The Last Illusion

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLEY paid the driver off at Plaza San Francisco. He had the grey eyes of a Berber in a face like a walnut, and they crinkled appreciatively as she added a generous amount of pesetas to the fare, thanking him in his own language.

At least her Spanish hadn’t emerged too rustily, though Olivia, who had prided herself on her pure Castilian, would no doubt still deride the distinctive Andaluz dialect she had picked up from her teacher, Andrés, who had tended the sumptuous gardens behind Sebastian’s town house here in Cadiz.

Despite the heat, a convulsive shudder rocked her too slender frame. She had no illusions. Olivia would spend as much time here as she had done before. Probably more. Facing her again, knowing what she knew, would be as hard, if not harder, than facing her husband.

Not that she had thought of Sebastian Machado as her husband since she had left him four years ago, she reminded herself as she picked up the small, soft-backed suitcase which had doubled as hand luggage on the flight from London to Jerez. She had cut him out of her life and, with a great deal of input from her aunt Freda, had made herself over, made a career of sorts for herself. And deciding, at last, to accept Gregory’s offer of marriage had been the final and decisive change, a change that had irretrievably cancelled out the trauma of the past.

The only thing left to do was to ask Sebastian to agree to a divorce.

And to buy back those shares. Greg had told her to insist on that, though to her way of thinking nothing was as important as her legal freedom, certainly not the extra money, useful though it would be.

Restlessly her tawny eyes ranged around the pretty square as she wondered whether to give in to the cowardly temptation to sit at a table beneath the shade of one of the dozens of orange trees and sip at an ice-cold jugo de naranja, but decided against, because she knew her churning stomach would instantly reject anything she tried to put into it—even something as innocuous and refreshing as orange juice.

Besides, she had already allowed herself the concession of stopping off at the square, using the five minutes or so it would take to find her way on foot to the home she had once shared—with equal measures of rapture and pain—with Sebastian. Time enough to quell the unlooked-for flutter of nerves that was, dismayingly, threatening to turn into a full-scale attack.

Striking off into the narrow, shadowed streets of the old quarter, she tightened her jaw, ignoring the trickle of perspiration between her shoulderblades. Here, deep in the maze of narrow white streets, glinting with miradores—the glazed balconies that offered protection from the Atlantic breezes—she felt drainingly homesick. She had forgotten how much she had learned to love this joyous, bustling white city, built on the tip of a headland, thrusting so confidently out into the sea.

There was so much she had believed forgotten, both the good and the bad thrust willy-nilly into the dark netherworld of her soul where they could no longer hurt her. And when she caught her first glimpse of the ornate iron gates that seemed to overpower the narrow street she almost turned tail and ran, beginning to wish she had followed Greg’s advice and done everything through her solicitor.

But she conquered the impulse as she had learned to conquer all her fears during the last four years. Beneath the sleekly styled ochre linen suit she had chosen to travel in, her slender body tautened with determination. It was just a house. Rather more splendid than most, but nevertheless just a house. Beyond the intricately fashioned gates lay a courtyard and beyond that the ancient, arcaded stone house, beyond that the gardens where the magnolia trees grew and within, somewhere among the dozens of sumptuous rooms, a place where she could quietly sit and collect herself until her husband returned from his arrogant office block in the commercial area beyond the ancient Moorish walls of the town.

And Teresa would bring her some tea.

Inconceivable that her old Spanish friend would have given up her jealously guarded position as Sebastian’s housekeeper. Four years ago Teresa had ruled the household with an iron fist in a very threadbare velvet glove, and that wouldn’t have changed.

Teresa had the tongue of a scold and the heart of a lion, but she had taken the almost painfully innocent girl Charley had been when she’d arrived here to her vast bosom. She had been nineteen years old when Sebastian had brought her here as his bride—with the experience and outlook of a child of ten, as Freda had tartly pointed out.

But that was no longer the case, she reminded herself as she pushed at the impressive iron gates. A year of marriage had all but broken her, but with Freda’s initial help she had put her life back together, wiped Sebastian and what he had done from her brain, and had emerged as a twenty-four-year-old woman who was nobody’s fool.

Sebastian meant nothing to her now. She couldn’t even be bothered to hate him for what he had done. So instead of feeling nervous she would concentrate on her achievement in travelling the road to complete self-recovery!

