy,

‘You’ll have to excuse us.’ She hoisted the baby higher into her arms, cradling her cheek against the downy softness of his. Already he was beginning to look a bit square round the mouth. Any moment now he would show his displeasure at the lateness of his meal with bellows of rage which would rock the room. ‘I have to mix his feed.’ And one—she hoped—parting shot. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. We make no claims.’

‘We?’ He was not to be so easily banished, she realised, watching the black bars of his straight brows draw together as his eyes flicked down to her ringless fingers. ‘Who are “we”?’

‘Johnny and I, of course,’ she answered with a blitheness that was part bravado, part guilt. But Cordy had walked away from her baby, making it clear she didn’t need the encumbrance, and that, in her book, meant that her selfish sister had automatically forfeited any rights to make claims of any kind.

‘Ah.’ Something that looked remarkably like relief flickered across those memorable features, then, ‘But he is hardly old enough to make that sort of decision,’ Campuzano remarked drily, the sensual mouth turning down at the corners, the arrogance in the way he held his head making her want to slap him. ‘And you?’ Broad shoulders shrugged beneath expensive black cashmere, ingrained courtesy softening the insult as he added, ‘Are you prepared to convince me of some newly discovered sense of maturity and responsibility?’

Swallowing the impulse to tell him that he was mistaken, that she wasn’t the woman who had been irresponsible enough to make love with a man she barely knew, unprotected against conception, who had been immature enough to go to bed with a man she had met for the first time a scant few hours before, Cathy was mortified to feel her face begin to flame. And he read the violent blush as an admission of something more serious than mere shortcomings—of course he did—and one black brow drifted upwards as he drawled, ‘I think not.’ He smiled, a humourless indenting of his lips, as if he was fully aware of how the sheer power of his presence robbed her of speech, of breath.

His personality was too strong, smooth and deadly, and his presence in this room seemed to electrify the very air she breathed. She had been right to be cautious, she comforted herself, clutching the now squirming baby closer, and just how right her instincts had been was brought violently home when he told her, the suavity of his sexy voice serving only to emphasise the underlying brutality, ‘Claims are two-edged swords, señorita. You may wish to renounce yours—and that is your right. But I have no intention of renouncing mine. And that is my right. And my duty.’

She understood the threat, felt it like a pain in her bones, tasted it on her tongue like the taste of fear. How could she have ever thought his eyes were warm? They were cold, cold as the deadliest Toledo steel. But her chin came up, the warmth of the wriggling child in her arms giving her all the courage she needed to fling witheringly, ‘Are you trying to tell me that after all this time Johnny’s father has decided he wants to claim his son?’ Her cheeks were growing hotter by the second, her voice shriller, and she didn’t care. She had to make it clear that any claims the reluctant father made would not be tolerated. Not now, not at this delicate stage of the adoption proceedings. But she couldn’t admit to that, of course, and so she resorted to sniping, ‘After ignoring Johnny’s existence for five months, and the fact of his conception for seven months before that, his belated attentions are not welcome now. Or needed. And why didn’t he come himself?’ Her eyes flashed purple fire. ‘Too cowardly? Did he send you to do his dirty work?’

For a timeless moment he looked as if his body, his features, had been painfully hewn from a block of ice, and then he said, his lips barely moving, ‘Francisco está muerto.’

She needed no translation. Her face was ashen, the word ‘dead’ ringing hollowly inside her skull. In the depth of his emotion he had instinctively reverted to his own language and, for her part, she could have bitten her tongue out. And, when she could, she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘How could you?’ For a fragment of time violet eyes met smoky grey in an instant of sympathy and understanding and, inexplicably, Cathy felt bound to him, bonded with something that went deeper than compassion. And she knew precisely how mistaken she’d been in imagining anything of the sort when he told her, urbanity again sitting easily as a cloak on his wide shoulders, ‘As Juan’s mother, you have undoubted claim. But that doesn’t minimise my own. As Francisco is no longer here to legally recognise his son, then I take it upon myself to do so in the name of the Campuzanos. He is of our family, of our blood. And besides—’ his eyes narrowed, not above taunting ‘—he is my heir. And now—’ his tone gentled as he held out strong brown hands ‘—he is getting grumpy! Fix his feed. I will hold him. And don’t worry...’ He smiled tightly into her apprehensive eyes. ‘I won’t spirit him away. Leave doors open to keep an eye on me, if you don’t trust me.’

