The Blackmailed Bride

If and when he did marry, Javier knew it wouldn’t be to someone who loved him, someone he might hurt as his father had his mother. A fragile creature, his mother had never grasped the fact she was meant to turn a blind eye to her husband’s mistresses; she was meant to look attractive, bring up their son and be the perfect hostess.

‘This is no laughing matter, Javier,’ the old man reproached sternly. ‘Continuity, blood lines are important; you need sons.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

The idea of losing his inheritance didn’t frighten Javier.

He immediately recognised that there was part of him that might actually welcome the situation. A man who needed the constant buzz of physical and mental challenges, he could think of few things more exciting than the challenge of starting from scratch, and few things more satisfying than knowing at the end of the day that everything you’d achieved was down to your own efforts, nothing to do with being born into a wealthy dynasty.

Wealth brought its privileges, but Javier had been raised to believe it also carried responsibilities. His deeply ingrained sense of family duty would never allow him to do anything more than occasionally dream about the luxury of being a free agent.

Deep down, however, he was pretty sure it wouldn’t come to that, his grandfather would never disinherit him for standing his ground. Nothing in his manner even hinted at this belief. He couldn’t do much for his grandfather but he could at least let Felipe play the heartless tyrant he liked the world to see him as.

Felipe searched his grandson’s unyielding face with growing frustration. ‘This is about that silly blonde you let Serge snatch right from under your nose, I suppose… Don’t look so stunned, boy.’ He laughed. ‘Do you think I’m blind? If you want my opinion, she’d have been a disastrous match for you…’

Javier swallowed his anger with difficulty.

‘…Far too sweet and malleable. You need someone with a bit more fire…’

‘Like Aria,’ Javier cut in drily.

Felipe conceded this point with a grunt. ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be her…but if you want to be my heir you’ll marry someone and soon…’

‘We shouldn’t be arguing…not now…’

‘Why change the habit of a lifetime? If you start agreeing with me the family will know something’s wrong straight away, and I won’t be able to move for everyone being nice to me,’ he observed with a shudder.

When two people who were congenitally incapable of compromise worked together there were bound to be some sparks. Javier’s combustible relationship with his grandfather was not without its moments of conflict, often vocal conflict, at least on Felipe’s side—Javier was more inclined to smouldering silences. Javier knew his rivals within the family frequently crossed their fingers and hoped he’d over-step the mark one day and alienate the old man totally. What they failed to understand was the deep mutual respect the warring parties felt for each other.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re a stubborn idiot!’ the old man railed at his tall grandson’s retreating back.

A man with extraordinary self-discipline, Javier pushed aside the personal issues that filled his mind as he stepped out of the air-conditioned luxury of his Mercedes. He barely registered the blast of baking heat which immediately hit him; Majorca had been experiencing one of its hottest Julys on record.

He consulted the discreet but expensive metallic banded watch on his wrist and nodded; he had a few minutes to spare. He couldn’t abide poor time-keeping in others and always made a point of never abusing his position of power by keeping others waiting himself. To his mind punctuality was a matter of simple good manners.

As he made his way towards the rear entrance of the large mellow stone building even his well-known critical eye for detail could find no fault in the delightful terraced gardens and wide, well-tended sweeps of green tree-dotted parkland. The pool area, when he reached it, was almost deserted but for a few stalwart—or was it foolish?—tourists sunning themselves in the fiery Majorcan midday sun.

‘Did you see who that was?’ a female guest hissed excitedly as she clambered wetly out of the pool.

Her sleepy husband opened his eyes reluctantly as wet hands urgently grabbed his shoulder. ‘Who…what…?’

‘There, it’s Javier Montero!’ she hissed as the tall man in the exquisitely cut suit shook hands in a friendly manner with the elderly gardener before moving away.

‘Sure, Javier Montero is on first name terms with all the casual labourers on the island…’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. I tell you, it was him. I mean, there can’t be two men who look like him.’

‘Don’t drool, Jean. And think, woman, what would Javier be doing here?’

