A Stormy Spanish Summer (8 page)

Orchards of orange and lemon trees, heavy now in the summer with ripening fruit, surrounded these small villages, with their narrow main streets and their small dusty squares, and the smell of the citrus fruit permeated the air inside the car despite its air-conditioning. Not that Fliss minded. In fact she loved the sharp, sun-warmed
smell, and knew that it would be something she would carry with her once she had returned home.

‘It must be so beautiful here in the spring, when the orchards are in blossom.’ The words were out before she could stop them and remind herself that she had vowed this morning to remain as aloof from Vidal as she could.

‘It is my mother’s favourite time of year. She always spends the spring on our estate. The almond blossom is her favourite,’ he responded, in a curt voice that showed Fliss how little he actually wanted to make any kind of contact with her at all, even though he had turned towards her as he spoke.

Pain flowered darkly inside her, like a bruise on wounded skin. Fliss’s breath caught in her throat, in denial of what she was feeling, trapped there by the thudding sensation in her heart that merely looking at him brought her.

And she
was
looking at him, she recognised. Just like all those years ago in the bathroom, she was physically unable to remove her gaze from him. Why did this have to happen to her? Why could
this
man bring to life feelings within her that no other man had ever touched? Was there some part of her that wanted to be humiliated?

The flush burning her skin grew even hotter. She mustn’t think about Vidal. She must think instead about her parents, and about the love they had shared. She had been created out of that love, and according to her mother that made her a very special child. A child of love. Was it any wonder, knowing that, that she had been so stricken with shock and horror by Rory’s behaviour
that she had not been able to find the words to deny his lie about her? At sixteen she had naively believed that sexual intimacy should be a beautiful act of mutual love. She had had no desire whatsoever to experiment with sex, put off by what to her had seemed the coarse and vulgar attitude displayed by boys of her own age. Instead she had dreamed of a passionate, tender, adoring lover with whom she would share all the mysteries and delights of sexual intimacy.

And then Vidal had come to see her mother. The child she had heard so much about transformed into a hero who fitted her private template for what a man should be so perfectly that he had stolen her heart before she had even realised what was happening to her. Vidal—so handsome that just looking at him made her breath catch in her throat. Vidal—who carried about him such a powerful aura of male sensuality that even she at sixteen had been aware of it. Vidal—who knew her father. Was it any wonder that he had held so many of the keys that could unlock her emotional defences? Not that he had needed to unlock them. She had thrown down her barriers for him herself.

Shocked by her own vulnerability, Fliss tried determinedly to concentrate again on the countryside beyond the car window. They had turned off the main road now, and were travelling along a narrow road that was climbing between two outcrops of rock. Beyond them, she could see as the car crested the top of the incline, lay a lush, wide and fertile valley filled with orchards, and on the lower slopes of the ring of hills that enclosed it rows of vines.

‘The boundary to the estate begins here,’ Vidal told her, as they started to descend into the valley, still in that formal tone which told her how little he wanted her company and how much he wished she wasn’t here with him.

Well, she didn’t care. She wasn’t here because of him, after all. She was here because of her father. But much as she tried to take comfort from that knowledge, comfort eluded her, and her aching heart refused to be soothed.

‘You can’t see the
castillo
yet, but it is at the far end of the valley—built there so that it could command a strategic position.’

Fliss caught a glimpse of the silver ribbon of a river, wending its way below them on the valley floor. The valley was a small perfect paradise, she recognised, caught off-guard by the unexpected sharp pang of envy that touched her as she thought of how wonderful it must have been to grow up here, surrounded by so much natural beauty. In the distance she could see the high peaks of the Sierras, and she knew that beyond the Lecrin Valley lay a sub-tropical coastline of great beauty.

But the coast and what lay beyond this place were forgotten as the road twisted and turned and then, up ahead of them, she could see the
castillo.
She had not realised it would be so large, so imposing, and her breath caught on a betraying gasp of awe. Its architecture was a blend of a traditional Moorish style and something of the Renaissance, and sunlight shone on the narrow iron-grille-covered windows of its turreted corners.

This wasn’t a home, Fliss thought apprehensively.
It was a fortress—a stronghold designed to reveal the might and the power of the man who held it and to warn others not to challenge that power.

They had to drive past formal gardens and an ornamental lake before reaching the front of the
castillo,
where Vidal brought the car to a halt.

An elderly manservant was waiting to greet them once they had stepped into the vast marble hallway, and a housekeeper who smiled far more warmly at her than Rosa was summoned to escort her to her room after Vidal announced that she might want an opportunity to ‘freshen up’ whilst he spoke with his estate manager.

‘Since it’s almost lunchtime, I suggest that we delay our visit to Felipe’s house until after we have eaten.’