It was a challenge she had to accept, but how could she trust him when she didn’t know what he wanted? To absorb Johnny into the Campuzano family? He’d made that much clear. But to what extent? Her hands shook as she got the water and mixed the formula, and her soft lips were compressed as she gave thanks for the instinct that had urged her to keep the truth from him.

If he knew that his nephew’s mother had abandoned him... Cathy gritted her teeth; she couldn’t bear to think about that.

‘You take him, if you’re so concerned. Adopt him, or something, with my blessing,’ Cordy had said as soon as it had become obvious that Francisco Campuzano had no intention of acknowledging his son. Cordy had seen the baby as a pawn, a key to unlock the door that would lead to marriage into wealth and prestige, and when that obviously wasn’t going to happen she didn’t want to know.

As it was, the Jerezano believed she had the greater claim to the baby, as his mother. And that was something he must go on believing—until the adoption order had safely gone through, at the very least.

Squeals of delight were coming from the living-room as she carried the bottle through, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Javier Campuzano had discarded his coat, the expensive, beautifully tailored garment flung haphazardly over the back of a chair, and he was bouncing the crowing baby on his impeccably suited knees, strong hands supporting the sturdy little body, his own face lit with a smile that gave an entirely and heart-stopping new dimension to his lean and handsome features.

Relaxed, he was a man she could find irresistibly attractive, she acknowledged dizzily as her heart began to beat again, picking up speed as if to make up for lost time. And that was something she hadn’t admitted in a long time, not since Donald.

But she recognised the momentary foolishness for what it was as, becoming aware of her hovering presence, he rose elegantly to his feet, holding the baby securely against his shoulder, the smile wiped away as if it had never been as he told her, ‘The preliminaries are over, señorita. I now propose to lay my cards on the table.’

Oh, did he? Cathy stamped on the impulse to tell him to get lost, and took the baby without a word. Settling herself on the chair she always used to nurse Johnny, she told herself that it wouldn’t hurt to hear what he had to say. As long as he believed she was the child’s mother she didn’t have to agree to a single thing.

He took his time over settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the gas fire, and his eyes were coldly determined as he told her, ‘Having seen you and recognised you, having seen Juan, I can’t dispute that he is Francisco’s son. One day I will show you photographs of my brother at roughly the same age. You would swear they were twins, if you didn’t know better.’

Was she supposed to make some comment? She was too edgy even to look his way, and kept her eyes on the contentedly sucking baby. And Campuzano continued smoothly, ‘I intend to make sure that Francisco’s son is brought up in full knowledge of his Spanish heritage. One day he will inherit, become head of the family. Do you have the remotest idea of what that means?’

Forced by the edge of steel in his voice to emerge from the wall of uninterest she had carefully hidden herself behind, Cathy raised unwilling eyes and met the cold intensity of his. She shivered, forcing a cool disbelief into her voice as she queried, ‘Have you no sons of your own to inherit, señor?’ and saw his mouth compress to a line that was as bitter as it was brief, and, oddly, felt wildly exultant. Somehow she had flicked him on the raw, and surely it wasn’t too ignoble of her to rejoice in the knowledge? Ever since he had announced himself she had been feeling apprehensive, edgy and very, very vulnerable, so paying him back felt good!

But her elation lasted no time at all because, as she eased the teat out of the baby’s mouth and lifted the sleepy bundle against her shoulder, she saw Campuzano’s eyes follow every gentle movement with an intentness that was infinitely disturbing and heard him say, ‘My wife died. There were no children. I have no desire to replace her—much, I might add, to my mother’s disapproval. However—’ he spread his hands in a gesture that Cathy found poignantly fatalistic ‘—I looked to Francisco to marry and provide heirs. But he died.’

But left an heir. Battening down her agitation, Cathy got to her feet and carefully laid the child in his Moses basket, tucking the blankets around his body, the reward of a tiny, sleepy smile and the downdrift of thick black lashes making her loving heart twist in anguish.

Javier Campuzano would take him from her if he could; the dark intent, the threat, had been threaded through everything he had said so far.