And when he returned this evening she would be waiting, would calmly state her business, and the moment she had obtained his agreement—and surely there would be no problem there—she would get herself back to the safe predictability of England and Greg and her work and quietly look forward to an autumn wedding.

Passing quickly through the scented courtyard, not giving the vibrant heat, the perfume of orange blossom and oleanders time to seduce her senses, she entered the huge dim hall, marble-paved and cool, the walls clad with dark, elaborately carved wood, the marble staircase a thing of almost ethereal beauty, soaring upwards like a pathway to heaven.

And hell, she reminded herself staunchly, her small face going stiff with the determination to block out the instinctive appeal this land, its architecture and its people had exerted on her in the past. It wouldn’t happen again. She had learned that appearances could often be deceptive, that people could lie, silver tongues saying things they didn’t mean.

Blinking, trying to get her eyes to readjust after the whiteness of the light outside, she absorbed the silence of the great house. Siesta time, so it wasn’t to be wondered at, and, rather than disturb Teresa, she would find herself somewhere to wait.

Putting her case down against one of the walls, she straightened, her ears picking up the faint rustle of fabric, a sibilant drag of indrawn breath, and her narrowed eyes fastened on a shimmer of white movement and she was fixed to the spot, because her feet seemed to have rooted themselves to the pale cold marble, and Sebastian said thickly, ‘So you return, at last.’

She hadn’t expected to see him so soon; it put her at a disadvantage. Thick dark lashes drifted down, briefly closing him out. The white cambric shirt made his olive-toned skin and his cropped midnight hair even darker, his narrow black trousers emphasising his long-legged leanness, the whippy strength of the hard, wide shoulders and non-existent hips. She had forgotten the impact he made.

She should have remembered, been more prepared.

Forcing her tawny eyes open, she stared at him with a cool and desperate defiance. Looks counted for nothing, she told herself. The rare combination of sultry, hooded black eyes and a wide, unashamedly sensual mouth with the harsh asceticism of bleakly carved cheekbones and jawline and the arrogant, aquiline cast of his nose had swept her giddily gullible head off her shoulders when they had first met five years ago.

But she saw more clearly now; he had the face of a fallen angel, the face of a man who could cold-bloodedly kill his own brother, who could pluck an innocent out of her own sheltered element, expose her to the dark pride and passion that was uniquely his own, use her, and betray her without blinking one of his own long, silky black lashes!

‘For about half an hour,’ she made herself answer, trying not to flinch as he stalked closer, like a black panther. ‘It shouldn’t take longer.’

‘I am honoured.’ His dark, intriguingly accented voice seemed to curl around her, and she shuddered. He smiled faintly. ‘You go to the expense and trouble to leave your nest in the middle of England—Stanton Bottom, such a curious name—to fly out to spend a mere half-hour in my company. An honour indeed.’

‘How did you know where I was?’ Shock and dismay had her blurting the words out without thinking, and she watched his sensual mouth go thin, heard a vein of ice creep into his voice.

‘If you imagine I would let you walk away from me and disappear, then you don’t know me. But then—’ the brooding black eyes hardened to glinting jet, ‘—past events adequately proved that you know more about the hidden side of the moon than you know about me. Isn’t that so, mi esposa?’ He spread one hand almost contemptuously, laying out the details of the last four years of her life as if they were beneath notice. ‘You spent six months with your aunt in Harrow. She put you through a crash course and made sure you caught up with your abandoned business studies. She then packed you off to that place with the curious name in your English Midlands, where you worked as an assistant to the manager of a hotel-conference-centre-leisure park. Is that not so?’

‘You spied on me!’ Charley felt what little colour she had drain out of her face. She had thought she was safe, that as far as he was concerned she had disappeared off the face of the earth.

She shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, her teeth biting into her soft lower lip. All that time—the six months of sheer hard grind that had earned her the qualifications she needed, the job Aunt Freda had found through her business and domestic agency, tucked away on the edge of the Staffordshire moorlands. She had felt safe there, had been able to come to terms with what Sebastian had done, had grown in confidence and independence. And all the time he had known exactly where she was, what she was doing. It didn’t bear thinking about. People must feel like this when they came home and found the house burgled and ransacked, their private possessions spewed around like so much tawdry, worthless debris.

