Anne Mather - The Spaniard's Seduction Read online

  She'd had second thoughts, of course, when David had cho­sen Andalusia, but she'd had to admit that it was one of the most attractive areas in the brochure. And, not wanting to pro­voke more questions, she'd swallowed her inhibitions and booked it. Despite her fears, no one at the pension had ques­tioned their identity. After all, Punta del Lobo was not Cadiz. She was sure they would be safe enough there.

  Her father thought she was mad, of course. But then, Mr Scott had always maintained that she should never have told David his father had been a Spaniard. Though how could she not? she argued. His name was so distinctive. It was only now, as David got older, that she could see her father might have had a point.

  But not now, please God, she mused, as her son ran up to her, spraying her with seawater. Horst was with him and Cassandra smiled at the German boy with genuine warmth. Horst's parents had gone to Seville for the day, but the boy had wanted to stay with David and Cassandra had agreed to look after him. He was a nice boy and far more biddable than her son.

  No surprise there, then...

  Cassandra cut herself off. She had no intention of getting into the reasons for that; no desire to remind herself of the generations of proud arrogant genes that ran in his blood. God knew, it was hard not to think about it every time she looked at him, but somehow, over the years, she had managed to subjugate all her bitterness where her son was concerned.

  And she couldn't imagine life without him; that was part of the problem. The fear that one day the de Montoyas might find out she had had a son was an ever-present anxiety, but after nine years she was becoming a little less apprehensive. One day, maybe, when David was fully grown and able to make his own decisions, she might tell him who his father had been. But that was far in the future and not something she even wanted to contemplate at this moment.

  'Do we have to go?'

  David had picked up his towel and was rubbing it vigor­ously over his hair. Cassandra smiled and handed Horst his towel before replying, 'I'm afraid so. It's getting late. Haven't you noticed? We're practically the last people on the beach.'

  David grimaced. 'So?' he said, arching an imperious brow, and just for a minute Cassandra was reminded of his father's ruthless face.

  'So, it's time we were getting back to the pension,' she declared tersely, angry with herself for putting that connotation on him. It was because they were here, because of what she had been thinking, she realised, hiding her irritation. It wasn't David's fault that she was on edge.

  'It has been a good day, Mrs de Montoya,' said Horst, his precise English almost better than David's. 'It was most kind of you to let me stay.'

  'No problem,' said Cassandra, jockeying her son into put-ting on his shorts. 'We were happy to have you, weren't we, David?'

  'What? Oh, yeah.' David grinned, and he and Horst ex­changed a high-handed slap. 'I like showing him what a ditz he is when it comes to board racing.'

  'Ditz? What is that, a ditz?' queried Horst, and then grinned himself when he realised the joke was at his expense. 'Jerk,' he said succinctly. 'I will not tell you what I could call you if your mother was not here.'

  'Feel free,' taunted David, and, giving the other boy a push, he darted off along the beach.

  Horst followed him, and pretty soon they were rolling and tumbling together, with a complete disregard for the clothes they had just donned.

  Cassandra sighed, and after returning the two boards the boys had left to the attendant she started after them, easily overtaking them with her long-legged stride. Her ankle-length voile skirt was showing the effects of sand and seawater, too, and she draped David's towel about her shoulders to protect her smarting shoulders as she reached the cliff path.

  The boys went up ahead of her, David the taller and there­fore the quicker of the two. He was already a good-looking boy and she could imagine what a heartthrob he was going to be when he was older. So long as he didn't do what his father had done, she mused sombrely. That was one problem she did not want to have to deal with again.

  The Pensi6n del Mar was situated near the top of the cliff path, a narrow-fronted building with a striped awning pro­tecting its pristine white facade. Cassandra had been favour­ably impressed with its appearance and with the service of­fered which, considering what they were paying, was considerably cheaper than similar accommodation back home. The proprietor, Señor Movida, was a charming man, too, and he was doing everything he could to make their stay a happy one.