She turned, finding him, inevitably, at her shoulder, his brooding eyes on the child. She wanted to scream, to make him go away and never come back, and, to hide her reaction, defuse a little of the pressure he was putting her under, she said quickly, ‘I was sorry to hear of Francisco’s death, but he can’t have been much interested in his son’s existence, otherwise he would have contacted my...’ She caught herself just in time, and altered quickly, ‘Answered one of my letters.’

Her face flushed. She wasn’t used to dissembling. Her character was straightforward and direct, but she was fighting for Johnny, for the right to keep him, for the right to give him all the love his natural mother was incapable of feeling. And she didn’t want all the unwilling sympathy he aroused when he told her with painful simplicity, ‘About a week after your... encounter—shall we call it?—he was involved in a car accident which left him hooked up to a life-support system. He was in a coma for many months and when he regained partial consciousness he was paralysed. His eventual death must have come, for him at least, in the form of a release. When your letters arrived my mother’s housekeeper put them aside. They were forgotten until I came across them two weeks ago when I began putting my brother’s effects in order. Maria was not to blame. She was, like the rest of us, distraught by what had happened, by the fact that Francisco couldn’t open his own mail, much less read it. I know, however, that he would have acknowledged his son.’ He drew himself up to his full, intimidating height, deeply rooted family pride marking his features with a formidable severity.

Cathy’s breath caught in her throat as she unwillingly admitted to his dark male magnificence, but she fought the grudging admiration as he added scathingly, ‘If you’d got to know him at all, you too would know that much, at least. I can’t know, of course, how deep the emotional side of your brief relationship went, but from your reaction to the news of his death I would judge it to have been regrettably shallow on your part.’

‘Oh... I...’ Cathy floundered. She had been forced into an unsavoury corner, and raked her memory for Cordy’s explanation of events. Self-protectively, she dropped back into her chair, drawing her legs up beneath her. ‘We had two glorious days and nights,’ Cordy had confided. ‘Eating, drinking, making love. Not much sleeping. From what he told me, and what I picked up from discreet enquiries, he comes from a fabulously wealthy family. Just one older brother who runs the whole family show—a bit of an enigma from what I can gather, but we can rule him out, because you know how the Spanish have this thing about pride and honour, and the importance of family? So, by my reckoning, I’m on to a winner! He was pretty cut up when I had to leave Seville, of course, and I did promise I’d let him know when I had some free time to entertain him in London. But you know how busy I’ve been.’ She had given an elegant shrug. ‘Never mind, I just know he’ll be delighted when he gets the news. I’m going to write and tell him, get it down in black and white.’

Aware that Javier was waiting for some reply, Cathy frantically edited what she had learned of the brief affair from her sister and came up, lamely, with, ‘We only knew each other for a couple of days.’ She knew she sounded defensive, and that was down to the circumstances, the way she was having to go against her instincts and lie. And there wasn’t anything she could do about that.

‘Long enough, however, for your child to be conceived,’ he replied with a dryness that shrivelled her bones. Slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he drew two sheets of paper from an inside pocket and spread them out in front of her. ‘Obviously, from reading your letters, up until five months ago you wanted Francisco to know of the existence of his child. You did write these letters of your own free will?’

What could she say? To deny it would let him know more than was safe. She nodded mutely, hating the web of deceit that was enmeshing her more firmly by the moment. And she felt even more guilty when he remarked, a thread of humour in his voice, ‘You sign your name indecipherably. You are the mother of my nephew—I think I should know your name, don’t you? Try as I might, I can’t fathom it.’

She didn’t blame him. The letters were written in Cordy’s affected, flamboyant style, and were not too difficult to read, with patience. But the signature was something else: an enormous C connected to a Y which could have been any letter under the sun, with a mere squiggle in between. She cleared her throat and answered stoically, Cathy. Short for Catherine.’

‘So, Cathy, what were you looking for? A financial settlement—or marriage?’ His voice had hardened, making her heart beat faster. Besides, he had come closer, crowding her, swamping her with the power of his presence. ‘Why the repudiation of all claims now?’

‘Because I now realise that Johnny and I can make it on our own. We don’t need any help; we make no claims—not one—especially now that Francisco is dead.’ She spoke firmly simply because she was on firm ground. She was speaking the truth and was comfortable with that.

