Mistress of La Rioja

He had met her and wanted her in an instant and had despised the hot, sharp hunger she had inspired in him, a hunger which would never—could never— be satisfied.

And then she was standing in front of him, all honey-coloured hair and pale, translucent skin. As slender and as supple as a willow—with a look of almost grim determination glittering from the china-blue eyes.

Luis sensed danger in that determination, but he did not acknowledge it. Keeping his face a mask of formal courtesy, he inclined his head in greeting. To any other woman he might have given the traditional kiss on either cheek, but not this one. He had wanted to kiss her the first time he had seen her, but by then it was too late.

And now it was later still.

‘Sophie.’ A small, formal bow of his dark head. ‘I trust that you have had a pleasant flight?’

He was so tall that she had to look up at him, and Sophie’s heart sank as she realised that all that raw and vibrant masculinity was as intact and as potent as it had ever been. But the way he was speaking, he might as well have been enquiring about the weather. He certainly didn’t sound like a bereft and newly-widowed man, and for the first time she wondered if tragedy had not, in fact, proved a convenient ending to an unhappy marriage.

She kept her face neutral—though God only knew how. ‘It was smooth enough, thank-you.’ Though in truth the hours had passed in a blur as she had tried to equip herself with the emotional strength to stay polite and impassive towards him.

She wondered what his emotional state was. Untouched, she would guess. There was no tell-tale red-rimming of the eyes, no hint that tears had been shed for the mother of his child—but then, whoever could imagine a man like Luis shedding tears?

Today, he looked remote and untouchable. His face was as cold and as hard as if it had been hewn from some pure, honey-coloured marble—but only a blind fool would have denied that he was an outrageously attractive man.

He stood at well over six feet and his shoulders were broad and strong. Lightweight summer trousers did little to conceal the powerful shaft of his thighs, and beneath the short-sleeved cotton shirt his arms looked as though they were capable of splitting open the trunk of a tree without effort.

But it was the face which was truly remarkable— it effortlessly bore the stamp of generations of Spanish aristocracy. Proud, almost cruel—with only the lush lines of his mouth breaking up the unremitting hardness of his features. A mouth so lush that it exuded the unmistakable sensuality which surrounded him like an invisible cloak.

No wonder her cousin had fallen for his devastating brand of charisma, Sophie thought, and a sudden sense of sadness left her feeling almost winded.

He saw the hint of tears which misted the Mediterranean-blue of her eyes. All the fire and determination had been wiped out, her sadness betrayed by the slight, vulnerable tremble of her lips, and he reached out to take her hand. It felt so tiny and cool when enclosed in his.

‘You have my condolences, little one,’ he said gravely.

She lifted her chin, swallowing the tears away, and removed her hand from his warm grasp, despairing of the not-so-subtle chemistry between them which made her want to leave it exactly where it was. ‘Thank you,’ she returned softly, letting her gaze fall to the ground, just in case those perceptive black eyes had the power to read exactly what was going on in her mind.

He looked at her downcast head and the stiff, defensive set of her shoulders. She was grieving for her cousin, he reminded himself—although the defiant, almost angry spark in her eyes on greeting him had little to do with grief, surely?

‘Come, Sophie,’ he said. ‘The car awaits us and we have some drive ahead of us. Here, let me carry your suitcase for you.’

It sounded more like a command than an offer to help, and, although Sophie could have and would have carried it perfectly well on her own, she knew that it was pointless trying to refuse a man like Luis.

He would insist. Instinct told her that just as accurately as anything her cousin had ever divulged. He came from a long line of imperious men, men who saw clearly delineated lines between the roles of the sexes.

Spain might now be as modern as the rest of Europe, but men like Luis did not change with the times. They still saw themselves as conquerors—superior and supreme—and master of all they surveyed.

She could see women looking at him as they passed. Coy little side-glances and sometimes an eager and undisguised kind of hunger. She couldn’t see into his eyes from here, and wondered if he was giving them hungry little glances back.

Probably. Hadn’t he done just that with her, before he had discovered her identity?

And of course now, without a wife, he could behave exactly as he pleased—he could exert that powerful sexuality and get any woman he wanted into his bed.

The airport buildings were refreshingly air-conditioned, but once outside the force of the heat hit her like a velvet fist, even though the intensity of the midday sun had long since passed.

He saw her flinch beneath the impact of the raw heat, and he knew that he must not forget to warn her about the dangers of the sun. ‘Why don’t you take your jacket off?’ he suggested suavely.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said tightly.

His mouth hardened. ‘As you wish.’

Thankfully, the car was as cool and air-conditioned as the airport terminal, and she waited until he had driven out of the car park and was setting off towards the open road before turning to him.

‘Where’s Teodoro?’

‘At home.’

‘Oh.’

He heard the disappointment in her voice. ‘You imagined that I would have brought him out on a hot summer’s night to await a plane which could have been delayed?’

‘So who’s looking after him?’

Did her question hint at reprimand? he wondered incredulously. Did she imagine that he had left the child alone? ‘He is in the charge of his ninera…’He saw her frown with confusion and realised that she, like her cousin, spoke almost no Spanish at all. ‘His mother’s help,’ he translated immediately.

‘Not any more,’ said Sophie quietly.

‘No,’ he agreed heavily. There was a short, painful pause and he shot her a side-glance. ‘How did your grandmother take it?’

Sophie bit her lip. Would it sound unfeeling and uncaring if she told him that, although the news had saddened her grandmother, it had come as no great surprise. What had she said? Miranda had flown far too close to the sun… But if she told Luis that then surely it would do a disservice to her cousin’s memory.

‘What happened, Luis? How did Miranda die?’

He pulled in a breath, choosing his words carefully, remembering that he must respect both her position and her grief.

How much of the truth did she want? he wondered. Or need?

‘No one knows exactly what happened,’ he said.

She knew evasion when she heard it. And faint distaste, too. She wondered what had caused it.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

He didn’t answer, just kept his dark eyes straight on the road ahead, so that all she could see was his hard, shadowed profile, and Sophie said the first thing which came into her head. ‘Had the driver been drinking?’

There was a short, bald silence. But what would be the point in keeping it from her? It would soon be a matter of public record.

‘Sì. El habia estrado bebiendo.’ He was thinking in his native language and the words just slipped out of their own accord.

She spoke hardly any Spanish, but Sophie could tell what his answer was from the flat, heavy tone of his voice. She closed her eyes in despair. ‘Oh, God! Drinking very much? Do you know?’

‘The tests have not yet been completed.’

A sense of outrage and of anger burned deep within her—and for the first time it was directed at Miranda instead of the man beside her. Her cousin had been a mother, for heaven’s sake, with all the responsibility which went with that. She’d had a young child to look after—so how could she have been so stupid to have gone off in a car where the driver had been drinking?

Unless she hadn’t known.