‘I prefer to think of it as keeping a watch over my own,’ Sebastian stated, his aristocratically cut nostrils flaring with displeasure at her choice of words. The accusation of something as underhand as spying would not fit in with his exalted opinions of himself. He liked to think of himself as a man of honour—and woe betide anyone who had the temerity to impugn it—and didn’t allow himself to understand that he had long ago compromised what honour he might once have had.

And the fact that he had kept tabs on her meant that he must know about Gregory Wilson, how they had met and how often they had dated. So at least her request for a divorce wouldn’t come as a surprise, she thought, trying to feel tough.

But it was difficult to feel tough and in control of the situation when his lancing eyes informed her that he knew all there was to know about her and wasn’t impressed.

‘If we are to spend half an hour together, then I suggest we do it in comfort.’ The drawled sarcasm turned her stomach, fiery little spirals igniting inside her as he took her arm and led her through to a small sala tucked away at the rear of the house. Being close to him, touched by him, made every nerve end quiver, forcing her to remember how just one sultry glance from those impenetrable black eyes had once had the power to reduce her to a mass of desperate, wanton needs.

It was a memory she refused to entertain and she shook her head as if to clear it, obeyed the slight movement of his hand and sat on a damask-covered chair, her spine rigid. And all around her the cool green light that filtered through the louvres touched the graceful Spanish renaissance furnishings, giving the heavily carved or richly painted pieces an air of soft mystery that would be lost in the full glare of sunlight. This was the room she had made her own, often coming here to read or simply to try to relax, especially when Olivia—with all that false friendliness—had been in residence.

Had Sebastian remembered? Had he chosen this room from the almost countless others because he knew it would give her pain? He must know that it had been here that Olivia had finally shed her veneer of matiness and spat out the cruel, devastating truth.

Charley straightened her already rigid shoulders and wished he’d sit down, but couldn’t ask him to because to do so would reveal that his endless pacing, slow circling, was getting to her. She didn’t want him to know that he could affect her on any level. And the way he moved with the insolent grace born of a natural arrogance, touched a long-forgotten core of unwanted female responsiveness deep within her.

‘You have changed, Charlotte,’ he pronounced at last.

The deep timbre of his voice, that wickedly sensual accent, flicked her on the raw and made her snap without thinking of what she might be revealing. ‘I prefer Charley.’ Only her parents, and Sebastian, had used her full name. She had loved her parents and now they were dead. She had loved Sebastian and, as far as she was concerned, he might as well be dead, too. She didn’t want to be reminded.

‘I refuse to call you by a name that would be ugly for a male and unthinkable for a female, especially a female who has grown into something quite remarkably sophisticated.’

The level look beneath lowered brows was tinged with an amused derision, she noted fumingly, as he lowered himself gracefully on to a velvet-covered chaise. If he had thought of her at all during the past four years it would have been as the slightly plump, wide-eyed nineteen-year-old he had married. Her mouse-brown hair had hung limply halfway down her back, and the only make-up she had used had been a smear of pale pink lipstick.

But she had lost a lot of weight after she’d left him and had never regained it, and her hair had darkened to a glossy seal-brown and she now wore it cut fashionably short. Freda had been initially responsible for the change in her style of dressing. Her, ‘You can’t go through life looking like Alice in Wonderland, not if you want to land a responsible, reasonably paid job. I loved my sister dearly, but she had a blind spot when it came to your upbringing. She insisted on dressing you like the Sugar Plum Fairy since the day you were born, and you couldn’t have been more sheltered if you and your parents had lived out your lives as the sole inhabitants of a desert island,’ had hurt at the time.

However, it hadn’t taken too much soul-searching to acknowledge that Freda had been right. As the only child of parents who had feared that after fifteen years of marriage they would never have children, she had been too protected and sheltered.

Her education had been at a private, girls-only school, her friends carefully vetted, her out-of-school activities more suited to a Victorian miss than a girl of the twentieth century.

Her wish to take a business studies course and stay on in England when her parents retired to Spain had been granted only after endless and minute discussions. Only when her mother’s younger, unmarried sister, Freda, had stepped in and offered to have her stay at her flat in Harrow had her wish been granted.

And even during that year Freda hadn’t made more than a few half-hearted efforts to push her into the real world. While Charley’s parents had been alive Freda hadn’t felt able to interfere with the lifestyle of her quiet, studious and painfully innocent niece. Besides, she had been too engrossed in running her own successful agency to spare the effort needed to try to change someone who had been patently happy with the way she was.