‘I see.’ He had begun to prowl the confines of the small room, like a supremely confident predator who was simply biding his time before making his kill. Cathy stuck her chin out. She wasn’t going to let him frighten her. As long as he believed her to be Johnny’s mother there was little he could do. Surely? ‘And who takes care of the child while you are out posing for the camera?’ he demanded to know. ‘Some hired half-wit who doesn’t care for his well-being or mental development so long as she gets paid at the end of the day? And do you have access to a garden where he can play safely when he is old enough? I saw no sign of one.’ He picked up Cordy’s letters, folded them carefully, and tucked them away in his pocket, his probing eyes never leaving hers.

That was a problem, she had to admit, but she’d get round it somehow.

‘There are plenty of parks I can take him to,’ she returned spiritedly. And so there were, and, if they weren’t exactly on the doorstep, well, they’d manage. There were such things as buses, even in this part of London! ‘And I look after him myself. I earn enough to keep us very adequately by my painting.’ Not exactly true. Since leaving the agency she’d managed to get some freelance illustrating work occasionally and she’d sold a few oils through a small gallery in a not quite fashionable mews in the Kensington area. Money was often tight, but one day her name would be known and her work would be in demand. She just had to believe it.

‘So?’ He raised one straight brow, turning to the canvas on the easel. She always worked on a small canvas; it suited the restrained elegance of her style. And this one was of a little-known area of one of the oldest parts of London, very atmospheric and her first actual commission. But, whatever his thoughts on the merit of her work, they were kept firmly to himself, and when he turned to face her his expression was blank, but she caught the faint undertone of sarcasm as he commented, ‘A woman of varied talents. But, if I am not mistaken, it can take many years for an artist to become known. And what happens in the meantime? You starve, or you return to your former, more lucrative career. Leaving Juan—where?’

He was insufferable! How dared he imply that she would fail in her care for the child? Violet eyes narrowed to stormy purple slits as she growled, ‘I’ve had enough of this inquisition! I am perfectly capable of—’

‘Silencio!’ A flash of Spanish fire erupted deep in his eyes and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his superbly tailored trousers as if to prevent himself from strangling her on the spot.

His straddle-legged stance was intimidating enough, but his hard-bitten words were terrifying, making her stomach churn sickeningly as he informed her, ‘Whether you like it or not, I intend to have a great deal of say in the way my nephew is brought up. I want him in Spain, with me. I want him at my home in Jerez where he will be given every advantage, every care, where he will learn how to shoulder the responsibilities of his inheritance, when the time comes. And don’t think I come unarmed, señorita. I do not.’

He gave her a slow, terrible smile that turned her heart inside out with the awful knowledge that he meant every word he said. ‘If you do not agree I will apply through your courts for a contact order. And I will get it; be sure of that. It will give me the right to take the child regularly to Spain, to bring him up as his father would have done. And I might go further,’ he warned with icy control. ‘With the help of the best lawyers available I could prove that you are not a fit mother.’ His eyes derided her gasp of outrage. ‘A second-rate model who gets drunk at parties and goes to bed with the first man she fancies. Don’t forget, I saw you with Francisco. You could hardly stand. You were practically begging him to take you to bed; anyone with eyes could see that. There are countless witnesses I could call on to vouch for it, and I am quite sure—’ again that terrible mocking smile ‘—that, should I wish to delve into your former career, I could find many more instances of your promiscuity. Added to which, your sudden and vague idea of supporting yourself and your son by selling paintings smacks a little of instability, wouldn’t you say? And who is to predict when single-parenthood will begin to bore you? How long before you pine for the glamour, the spurious attention, the parties? Not long, I think. However—’ he reached for his coat, barely glancing at Cathy’s pale, anguished face ‘—I might be persuaded not to go so far. If you agree to accompany me and Juan to Spain—unfortunately, at his tender age, you will have to be part of the package—to meet his grandmother for a protracted visit, then I will not take the matter any further. But I do warn you that if you refuse I will then put the other matters in hand.’

He gave her a thin smile, one that boded no good at all.

‘Adiós, señorita. I will call tomorrow at the same time to hear what you have decided. And then the arrangements can be put in hand. Either way. And think very carefully. If you try to go against me, you will lose him. This I promise.’