  To Cassandra's relief, the small Fiat that the Kaufmans had hired was parked on the gravelled forecourt of the pension, which meant that Horst's parents were back. In fact, Herr Kaufman was standing in the doorway to the pension, watch­ing for his son, and Horst bounded ahead to greet his father.

  'Lucky dog,' muttered David enviously, and Cassandra cast a startled look his way.

  'What did you say?'

  'I said Horst is lucky having a father,' declared David gruffly. Then, before his mother could make any response, 'I wonder if there's been any post for us.'

  'Post?' Cassandra blinked. 'Do you mean a letter? Who would be writing to us? We just spoke to your grandfather last night on the phone.'

  David shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said, not altogether con­vincingly, and Cassandra knew a sudden chill. But then Herr Kaufman was coming towards them and she was forced to put her own doubts aside.

  'Thank you for looking after Horst, Mrs de Montoya,' he said warmly, his eyes moving appreciatively over her slender figure so that she became intensely conscious of her damp skirt. 'Has Horst been good?'

  'He's been very good.' Cassandra answered swiftly, won­dering if she was only imagining the avidity of his gaze. 'Did you enjoy your trip?'

  'It was most enlightening,' replied the man, nodding. 'We visited many of the palaces and museums. Not something my son would be particularly interested in, I think.'

  Cassandra forced a smile. 'I think not,' she agreed. 'I can't imagine David being interested in old buildings either.'

  'I might be,' protested her son, but Herr Kaufman wasn't listening to the boy.

  'Did you know that your name, de Montoya, is quite a fa­mous one in Andalusia?' he asked conversationally. 'We have been reading some literature about this area, and it seems the de Montoya family is well-known both for me quality of the fortified wines they produce and for the magnificent bulls they breed on their estate just north of here. I do not suppose you are related to them, Mrs de Montoya?'

  'No,' said Cassandra quickly, aware that David was now listening to Herr Kaufman with unusual interest. She gestured towards the pension. 'Is that likely?' she asked, trying to make a joke of it, and then felt the fizzy soda she had consumed in the middle of the afternoon rise into her throat.

  A man had just emerged from the building behind Horst's father and she felt the colour drain out of her face. Almost convulsively, she clamped a desperate hand on David's shoul­der. The boy objected, but for once she was unaware of him. Her eyes were riveted on the newcomer. It couldn't be, she thought sickly. But it was. Enrique de Montoya had paused in the doorway of the pension and was presently surveying the scene that greeted his cold dark eyes with a mixture of satis­faction and contempt.

  Dear God, how could this be? she fretted weakly. She'd told no one but her father that she was coming here, to this particular address. People knew she was holidaying in Spain, of course. Her boss at the bookshop where she worked knew, for example. She'd had to tell him what she was doing when she'd arranged for the lime off. But he wouldn't have told anyone. No one here, anyway. Certainly not the de Montoyas.

  Her mouth dried. He looked just the same, she thought pain­fully: just as proud, just as arrogant, just as condescending as before. And just as attractive, though her atlraction to him had been as crazy as that of the rabbit to the snake. He'd used that attraction, too, ruthlessly, and then expected her to do exactly as he'd wanted.

  'Is something wrong?'

  Herr Kaufman had noticed her pale face and Cassandra hoped with
a desperate longing that it was only a terrible co­incidence that Enrique was here. He'd seen them, but perhaps he hadn't recognised them. Well, her actually. He'd never seen David, didn't even know of his existence.

  She had to get away. The urge to run was irresistible, and. without considering what David might think of her sudden change of plan, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.

  'I've got a headache,' she told Herr Kaufman swiftly, it must be the sun. David, come with me. I need some aspirin. Weil just pop along to the farmacia—'

  'Oh. Mum!' David was predictably awkward. 'Do we have to? We've just got back from the beach. I want a shower.'

  'David!'

  'Perhaps I car be of some assistance,' broke in Herr Kaufman, possibly seeing a chance to compensate her for looking after his son. 'I'd be happy to go to the farmacia for you.'

  'Oh, no. I—'

  But it was too late. Before she could formulate a convincing excuse, one which would allow her to escape before Enrique recognised them, a tall shadow fell across their little group. And a voice, one which she would have sworn she'd forgotten, cut into their exchange.