Vidal might be using the word
suggest,
but what he really meant, and wanted her to know, was that he was giving her an order, Fliss thought angrily, forced to nod her head and accept his dictat, even though she wanted to insist that she see her father’s house immediately.

A couple of minutes later, following the housekeeper down a long, wide corridor on the second floor, Fliss reflected that both the vastness of the
castillo
and its architecture reminded her of a long-ago visit to Blenheim, the enormous palace given to the Duke of Marlborough by Queen Anne. Here at the
castillo,
the ceiling of the long gallery-style corridor was decorated with ornate plasterwork, and the crimson-papered walls were hung with huge gilt-framed portraits.

They had almost reached the end of the corridor when the housekeeper came to a halt and opened the double
doors in front of her, indicating that Fliss was to precede her into the room beyond them.

If she had thought that her bedroom at the family townhouse in Granada was large and elegant, then she had obviously not realised what the words could actually mean, Fliss recognised. She put down the overnight bag she’d brought with her, lost for words in the middle of what had to be the most opulent bedroom she had ever seen.

Gilt swags and cherubs adorned the half-tester bed, whilst above it on the ceiling nymphs and shepherds rioted in discreet pastel-painted pastoral delight. Ornate gilt plasterwork decorated the cream-painted walls, framing insets of rich gold cherub-imprinted wallpaper, and matching silk curtains hung at the windows and fell from the bedhead.

All the furniture in the room was painted cream—feminine and delicate—as well as highly decorated with a good deal of gilt rococo work. On the bed was a gold coverlet made out of the same fabric as the curtains, its cherubs stitched and padded to stand out. Against one wall, between two sets of tall glass doors that led out onto narrow balconies, stood a desk with its own chair, and in the corner was a low table on which she could see a selection of glossy magazines. Fliss, who had a little knowledge of antiques, suspected that the cream-and-gold carpet was probably a priceless Savonnerie, made especially for the room.

‘Your bathroom and dressing room are through here,’ the housekeeper informed Fliss, indicating the recessed
double doors on either side of the bed. ‘I shall send a maid up to escort you to lunch in ten minutes.’

Thanking her, Fliss waited until the door had closed behind her before investigating the bathroom and dressing room.

The bathroom was very traditional, with marble floors and walls and a huge roll-top bath alongside a modern shower enclosure. Every kind of product a visiting guest might require was laid out on the marble surround to the basin. A quantity of thick fluffy towels hung from a modern chrome heated towel rail, whilst an equally thick and fluffy white robe hung from a peg behind the door.

The dressing room was lined with mirror-fronted cupboards large enough to hold the entire wardrobes of several families, and even possessed a
chaise-longue.
So that the male partner of the woman sleeping in the bedroom could lounge there and watch as she paraded in expensive designer clothes for his pleasure and approval? Inside her head Fliss had a swift mental image of Vidal, dark-browed and dark-suited, leaning against the gold silk upholstery of the
chaise,
reaching out to touch her bare shoulder, his gaze fixed on her mouth, whilst she—

No. She must not allow such thoughts.

Quickly stepping back into the bedroom, Fliss went over to open doors to one of the balconies, intending to breath in some fresh air. But she came to a halt when she saw that the balcony looked down on an enclosed swimming-pool area large enough to have belonged to a five-star hotel. The intense brilliant blue of the sky was
reflected in the still waters of the pool, and beyond the walled pool area she could see the orchards, stretching up into the foothills.

This valley was a small earthly paradise—a paradise complete with its own danger, its own Lucifer as far as she was concerned, in the shape of Vidal. And was she tempted by Vidal as Eve had been tempted by the serpent, in danger of risking all that mattered to her morally for the sake of the sensual caress of a man who represented everything she most despised?

S
OMEONE
was knocking on her bedroom door. Quickly removing her rolled-up Panama hat from her case and grabbing her handbag, Fliss went to open the door, somehow managing to disengage herself from her troublesome thoughts and produce a smile for the maid who was waiting outside it.

In the room to which the maid showed her a buffet lunch had been laid out on a heavily carved wooden sideboard. Three places were set at the immaculately polished mahogany table, and the reason for that was made apparent when Vidal walked into the room, accompanied by a good-looking dark-haired younger man, who gave Fliss a warm smile of open male appreciation as soon as he saw her.

Vidal introduced them. ‘Felicity—Ramón Carrera. Ramón is Estate Manager here.’ Ramón’s warm smile faded to a very respectful inclination of his head when Vidal added, ‘Felicity is Felipe’s daughter,’ before striding over to the buffet and telling them both, ‘Come—let us eat.’