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

‘No.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Ahhh! El niño!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

‘AN APERITIF, Cathy?’

She hovered in the open doorway and watched as he laid the papers he’d been engrossed in aside, his urbane smile not quite reaching his eyes as he rose to his feet.

‘Thank you.’ She sound breathless. Her heart was performing a mad tattoo against her breastbone. He rarely used her given name, preferring the formal ‘señorita’, investing it with the delicate sarcasm she had come to dread. And now his lightly hooded eyes were making a lazy yet thorough inspection of her black-clad body and she saw his wide shoulders rise in a minimal shrug that barely moved the surface of the fine white alpaca jacket he wore.

Cathy turned on teetering heels, trying not to stumble as she made for one of the soft leather-covered armchairs arranged around the massive open fireplace, the chimney breast soaring way up to the raftered ceiling. The drift of his cool eyes had been a slow sexual insult, making her shatteringly aware of all that dominant Spanish machismo so tenuously concealed beneath the suave veneer of grace and good manners.

Warily, she watched as he poured the pale golden liquid from a bottle bearing the distinctive Campuzano label, and he sounded as if he were purring as he placed the curved, slender glass beside a silver bowl of plump olives on the low table at her side.

‘Try the fino. If it is too dry for your palate we can substitute an oloroso. The British used to be our biggest market for the sweeter, heavier sherries—the drink for elderly maiden ladies, we consider it here— but now their tastes appear to have changed; we now export far more fino to your country—’

‘Don’t knock it!’ Cathy advised in a cold little voice. ‘Maybe all those elderly ladies have acquired more sophisticated tastes. Or drink gin.’

Did he have to act so superior all the time? Or couldn’t he help it because it was an integral part of his nature? The latter, she suspected, and was thrown off balance when he smiled—really smiled this time—as he assured her,

‘I don’t knock it, believe me. When Drake singed the beard of the King of Spain he also carried home around three thousand casks of sherry and so founded our highly profitable trade links with England. So no, I wouldn’t dream of knocking one of our best markets!’ He seated himself almost directly opposite her with an indolent grace that only served to remind her of his powerful masculine virility, his grey eyes appearing almost seductively drowsy as he questioned, ‘Is the drink to your taste?’

Pulling herself away from the mesmeric spell of his hooded gaze, Cathy took a hasty sip and then another. The pale wine was crisp and delicious, slightly aromatic, the chilled liquid sliding down her throat, tasting like sunlight gently touched by frost.

‘Very much so.’ Her eyes smiled into his, her heart warmed by this rare moment of something she could almost believe to be closeness. ‘I confess, I could become addicted.’ Idly she traced a line in the condensation on the curved surface of the glass and heard herself asking with an interest she had never expected to feel, ‘If the market for the sweet sherries is declining, why don’t you produce more dry?’

‘It is not so simple. It all depends on the development of the flor... However—’ he spread his strong, finely made hands at her look of incomprehension and rose to refill her glass ‘—when we visit Jerez I will take you to the bodega where I shall attempt to explain. If you are interested.’

She was, almost in spite of herself, in spite of those feelings of mutual mistrust which flowed so strongly between them, the deceit on her part and the dictatorial arrogance on his. But he had given her an opening she couldn’t pass and, taking another fortifying sip, she leant back in her chair, making an effort to relax, crossed her legs above the knee, and asked, ‘When, exactly, shall I get to visit Jerez and your mother?’

‘Why the hurry?’ There was a touch of contempt in the steady grey gaze, a flick of something that made her shudder as his eyes deliberately assessed the long, exposed elegance of her crossed legs. ‘Is the finca too quiet, too rustic for your tastes? Lo siento—I’m sorry you have become so quickly bored.’

Horrible, horrible man! Cathy’s face turned an uncomfortable red as she hastily set her feet side by side and tugged down her skirt. He’d been looking at her unthinkingly exposed legs as if they were goods on offer—shoddy, second-hand goods—and instantly rejected them. Cordy—or her reputation—had a lot to answer for!

‘My main reason for agreeing to come to Spain was to allow your mother to see her grandson,’ she told him with a cool dignity she was proud of. ‘If you won’t take us to her, then I must find some means of going on my own. I’m sure Tomás—’

‘My mother will receive you when she is ready,’ he injected suavely. ‘It is not so long since Francisco’s death; she needs time to adjust to the idea that he left a child. And Tomás will take you nowhere; I forbid it.’