But the way she had been then meant that she had been completely gullible, quite unable to see through a man like Sebastian Machado. A few kind words, a few careless caresses, had been enough to turn her silly, innocent head. No, he had needed to expend very little effort to ensure he got what he wanted: a woman who was stupid enough, besotted enough, to play the part he had allotted her in his devilish plans.

‘Yes, I have changed.’ She agreed, stony-voice, with his earlier statement and crossed her long, elegantly slender legs with a whisper of honey-toned silk, knowing that the fashionable short skirt of the suit she wore, her slender high heels, showed them off to advantage.

And strangely, the defiant little movement excited her, because there was a quiet assessment in the way he watched her, in the slide of those sultry eyes as they roamed down to the tips of her toes and back up again to her glinting eyes, and it told her his words hadn’t been empty, that he acknowledged the change and accepted it. And that worked to her advantage.

As long as he realised that she was no longer the adoring little doormat who had been willing to submit to the hurts and humiliations he and his mistress, Olivia, had subjected her to for the sake of the meaningless caresses and empty words he deigned to spare her, then they could discuss terms as equals.

That alone would be worth the expense of this trip, the arguments she’d had with Greg when she’d told him of her decision to face her unwanted husband in person. At last she was the redoubtable Sebastian Machado’s equal, and she had nothing whatever to fear!

Quickly, before his brooding presence made her change her mind on that score, she folded her hands tightly in her lap and told him crisply. ‘I want a divorce.’

‘Why?’ His expression didn’t alter by as much as a flicker of an eyelid. He brought his hands up, steepling his long, strong-boned fingers, the tips resting against the sweeping curve of his upper lip.

His cool question almost took her breath away, an insult in itself, and anger stirred, making her voice taut as she shot back, ‘Need you really ask? Our marriage ended four years ago. It’s high time we tidied up the loose ends.’

‘And you think a divorce would get rid of those loose ends, extinguish the past? Are you that naïve?’ His tone was still uninterested, the hooded eyes never leaving her face as he dropped in, ‘You could have asked me for a divorce at any time during the past four years, or at least made your intention to seek one plain to me and my solicitor. Why didn’t you, if our marriage had become so intolerable to you?’

That floored her. Charley felt her eyes go wide, staring into the dark and sultry depths of his as if she might find the answer there. During the past four years she had never tried to hide her married status, but she had never spoken of it to anyone except Freda and, much later, Greg. And even then she hadn’t told all the truth, merely explaining that she and Sebastian had had irreconcilable differences. Divorce hadn’t entered her head until Greg had proposed.

And she didn’t know why. But she wasn’t going to confess the sudden bewilderment his query had produced, because that might suggest she had clung on to the legality of their relationship because she couldn’t face the final severance.

She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again they glinted with cold amber lights. She could never inflict on him the type of pain he had dished out to her, but she could have the satisfaction of pricking his overblown ego a little. And her voice was tart as she informed him, ‘You know why I left you. Do you imagine I wanted to remember you and what you had done?’ Carefully, she unfurled the fingers she hadn’t realised had been so tightly clenched and made herself rest her hands lightly on the slender carved wood arms of her chair. ‘I blocked you, and our marriage, out of my mind. I never gave it a second thought until I realised I needed my freedom to marry again.’

She thought she had earned herself a reaction in the sudden spasm of a muscle along his hard jaw, but couldn’t be sure. The tips of his fingers were still resting against his mouth, so she could have imagined it. She got to her feet, suddenly tired. She didn’t have time to play games. The sooner this interview was over the sooner she could book into the modest hotel where she had reserved a room for the night.

His eyes swept up, lazily following her movement, his attitude still sublimely relaxed. And she said, ‘As we haven’t lived together for so long, I can’t see how there can be any difficulties. Especially as ours was a civil wedding.’ Olivia had spelled out exactly why that had been, why Sebastian had chosen not to have a religious ceremony, and Charley tacked on tightly, ‘Greg and I would like to marry before the end of the year—in the autumn, preferably. Which gives us time, I would imagine, to get the divorce finalised.’

