In Name Only

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

‘No.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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