  'Cassandra?' Even the way he said her name was horribly familiar. 'It is Cassandra, is it not? I am not mistaken?'

  As if Enrique de Montoya would ever admit to being mis­taken about anything, thought Cassandra wildly, forced to lip her head hack to look up at him. He knew exactly who she was, and before she could do anything to protect her son Enrique's dark eyes had moved almost dismissively to the boy at her side.

  'And this must be—David,' he continued, only to suck in a strangled breath when he saw the boy.

  David! Cassandra blinked. How had he known her son's name? But before she found an answer to this, she saw the devastation his identity had wrought in Enrique's stunned ex­pression. Yes, look at him, she wanted to scream accusingly. See what you did; see what you've lost!

  But of course she didn't do anything of the kind. The dc Montoyas were too polite for that. Besides, Herr Kaufman was still there, looking at Enrique with considering eyes, glancing from him to Cassandra and back again with obvious enquiry. He was probably wondering what someone who looked like Enrique dc Montoya-—who dressed like Enrique de Montoya—could have in common with a rather dishevelled English housewife. Enrique's three-piece suit and grey silk shirt were obviously designer-made, whereas Cassandra's clothes had never been particularly stylish, even when they were new.

  'You are a friend of Mrs de Montoya?' It was the German who spoke, although David was close on his heels.

  'Do you know my grandfather?' he demanded, and even as Cassandra was absorbing the shock of learning that her son knew something about this Enrique found his tongue.

  'I—yes,' he said through clenched teeth, the look he cast at Cassandra full of emotions she couldn't hope to identify. 'I— I am your—' His harsh voice was strained. 'Your uncle,' he got out tightly. 'Enrique.' He took a laboured breath. 'I am— happy to meet you at last.'

  'You are Enrique de Montoya? The Enrique de Montoya?'

  Herr Kaufman was persistent, and although Cassandra could hardly blame him for being curious, she wished he would show some discretion.

  Enrique was gradually recovering his composure, however. She could see it in the way he straightened his shoulders and looked at the other man with bleak assessing eyes. He'd weathered the blow she'd dealt him and now he was exercising damage control. He had no intention of allowing anyone else to see his real feelings, and his thin lips lilted in a cold smile.

  'I have that privilege,' he said now, in answer to the other man's question. 'And you are?'

  'Kaufman,' said the German eagerly. 'Franz Kaufman, se-nor.' He held out his hand. 'It is a great pleasure to meet you.'

  Enrique hesitated long enough to make the other man un­easy before accepting the gesture. 'How do you do?' he re­sponded, and then turned back to Cassandra.

  'Are you really my uncle?'

  David had been silent long enough, and at last Franz Kaufman seemed to realise he was intruding. 'If you will ex­cuse me, Horst and I must go and see if my wife is ready to go into town,' he declared, and Cassandra saw Enrique's brow arch in acknowledgement.

  He'd probably thought the other man was with her, she brooded bitterly. God. she wished he was, she thought, for­getting her own discomfort with Kaufman's familiarity earlier. But she wished she had some weapon to use against Enrique, something to hurt this man who had attempted to destroy her life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The silence after Franz Kaufman's departure was deafening. Enrique guessed it was up to him to answer the boy's question, but for all his appearance of calm he was as taut as a violin string inside.

  God! He'd been so sure he knew what he was doing when he'd decided to come to the Pension del Mar and confront Cassandra with her sordid little deception. So sure it was the only thing he could do to keep her away from his father. In­stead, he was left with the distinct suspicion that he should have left well enough alone.

  'I—yes,' he said, after deciding there was no point in de­nying their kinship. 'Antonio de Montoya was my brother,' he conceded obliquely, aware that Cassandra was looking almost as sick as he felt. 'You are David, I presume?'

  Before the boy could answer, however, Cassandra grasped her son's arm and pulled him round to face her. 'What have you done?' she demanded harshly, her voice thick with emo­tion. 'What have you done?'

