The Spaniard's Seduction

CHAPTER TWO (#ue7d92631-1f03-5b7e-b3ca-baa4e8dd16f4)

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 Pensión 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, but she said you weren’t interested in us.’

‘Did she?’ Enrique couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘But 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 felt 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 anything 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.

‘But they don’t want you, David,’ she said, her voice breaking under the strain. ‘Do you?’ She looked at Enrique with eyes he was uneasily aware were filled with tears. ‘Do you? Dammit, tell him the truth, can’t you?’

It was after eight o’clock before Enrique got back to Tuarega. It hadn’t been that late when he’d left Punta del Lobo, but he’d spent at least an hour driving aimlessly along the coastal road, trying to come to terms with what he’d learned.

God! His hands tightened on the wheel of the Mercedes. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened. At no time had either he or his father imagined that the woman who had married his brother and who had been widowed less than twenty-four hours later could have conceived a child. And yet she had. There was no doubt that David was a de Montoya.

But she hadn’t known a thing about the letter. Her reaction had proved that. As the boy had said, he’d taken it upon himself to write to Julio de Montoya. The letter had been posted before he and his mother had left England.

He groaned.

Of course, it was tempting to shift all the blame onto Cassandra. She should have known what her son had done. He was only nine years old, por el amor de Dios. How difficult could it be to keep track of his movements?

But he also knew that he was not speaking from personal experience. And just because the sons and daughters of his close friends were fairly biddable that was no reason to suppose all children were the same. Indeed, he thought wryly, it could be argued that David was already exhibiting facets of his de Montoya heritage.

At the same time he felt a searing sense of injustice that Cassandra had kept the boy’s existence from them. And that, without David’s intervention, they might never have learned that Antonio had had a son.

Yet could he wholly condemn her for it? After what had happened—after what he had tried to do—she probably thought she’d had every right, after Antonio was killed, to cut the de Montoyas out of her life.

But, God, his father was going to get such a shock. If he’d known of the boy’s existence, Enrique knew he would have moved heaven and earth to gain custody of the boy. Whatever he’d thought of Cassandra, whatever he’d done to try and stop their marriage, David was his grandson. His only grandson to date. And, where Julio de Montoya was concerned, blood was everything.

Which was probably one of the main reasons why Cassandra had kept the information from them, Enrique acknowledged shrewdly. She knew better than anyone how ruthless his father could be—how ruthless he had been in pursuit of his father’s wishes.

But he didn’t want to think about that now. This was not the time to be feeling the twinges of conscience. He had to remember how Cassandra had seduced Antonio away from his family, his duty, and the girl he had been engaged to marry. She hadn’t shown any conscience, any remorse, not even when—

He took a deep breath. No. He would not get into his own role in the affair. The fact that it had ended in tragedy was enough to warrant any sense of outrage he might feel. Cassandra had destroyed so much: Antonio’s honour, his loyalty, his future. Was it possible that his brother had found out what a faithless bitch his new wife was and that was why he’d crashed the car as they drove to the south of England on honeymoon?

No! Once again, he couldn’t accept that. If he did, it would mean that Antonio had found out what Enrique and his father had tried to do. Surely, in those circumstances, Cassandra would have wanted him to know, would have wanted him to suffer as she was surely suffering now.

His jaw compressed. Thankfully he had succeeded in hiding the extent of the devastation David’s appearance had had on him. As far as Cassandra was concerned his shock had been short-lived, swiftly superseded by the anger he’d felt at her deception. No doubt she believed him to be entirely without feeling, and perhaps it was better if it stayed that way. But how the hell was he going to tell his father?

He shook his head. It would have been so much easier ten years ago. Then, Julio de Montoya had been a strong and dominant man, perfectly capable of handling any situation, with a merciless disregard for anyone who got in his way. He had ruled Tuarega with a rod of iron, and that was why he had found it so hard to accept when Antonio had defied him and insisted he wanted to marry the English girl he’d met while he was at college in London. Julio would have done almost anything to stop that marriage, even to the extent of sending his elder son to England with orders to use any means at his disposal to prevent it.

Enrique’s nostrils flared with sudden self-derision. That he hadn’t succeeded had always been a source of bitterness between himself and his father. He doubted Julio had ever forgiven him entirely for his failure, but his father had never known what had really happened, why Enrique had returned home without achieving his objective.

He could have stopped the wedding. If he’d told Antonio the truth, he was fairly sure his brother would have called it off. But he hadn’t said a thing. Because he’d been too ashamed of what he’d done; because he’d had only disgust for his part in it. He’d flown back to Spain knowing that Cassandra had won.

But had she? Now he was not so sure, and he despised himself for his weakness where she was concerned.

It was dark as he drove up through the valley where his family had lived for hundreds of years. Lights glinted from narrow windows in the village and the floodlit spire of San Tomás’s church was a reassuring sight. It was easy to believe that nothing changed here, that the ghosts of his ancestors would see and recognise the sights and sounds of other centuries in the immediacy of the twenty-first, but he knew better. There had been many changes, most particularly during General Franco’s years as president. But fortunately the political climate in this rural area had never mirrored that found in the cities, and as he accelerated past the fields and paddocks where his toros bravos, or fighting bulls, were grazing, he felt a sense of pride in his family’s achievements.

But that was short-lived. Thinking of his family reminded him that he had promised to ring his mother this evening. She was staying at the apartamento in Seville while her husband was in the hospital there and Enrique had said he would ring no later than seven o’clock. It was long past that time now, and he was ashamed to admit that for the past few hours he had given little thought to his responsibilities.

His mother would be sure to think that he’d forgotten, or that he simply didn’t care. Since Julio’s illness Elena de Montoya had become over-sensitive, looking for slights where none were intended, as if she was afraid that her husband’s incapacity somehow affected her authority. Perhaps she feared that if Julio died Enrique would no longer have respect for her, which was ridiculous.

Still, it was true that since Antonio’s death she had come to depend on him more and more. Julio’s heart attack some months ago had only increased her demands on his time, and, although Enrique knew it was only to be expected in the circumstances, it wasn’t always easy to balance his own needs with those of his parents.

Enrique brought the powerful car to a halt beside the arched colonnade that had once fronted a coach house and which now provided garaging for the estate’s many motor vehicles. Years ago, Enrique’s grandfather had kept a shining Hispano-Suiza here, and he remembered being allowed to ride in the front of the car on special occasions. He also remembered the punishment he’d received when the old man had found out he had taken the car out alone. He’d been afraid he’d never be allowed to have a car of his own.