The Spaniard's Passion

“What do you think?” Her hands balled into fists. “And how did you find out, anyway?”

“Is that what you’re most worried about?”

She couldn’t read his mood. His blue eyes, that strange startling ice blue, were devoid of any emotion. She couldn’t read him at all right now. “What should I be worried about?”

“How about draining your bank account? Handing over ten thousand pounds to a complete stranger—because you don’t know Federico Alvare, and you did give him the money, didn’t you?”

She couldn’t answer. She stared at him and curled her fingers into her hands.

“You applied for a Brazilian visa,” he continued. “You had Federico buy you an airline ticket.”

They were booked on a flight on December 26th. Federico had made the plans. He’d booked the tickets, too. “There’s no reason I can’t go on holiday. I haven’t had a holiday since Clive died.”

“Clive died in Brazil.”

“So I’m not allowed to visit the country now?”

“Not if you intend to visit the rough neighborhood in Sao Paulo where he died.”

She held his gaze. “Is there something I should know about his death? Something you haven’t told me? Because you were the one that arranged to have his body sent home.”

“I helped with the funeral arrangements. But it’s your good friend, Federico, who worked with Clive in Brazil. Have you asked Federico about your husband’s death? I’m sure Señor Alvare should have a few…details.”

“He does know people in Sao Paulo who might be able to help me. He’s secured the services of a private investigator.”

Lon smiled thinly. “Federico’s hiring you a private investigator?”

She lifted her chin. “Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because he’s not to be trusted. He’s dangerous—”

“And you’re not?” she flashed, unable to keep her temper. Alonso could be just as intimidating as Federico…if not more so.

He made a sound of disgust. “You don’t even know the meaning of dangerous, muñeca, and Alvare is taking total advantage of you if he’s charging you ten thousand pounds for your trip.”

“Half of it is to cover travel expenses, the other half is for the private investigator.”

“It doesn’t cost five thousand pounds to get to Brazil, and if you want someone to show you around—”

“This is my trip,” she interrupted fiercely. “These are my contacts, my plans. I used to live in South America. I’m not totally unfamiliar with the dangers of traveling, and what’s ten thousand pounds if it brings me peace? Ten thousand pounds is nothing to you. It’s chump change in your world.”

“In my world.” He laughed, softly, unkindly, and moved to the beverage cart with the Irish crystal decanters of whiskey and brandy. Lon poured himself a neat shot into a Waterford tumbler. “My, our situations are reversed, aren’t they? Amazing the difference just ten years can make.”

Strains of music seeped through the closed library doors, as did the high echo of laughter. The guests would be dancing now—Countess Wilkins’ parties ran like clockwork. “You’ve been lucky,” she said tautly, drawing her arms closer against her body.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. It was work.” He gave his drink a swirl, glancing down briefly at the glints of amber and gold before his gaze settled on her. “Hard work.”

Whether it was luck or hard work, he had millions. Millions of pounds in raw minerals. He owned one of Latin America’s largest emerald mines. He’d parlayed his earnings into high-tech investments, satellites and computer chips. He could buy and sell small countries in cash. Many people might call themselves high-tech millionaires these days, but few rivaled Alonso’s stunning success.

One of Lon’s black eyebrows lifted, his blue eyes piercing hers. “Tell me, if I’d been ‘filthy rich’ five years ago would you have married me instead of Clive?”

Her heart fell, and she struggled to contain her temper, forcing herself to look away from the mockery in his intense gaze to the thin white scar running from the corner of his eye to the edge of his cheekbone. “I did not marry Clive for money.”

Lon’s eyes crinkled at the corners but he wasn’t smiling. “He didn’t have any, did he?”

“You were supposed to be his best friend. He adored you, worshiped the ground you walked on—”

“Spare me the histrionics, love. You might have married the man, but I know Clive better than you. He wasn’t a Boy Scout. Not even close.”

Evil man. God, she hated him right now. “Get out.” She walked swiftly to the double doors, her long gleaming red silk gown rustled with each step, and yanked open the library door. “I’ll give the Countess your apologies. She’ll be disappointed you had to leave so early, but sadly, business called you away.”

Lon didn’t move from the fireplace. “I have no pressing business.”

“I want you to go!”

“Close the door, Sophie. You’re drawing a draft.”

“I will not tolerate you degrading my husband in his own home.”

“But this was never his house. It’s his mother’s house, just as Humphrey House was his father’s house. Admit it. Clive never even owned a flat of his own.”

Fresh color surged through her cheeks and she felt her composure begin to slip. Nervously she pressed a hand to her stomach, smoothing the expensive fabric, even as she struggled to gain control of the conversation.

This was just Alonso, she sharply reminded herself, a heathen, a misfit, a lost soul without the benefit of a proper upbringing—raised by neither his real father nor his mother—sent off to boarding schools at age four.

Yet only ten years ago he’d been one of her best friends and they’d talked openly about everything—love, life…sex. What the future would be like for them. What they’d once believed the future would be.

Well, the future had arrived and it wasn’t even close to the dreams they’d had.

Sophie drew a shallow, painful breath, and she slowly closed the library doors, trying to buy time.

Lon couldn’t hurt her, she reminded herself, the spike of pain giving way to a numbing sensation. He couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let him. “An apology is in order.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he answered obediently, loosening the bow tie a bit before unbuttoning the top button of his crisp white dress shirt. He looked sinfully sophisticated. Wicked. Sexual. “I’m sorry to quarrel with you.”

Her gaze searched his face, noting the fine lines fanning his eyes. He was getting older. Harder. More ruthless. “It’s Clive you owe an apology, Clive you’ve insulted.”

“Darling, Clive can’t hear me.”

Why did Lon have to do this? Why did he have to persist in this blatant unkindness? Yes, he’d had a rough childhood—who hadn’t?—but after a while excuses grew old, sympathy cold. One had to grow up. Assume responsibility. “I can’t respect a man like you!”

He laughed. “Yet you’ll ask me for help whenever things get rough.”

Sophie tensed, muscles in her back screaming, head throbbing. Her control felt dangerously threatened. Just walk away, she told herself. Leave him. He’ll find his way out.

But she couldn’t ignore Lon, and instead of walking away, she moved toward him, muscles tight and trembling, emotions seething. “Maybe once I asked for your help—”

“Once?” he interrupted. “Sophie, it was more than one time.”