Suddenly, she needed to get out of here. It was as if the atmosphere of this house, the watchful presence of the man who had once meant more than life itself to her, was suffocating her, gathering her back into the web of deceit and cruelty, the binding strands interfaced with the wild magic of Andalucía, with the dark, irresistible charm of this devil in human guise that had almost broken her all that time ago.

She wouldn’t even mention the possibility of his buying back those shares. That could be done later, through solicitors. She couldn’t bring herself to spend one more moment with him. And she began to walk out of the room, making herself move slowly, because if she once gave in to the urgent desire to hurry she would find herself running until her lungs burst inside her.

‘No.’

The single word lowered the temperature in the room by a thousand degrees, and Charley’s feet felt as if they had been nailed to the floor as the blood in her veins turned to ice. But he couldn’t possibly mean what she thought he meant, she berated herself, then swung round quickly, defensively, because she could hear him moving, coming towards her.

‘Under Spanish law a divorce is possible if the couple have been living apart for two years—provided, of course, that both are agreed.’ His black eyes mocked her. ‘Unless the desire for a divorce is mutual, then the statutory period of separation is five years.’

He smiled for the first time, but it didn’t touch his eyes. It was a mere baring of teeth that sent icy trickles of disbelief running down her spine.

‘You can’t be serious!’ Her voice emerged thickly and she had no control over the flood of dismay that sent hectic colour to stain her cheeks. She stepped back, her poise deserting her. He was crowding her, much too close, making her achingly aware of the scent of him, the warmth of him, the shockingly vibrant, power-packed, raw masculinity of him.

‘Never more so.’ His voice was an assured purr, and it made her stomach churn.

She was backed against the impenetrability of one of the walls, but he didn’t move closer. If he had done, their bodies would have been touching, but he didn’t need to make such an open statement of his physical domination, because already she felt weak and giddy, as if she were about to faint for the first time in her life.

There were tiny dancing lights in the brooding blackness of his eyes, and the graceful, upward lilt of one arched black brow reinforced his wicked amusement, the machiavellian satisfaction he derived from gaining the upper hand.

‘So, mi esposa, you have another full year to wait before you can even begin divorce proceedings.’

He placed his palms flat against the wall, on either side of her head, and she was trapped, and frightened, yet determined not to show it. And she told him fiercely, ‘Call yourself a man? You’re nothing but a spiteful little worm!’ and had the satisfaction of seeing him stiffen, his proud features frozen over as he dropped his hands and stepped back, his shoulders high and hard.

‘Explain yourself!’ He looked as if he would like to kill her where she stood, and she didn’t even care. She was beyond being frightened, even by a man who had committed the ultimate crime—slaughtering his own brother for financial gain!

She hurled at him defiantly, ‘What reason could you have for wanting to delay our divorce? You don’t want me. You never did! But you don’t want me to be happy with another man. That makes you spiteful!’

She sprang away from the wall, side-stepping him. Another year in an extinct marriage wouldn’t mean a thing to him. Olivia was content to wait for just as long as it took; she had openly said as much. The two of them had been lovers for ages, well before he had conned her into hurtling into marriage, and they would be lovers as long as they both drew breath, whether or not Olivia bore his name and wore his ring! And she told him witheringly, making for the door again, ‘Don’t think a year’s postponement of our marriage will make a scrap of difference to Greg and me. It won’t.’

She was sure of that, at least. Greg was a pragmatic soul. He could be patient. But her cheeks went very hot when he tossed at her, almost idly, ‘I am not in the least concerned about Gregory Wilson. He is no threat. He is, in fact, beneath notice.’

She glared at him hotly, her worst fears confirmed. She hadn’t mentioned Greg’s surname; his spies would have discovered that and reported back. So she’d been right when she’d half hysterically decided that he’d ferreted out every fact about her life, known precisely when she and Greg had met, how often they’d dated. It made her feel besmirched!

‘If you want to marry a middle-aged small-town accountant with a pot belly, an aversion to parting with his money and a fixation on his mother, then I can only mourn your lowered standards. I can’t prevent you, if such is your ultimate wish. But don’t ask me to make it too easy for you.’

‘Oooh!’ Charley couldn’t begin to express the disgust she felt. Her mind was reeling. How did he have the gall to accuse her of lowering her standards when he was the cruellest, most heartless, wickedest man she had ever had the misfortune to meet?