Forbid? Yes, he was perfectly capable of doing so. As far as he was concerned, his word was law and Tomás and every other subject in his kingdom would obey it right down to the very last letter. Something sharp and hot rose in her throat to choke her and her voice was hoarse with anger as she flung at him, “Then what the hell am I doing here? Couldn’t you have waited until she was ready to see him? Why waste my time?’

Anger turned back on her in waves of frustration as it met the unbreachable wall of his apparent disregard. There was not a flicker of emotion on those dark, impressive features, merely the schooled control of a man who had witnessed the demeaning antics of a fishwife but was too polite to comment. And she sagged back in her seat, suddenly drained, as he rose with inherent grace and pressed a discreetly concealed button near the wide cedarwood door.

‘Come, it is time to eat.’

Just like that. Just as if her angry questions had never been asked, Cathy fumed, rising in a jerky movement, following him, wanting to get the meal over and done with and get back to her room, shut herself in with the sleeping baby, and try to work out what to do.

Facing him across the oval table, Cathy spread her linen napkin over her lap with a fierce twist of her wrist and waited for Paquita to serve her with, as she proudly announced, ‘Sopa de mariscos al vino de Jerez,’ which, for her benefit, Campuzano translated more prosaically as sherry and shellfish soup.

Whatever, it was delicious and welcome. Cathy ate quickly and appreciatively, fully aware that she wouldn’t have agreed to share his table at all if she hadn’t been ravenously hungry.

The warm crusty bread served with the tangy, ocean-flavoured soup was irresistible, and Cathy, her mouth full, saw the lean brown hand slide a glass over the linen cloth, found her eyes held by the dusting of dark hair between the white of his cuff and the soft leather strap of his wafer-thin watch, and felt her throat close up for no reason at all.

‘Manzanilla makes the perfect accompaniment. Part of the pleasure of savouring a meal,’ he said softly, coolly, and she replaced the spoon in her bowl and swallowed her mouthful with immense difficulty. He was letting her know that her table manners were no better than a greedy child’s. He never lost an opportunity to put her down. Her appetite disappeared very suddenly.

‘This comes from the Campuzano vineyards in the area of Sanlúcar de Barrameda. It is believed that the breeze from the Atlantic gives it its unique and slightly salty flavour.’ He took a reflective sip from his own glass, his lightly veiled eyes challenging her fulminating violet stare and, more as a reflex action than anything else, she took an apprehensive sip. Salty sherry?

But it was crisp and cold and intriguingly tangy, paler in colour than the chilled fino he had given her as an aperitif, and if he noted the surprise, followed by the pleasure in her eyes, he made no comment other than, ‘Finish your soup. Paquita will be devastated if you don’t clear your plate.’

‘I am not a child,’ Cathy returned stiffly.

She felt his eyes slide over the lush curves of her breasts, heard him agree, ‘Obviously not,’ and decided to maintain a dignified silence, and managed to do exactly that, right through the Sevillana salad, the chicken with garlic and one glass too many of a light Rioja wine.

‘You will take a little caramel flan?’ Paquita had withdrawn, and the silver cake knife was poised in long, lean fingers. Cathy shook her head. She couldn’t eat another crumb, and the wine, on top of all that sherry, had gone straight to her head. She wasn’t used to alcohol in such profligate quantity.

The silver serving knife was gently placed back on the linen-covered table and Campuzano leaned elegantly back in his chair, his attractively accented voice much too smooth as he remarked, ‘I hear you have made Rosa redundant.’ A smile curled at one corner of his wide, sensual mouth, but his eyes were cold. ‘If it was done in an attempt to persuade me of your sterling qualities as a mother, it was misguided.’ Again the unmistakable challenge in those deep grey eyes, and Cathy bit back the heated words of rebuttal. She couldn’t trust herself to speak without getting her tongue in a tangle and could have boiled herself in oil for drinking all that sherry—not to mention the wine.

