A Stormy Spanish Summer

‘Rosa had to tell you where your mother is? How typical of the kind of man you are that you need a servant to tell you the whereabouts of your own mother.’

The hot, angry red blood surged over the sharp thrust of his jawline like an unstoppable tide.

‘For your information, Rosa is not a servant. And as for my relationship with my mother—that is not a subject I intend to discuss with you.’

‘No, I’m sure you don’t,’ Fliss answered him grimly. ‘After all, it is in no small part because of you that I never got to have a relationship with my father. You were the one who intercepted my private letter to him. And you were the one who came all the way to England to bully my mother into pleading with me not to try to contact him again.’

‘Your mother believed it would not have been in your best interests for you to continue to write to Felipe.’

‘Oh, so it was for my sake that you stopped me communicating with him, was it?’ Fliss’s voice was icy with sarcasm as the memory of all the anguish and humiliation Vidal had caused flooded past her defences. He was cruel and arrogant. Willing to destroy others without compunction so that he could have his own way. ‘You had no right to stop me knowing my father, or denying me the right to at least see if he could love me. But then we know that love for another person isn’t a concept someone like you understands, is it, Vidal?’