And Greg wasn’t middle-aged! He was thirty-seven, a mere three years older than Sebastian. And he did not have a pot belly—he was cuddly! And if he was careful with his money it wasn’t to be wondered at. His father had died before he’d left school, and his mother, with whom he’d continued to live until her death from a stroke almost a year ago, had had to scrimp and scrape to support him while he got his qualifications and even afterwards, while he struggled to get started up on his own. So it was little wonder he had been a devoted and grateful son, averse to throwing his hard-earned money around, because he had known what it was like to count every penny.

‘At least he doesn’t promise me the moon and stars wrapped up in gold ribbon,’ she managed at last, hating him, ‘then hand me something poisonous!’

‘And what does he promise you?’ His menacing body tensed, his mouth like a steel trap, his eyes boring into her head as he uttered, ‘No importa! It is of no consequence.’ The hard, white-clad shoulders lifted imperceptibly, then he swung on his heels and pressed the bell push near the door. ‘I have summoned Teresa. She will either show you to your room, or she will show you to the door. You have the choice.’

‘I can find my own way out. I used to live here, remember?’

No way was she staying under this roof, even for one night. He had to be off his head even to suggest such a thing! But she knew his sanity was not in question, only the depths of his deviousness, as he told her softly, ‘I am willing to meet you part way, Charlotte. Agree to stay here for four weeks, and if, at the end of that time, you still wish to marry your dumpy accountant, I will agree to a divorce and will ensure that all goes through as swiftly as possible. Go, and you wait a further year. And be warned, I am well able to make sure that the proceedings crawl along at less than a snail’s pace. Believe me, I can make it happen.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘HE WANTS you to do what?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hadn’t needed to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You were not always so unwelcoming, Charlotte.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you in love with him?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

IN THE past, Charley had never tired of looking out over the deep water harbour with its crane-spiked waterfront teeming with tugs, ferries, merchant ships and cruise liners, but this morning she really wasn’t seeing anything.

Like a coward, she had crept out of the house very early and had wandered her way through the web of narrow streets until thirst had driven her into a bar for coffee, and after that she’d found herself at the harbour without even consciously aiming her feet in that direction.

And now the sun was burning the mist from the water and the inside of her head felt as if it were full of unravelled knitting, because she’d spent a wakeful, restless night doing her best to avoid thinking over what Sebastian had said.

In his typical lordly fashion he had instructed her to think over what he had said concerning her reasons for leaving him in the first place, her own supposed lack of belief in the most damning of the two accusations she’d hurled at him.

Well, she wasn’t going to! The time for soul-searching was long gone. Her marriage to Sebastian was over in all but name, and a contented future with Greg lay just around the corner. And that was the way she wanted it. Yes, most certainly, that was the way she wanted it!

Aware that she was squinting against the rapidly increasing glare of the sun, she fished her dark glasses out of her bag and slid them on to her nose. And from right behind her Sebastian said, ‘What a surprise,’ his tone very dry.

Charley froze. And, without turning, she asked crossly, ‘What are you doing here?’

Did he have his spies out, even here? Or had he followed her himself, a silent, watchful shadow, dogging her footsteps? Like Nemesis. But the dryness increased until his voice was utterly withering as he reminded her, ‘I had business at the harbour. I visit frequently. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.’

‘Totally,’ she lied contentiously, and turned to face him, feeling, quite insanely, much more relaxed. She had never so much as bent the truth in the past, never argued, had always been anxious to please, slavishly devoted. Giving as good as she got was fun, she decided, her sparkling amber eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Of course she remembered his frequent visits to the offices at the commercial docks, the times she had walked this way on the off-chance of seeing him, wondering if he would be in this area or in the Machado office block on the outskirts of the city. He had rarely spoken about his work, probably seeing her as too flea-brained to be interested in the export empire that had been started by his grandfather.

But whenever Olivia had come out to Cadiz he’d spent long hours with her, discussing business—or so he had said.

‘Then I can only conclude that the dreariness of the British weather and the added boredom of your job has damaged your brain.’

He was grinning at her, calling her bluff, his black eyes sharp and knowing, and she countered with as much enthusiasm as she could manage, ‘Far from it. I love my job; it’s much more stimulating than trying to be the dutiful wife of a wealthy Spaniard! All that sitting around with nothing to do but attend to the flowers, speaking when I was spoken to, wondering what time you’d be home. If at all. So stimulating, in fact, that unimportant things like whether you visit the harbour or not got pushed right out of my head.’