Hoping he would put her silence down to a refusal to dignify his snide remark with any comment at all, she rose from her seat, wobbled alarmingly as her head began to spin, and sat straight down again, only to hear his dry, sarcastic, ‘For Juan’s sake, I hope he is not in need of your ministrations tonight. If he is, then might I suggest you call Rosa out of her enforced retirement?’

Drunk in charge of a baby! Cathy thought, her head whirling. The hateful wretch had probably done it on purpose, feeding her one innocuous-looking measure of alcohol after another, inviting her opinion in that suave, wickedly sexy voice of his, intent on giving himself the proof that she wasn’t a fit mother for an earthworm—let alone his nephew!

How she regained her feet and got herself to the door in more or less a straight line, she never knew. She even managed a stiff ‘Goodnight’ before he slewed round in his chair, one black brow tilted in sardonic enquiry as he questioned,

‘Tell me, you say your name is Cathy, so why do your colleagues and friends know you as Cordy—or Cordelia?’ A very slight shrug, an even slighter smile. ‘I am sure there is a logical reason, but I don’t like puzzles. So humour me.’

Cathy could only stare at him, her eyes going so wide that they began to ache. He suspected; she knew he did. Had he waited until her fuddled brain would be incapable of thinking up some credible lie? Was that another of his devious reasons for systematically getting her drunk?

Somehow her tongue had got fused to the roof of her mouth, and her heart, tripping with alarm, didn’t help her to think clearly, and his smile had a definite feral quality as he added with a cool politeness that made her skin crawl, ‘Perhaps your memory requires a little help.’ White teeth glittered between those sensual lips. ‘After I read those letters, particularly the second, telling of the existence of my brother’s alleged son, I made a few initial enquiries. I found the signature indecipherable, as you recall, but my description, my reminders of the party to mark the end of the assignment you were part of, all produced the same name. Cordelia Soames. Or Cordy to her friends—who, I might say, seemed to be numerous and almost exclusively male and, practically to a man...intimate.’

If nothing else could have sobered her, the hateful inflexion he placed on that last word did the trick. How dared he make her sister out to be a tramp, happy to fall in bed with anything in trousers? Cordy simply loved the reflected glamour of her job, the glitzy parties and socialising. And flirting was just a game to her, had been since she was fifteen years old. She wasn’t promiscuous, not really. Surely the fact that she had got pregnant pointed to that? If she’d been in the habit of sleeping around she would have made sure she was protected.

Her head now miraculously clear, Cathy gave him a withering smile, her voice dripping with acid as she told him, ‘Far be it from me to allow you to lose any sleep over such a tricky puzzle, señor. Cordelia was my professional name. I thought plain old Cathy a little too homespun. Satisfied?’

He would have to be, she thought as she swept out of the door. He would have to come up with better trick questions than that before he caught her out—tipsy or sober. She was getting quite expert at the game of deceit!

Cathy closed her eyes against the brilliant white dry heat and pulled the shady brim of the floppy straw hat Rosa had lent her further down over her face.

She had hitched a ride on a tractor with Rafael, the eldest of Paquita and Tomás’s brood, right to the edge of the vineyards, and now she set her sights on the shade offered by the grove of parasol pines she could see in the distance.

Behind her the tractor roared out of sight, leaving a cloud of white dust on the still air—the dust of the Albariza soil which made this vast triangle, stretching between the sherry towns of Jerez, Puerto de Santa Maria and Sanlúcar de Barrameda and encompassed by the rivers Guadalquivir and Guadalete, the one place in the world where the unique wine could be produced. So much she had teamed from Rosa, who had been determined to educate as well as befriend her, Cathy thought with a quirky smile.

In fact her unexpected sense of relaxation was probably due as much to Rosa’s friendship, the way she had taken pains to tell her so much about the area, as to the absence of Campuzano.

Not that he had left the finca; he hadn’t. But he dined out every night. With his mother, Rosa said, but, with a cynicism that had appeared out of nowhere, Cathy had expressed her doubts. The lady he dined with so regularly would be many years younger than Dona Luisa, the relationship between them certainly not that of mother and son!

And the rancour she felt when, ears straining, she heard the sounds of his return in the early hours of each morning was entirely due to the way he had insisted on dragging her away from home only to forget her existence, and the purpose of the visit—the introduction of the baby to his grandmother—which was seemingly just as far away as it had ever been.

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