‘Why wouldn’t he be here?’ she responded, with a gesture that encompassed the extensive grounds of the thirteenth-century Majorcan manor house with its distinctive Moorish tower. ‘He owns the place.’

An army of local craftsmen had returned the once neglected building to its original splendour. Tucked away in the Sierra de Tramuntana the exclusive hotel now provided a hideaway for those people who liked their retreats to combine the most up to date modern conveniences with historic ambience, top-class Mediterranean cuisine and personal attention from helpful staff.

Naturally this combination was very costly, but no more so than the other two hotels the Monteros owned on the island. Each establishment was aimed to appeal to specific clientele. People who wanted the cosmopolitan sophistication of Palma would find everything they could want in the elegant surroundings of the hotel situated right in the middle of the medieval old town; and those who liked a resort that offered them the choice of six top-class restaurants on site, a spa and every sporting facility known to man, with top-class tuition thrown in, would adore the resort hotel on the beautiful undeveloped northern coast of the island.

‘Sure, this hotel and God knows how many others around the world, and then there’s the airline, the racehorses and the interests in property development. Is there any pie the Monteros don’t have a finger in…?’ he wondered enviously. ‘I really doubt someone like Javier Montero involves himself in the day-to-day running of hotels,’ he announced, settling himself back down to sleep.

‘It was him.’

‘If you say so,’ her husband agreed, reapplying sunscreen to his peeling nose—it was too hot to fight.

He had been right on one count; though Javier was known to occasionally subject individual hotels to gruelling spot inspections, it wasn’t part of his remit to involve himself in the day-to-day running of individual establishments. Javier’s talents lay elsewhere.

Early on in his career he had displayed a remarkable ability for spotting untapped niches in the markets. This talent had been recognised and exploited, but he wasn’t just an ideas man; when a project was beset by difficulties, be it labour disputes or legal wranglings, Javier was the person who could be relied upon to get things running.

The information that had brought him hot-foot to the island hardened the naturally severe cast of Javier’s staggeringly handsome features as he knocked on the heavy oak-studded door of Serge’s office.

Though of average height, due to his massively broad shoulders and deep barrel chest, the swarthy-skinned man behind the desk gave the impression of being much taller.

‘Javier!’ Serge rose to his feet with a welcoming smile and the two men clasped hands and hugged. ‘It’s been too long.’

‘It has.’ Javier responded with the sort of smile that would have shocked rigid those members of the press who had dubbed him Mr Deep Freeze. ‘How are little Raul and…Sarah?’ Nobody seeing him smile would have guessed that he experienced any difficulty saying this name. ‘Where is she? I saw the car…’

‘It broke down the last time she was here,’ his friend admitted ruefully. ‘You can laugh, Javier, but it isn’t you that ends up pushing the cursed thing. Other than a stubborn, irrational affection for that old tin can on wheels, Sarah is fine—though your godson is keeping us both up nights.’

‘Then I expect you could have done without me asking you to do some discreet digging for me…?’

Serge shook his head. ‘Anything I can do, any time—you know this, Javier. I know you don’t like me saying this, but if we live to be a hundred there still won’t be enough time to pay you back what we owe you.’

‘You owe me nothing, Serge.’ Abruptly Javier changed the subject. ‘About the other thing…’ His dark angled eyebrows lifted and his eyes, startling blue in a face that was an even, deep gold, narrowed. ‘You’re sure about this, Serge?’

Serge sighed and looked grim. ‘I’m afraid so. The reports you heard were right.’

‘And you know who it is?’

‘A waiter working at the resort, a Luis Gonzalez, youngish…about twenty five. He came to work there at the start of the season…’

Javier didn’t make a note of the name but Serge knew that he would not forget the name or forgive the guilty party for the crime he had foolishly committed. Javier made a friend in a million but he was an implacable enemy.

‘References?’ Javier enquired, controlling his impatience; control was one of the things Javier prided himself on.

‘Impeccable forgeries.’

‘Nobody else is involved, nobody higher…?’

Serge Simeone shook his head.