‘Is that so? Maybe I should have asked Ignacia to teach you how to scrub floors.’

The sultry look was back in his eyes. It did things to her. And she couldn’t bear it!

She looked away quickly, watching the vapor from Puerto appear through the last few remaining wisps of mist that hung over the bay as she willed the too rapid beats of her heart to slow down to normal. Hitching the narrow leather strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, she said coolly, ‘Shouldn’t you be at work or something? Don’t let me detain you.’ She had never been able to detain him before; he had spent the majority of his time chained to his desk. Except when Olivia had been around, of course.

But she wasn’t going to remind him of that. She would never mention that woman’s name to him again. And Sebastian denied smoothly, ‘I have taken a holiday.’

As far as she knew today wasn’t a public holiday, with carnival or fiesta an excuse for everything to shut down. But he definitely wasn’t dressed for the office. She couldn’t see him sitting behind his huge desk wearing that sleeveless black body-hugging T-shirt and those casual white lightweight trousers.

‘How nice. Do enjoy your day, won’t you?’ Charley swept off along the Avenida del Puerto, braving the thunderous traffic, her brisk stride echoing, she hoped, the tart finality of her words. No way was she prepared to spend the day with him, or even a part of it. She had made up her mind that the best way to deal with the coming four weeks was to keep well out of his way, to think of him and of the past as little as possible.

‘I have taken far more than one day.’ His voice was as smooth as honeyed cream, and Charley flinched as his big hand shot out to drag her away from the rapidly approaching wheels of a great snarling truck. ‘Four weeks, to be exact.’

‘Hell!’ Charley closed her eyes as she leant weakly back against him, her body melding into his as if it belonged. If he was going to hound her for the whole of that time she would probably go mad!

His naked arm slid around her tiny waist, his fingers splayed warmly across her ribcage. She wondered distractedly if he could feel the frantic hammer beats of her heart and knew that he must have done, but had misinterpreted the cause of the fluster, when he said silkily, ‘Allow me to guide you. I would hate to think my presence had driven you to prefer suicide under wheels of a juggernaut.’

Sarcastic lump of hatefulness! Charley fumed as he expertly dodged the wild flow of traffic and finally deposited her neatly on the edge of the Plaza Sevilla.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, one brow lifting urbanely. ‘Or perhaps you need something stronger.’

‘Let’s stop fooling around,’ Charley snapped out, small hands flapping at him, brushing him away. Enough was enough. ‘I don’t need you to see me over the road. I don’t need you to buy coffee or tag along. In short—’ big amber eyes glared behind sheltering dark lenses, the line of her mouth very determined ‘—I don’t need you at all.’

‘Oh, but you do,’ he contradicted, his teeth white against the tanned olive tones of his skin. ‘You need my agreement to the divorce you’re so suddenly anxious to get.’ He smiled, but there was no humour in it. Just naked aggression.

Charley scowled right back at him. As she had decided moments earlier, enough was enough, and she conceded honestly, her hands slicing sideways impatiently, ‘I stand corrected. I do need you for that. But I can’t understand why you should insist I stay here. And neither,’ she tacked on tartly, ‘does Greg.’

If she had hoped that by bringing her next husband into the discussion she could get him to admit that his bargaining position was as ridiculous as it was pointless she was disappointed, because all he said was, ‘Good. At last you are willing to talk. Perhaps even to think things through. Come, let us walk.’

She had no clear idea of where they were going and only the haziest notion of why she was still at his side as they slipped from one narrow street to another. The only thing she knew for sure was that to do as he said in this respect was easier than picking a fight. He was quite capable of forcing her to go with him.

But even he wasn’t capable of forcing her to ‘think things through’—as he kept suggesting. He might be able to control her physical movements for the next month, but he couldn’t control what was going on inside her head. And why should she dredge up the past, with all its grief and pain? It was over, and thinking of what had happened, and why it had happened, would be pointless.

Only when they emerged into the brilliant sunlight did she stop grumbling away inside her head. They had come to the Campo del Sur, the broad walkway on the city’s southern limits, the blue waters of the Atlantic washing against white stones and, looming above them, the awesome Baroque block of the cathedral, its golden dome glittering in the white light reflected from the whitewashed buildings.

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