  The boy had the grace to blush at his mother's obvious distress. 'I told you there might be some post for us,' he mum­bled, trying to drag himself away from her. 'I didn't know— he—was going to turn up, did I?'

  No, he hadn't known that, admitted Enrique to himself. But perhaps he should have suspected that such a bombshell would secure more than a casual response.

  Unless... Unless the boy had assumed that his paternal grandfather knew of his existence?

  'Did you really expect we might ignore your letter?' he asked now, supremely conscious of Cassandra standing stiffly beside her son, her whole being emitting the kind of hostility he'd never thought to have to face again. It was hard to remember that she had brought this on herself. It wasn't his fault that she'd chosen to keep her son's existence from them.

  'No.' David swung round, evidently relieved to be distracted from his mother's fury. 'I knew you'd want to see me. I told Mum ages ago that I wanted to meet my Spanish grand­father, bill she said you weren't interested in us.'

  'Did she?' Enrique couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. 'Bui she told you how to get in touch with us, no?'

  'No!' Cassandra was incensed. 'I wouldn't do such a—'

  But David's excited voice overrode her protest. 'No, Mum didn't tell me anything. I got your address from my dad's passport,' he explained proudly. 'Mum keeps it in a box up­stairs.’ He gave his mother a defiant look as she tried to interrupt him. 'You do,' he insisted, clearly deciding he might never have another chance to defend himself. 'You know you do. Along with all that other stuff: Dad's wallet and letters and things.' He sighed ruefully. 'I'm sorry.' Although he didn't look it. 'I found the box when I was looking for—for something else.'

  'What?' Cassandra's demand promised retribution, and David hunched his thin shoulders.

  'My catapult,' he muttered, and she stared at him.

  'You were looking for your catapult in my wardrobe?' she exclaimed scornfully. ‘You expect me to believe that?'

  'It's true.' David was defensive now. 'I'd already looked in your knicker drawer and—'

  Cassandra uttered something unrepeatable, and despite the seriousness of the situation Enrique fell his lips twitch with uncontrollable mirth. There was something so ludicrous in talking about catapults and knicker drawers when moments before his whole life had shifted on its axis.

  But his humour must have shown in his face because Cassandra turned on him, her anger dispersing any pretence of courtesy he might have made. 'You find it funny?' she demanded caustically. 'Well, of course, why would I expect a
nything different from you? No doubt you find the whole thing hilarious. You and your father can have a good laugh about it when you get home. Which I suggest should be sooner rather than later. Whatever you may think, there's nothing for you here.'

  Enrique sobered. 'You think not?' he asked succinctly, and knew a momentary satisfaction when anxiety replaced the fury in her eyes. 'I beg to differ.'

  Cassandra held up her head, and he had to admire the way she overcame her obvious dismay. 'I think we've said all there is to say,' she insisted tensely, but Enrique shook his head.

  'Not nearly,' he responded coolly. 'And I have to tell you that the only reason I am here is because my father is in the hospital in Seville, He had what they call a triple bypass— yes?—ten days ago. Had he not had this operation, he would have received David's letter himself.'

  Cassandra was obviously taken aback at this explanation, but although her lips parted she didn't say anything. It was left to David to express his concern and to ask if his grand­father would be home soon. 'We have to go home in less than two weeks,' he explained earnestly. 'Do you think he'll be back before then?'

  'It doesn't matter whether he will or not,' declared Cassan­dra, proving that whatever Enrique had thought she had had nothing to do with the letter. 'I have no intention of allowing you to associate with—with the de Montoyas. David. We've managed without their involvement in our lives for the past nine years. I have no desire to change the status quo.'

  'But I have,' cried David indignantly, a sulky curve pulling down the corners of his lips. Lips which were distinctly like his own, noticed Enrique unwillingly. 'They're my family, just as much as you and Grandad are.'

  Enrique had never thought he would ever feel sorry for Cassandra, but he did then. Her face, which had been flushed with anger, became almost dangerously pale, and the hand she lifted to push back the heavy weight of her hair was trembling.