Going to pick up one of the plates on the table, Fliss grappled with the unexpectedness of Vidal introducing
her openly as his adopted uncle’s daughter—thus acknowledging her as a member of the family as easily as though there had never been any past secrecy or unwillingness to recognise her. Why had he done it? Because he had felt it necessary to explain her presence and hadn’t wanted anyone on the estate to jump to the conclusion that just because he had brought her here it meant they were personally involved romantically? Of course, being the man he was, he wouldn’t want anyone thinking that. He had made his dislike of her plain enough, after all.

As she ate her food, whilst the two men talked about estate matters, Fliss pondered on why the thought of Vidal pointing out that she was here because she was Felipe’s daughter and
not
because of any personal emotional involvement with him had the power to make her feel such an intense stab of angry pain.

‘You have not tried our wine yet,’ she heard Ramón saying, ‘It’s a new Merlot we have just started producing here.’

Dutifully Fliss raised the glass of red wine to her lips and breathed in its heady bouquet, intrigued by the hint of what smelled like scented blossom mixed with the rich smell of the wine itself, before taking a cautious sip. She had been right to be cautious, Fliss recognised, as she felt the wine’s full-bodied warmth spreading through her body.

‘It’s excellent,’ she told Ramón truthfully,

‘It is Vidal who deserves your praise, not me.’ Ramón smiled. ‘It was his idea to import some new vines from a vineyard in Chile in which he has a financial interest, to
see if we could replicate the excellent wine they produce there.’

‘What we have produced here is unique to this area.’ Vidal joined in the conversation. ‘Something of the smell of our orchards has been incorporated in the wine.’

‘Yes, I noticed that,’ Fliss agreed, taking another sip from her wine glass. The wine really was good. Its scent was making her want to bury her nose in the glass to breathe in more of it.

‘Vidal said that he wanted to produce a Merlot that reminded him of riding through the orchards on a warm spring morning,’ Ramón enthused. ‘A lovers’ wine that is full of promise and the joy of being alive. It has been very well received in the industry. I think, Vidal, that we should perhaps have named it for Señor Felipe’s oh-so-beautiful daughter,’ Ramón told Vidal, giving Fliss another admiring look.

Vidal felt as though someone had sliced straight into his gut as he watched Fliss smile warmly at Ramón. She had not mentioned there being a current man in her life, but even if there was, given what he knew about her, she was hardly likely to think it necessary to stop at one—especially when she was far away from him.

Abruptly he stood up, announcing brusquely, ‘We should make a move, I think. You will report back to me about that problem with the irrigation system before tonight, please, Ramón. If we are going to have to get a senior engineer out I would prefer it to be tomorrow, whilst I am still here.’

‘I’ll go and find out what’s happening,’ Ramón confirmed, rising from his own chair and then coming to
hold Fliss’s chair for her with a courtly gesture as she too moved to stand up.

Excusing himself to go and get on with his work, Ramón left Fliss and Vidal to walk out into the early-afternoon sunshine together.

Since she had expected that her father’s home would be within walking distance of the
castillo,
Fliss was surprised when Vidal placed his hand beneath her elbow to direct her back towards the car. She could feel first her arm and then her whole body burning with the heat caused by her proximity to him, causing her an immediate panic and a need to get away from him. It would be unbearable if he should guess the effect he had on her. Fliss could just imagine how much he would enjoy the humiliation that would bring her. But no amount of fear of that humiliation though was enough to stop her nipples from hardening to push determinedly against the covering of her bra and her dress. It was almost as though they wanted to shame her by flaunting their arousal and their willing availability in front of Vidal.

Angry with herself, she took refuge from her unwanted sensual vulnerability to him and her inability to control it by telling him scornfully, ‘I suppose it’s beyond your dignity as a duke to walk to the house?’

This drew a grim look from him as he told her coldly, ‘Since it’s a mile-and-a-half walk along the road, or a mile as the crow flies, I thought it would be easier to use the car. However, if you prefer to walk …’ He looked down at Fliss’s flimsy sandals as he spoke, causing her to recognise with a new surge of anger that he had won that particular run-in between them.

They had travelled quite a distance down the long drive, in a silence that bristled with mutual hostility, before Vidal announced in a peremptory tone that would have immediately got Fliss’s back up even without the added insult of what he had to say, ‘I must warn you against indulging in a flirtation with Ramón.’

‘I was
not
flirting with him,’ Fliss snapped in outrage.

‘He made it plain that he found you attractive, and you allowed him to do so. Of course we both know how eager you are to accommodate the desires of any man who chooses to express them to you.’

‘Trust you to throw that in my face.’ Fliss tried to defend herself. ‘You just couldn’t wait to do so, could you? Well, for your information—’

‘For
your
information,’ Vidal interrupted her coldly, ‘I will not have you indulging your promiscuous sexual appetite with Ramón.’

She must not let the pain of what he was saying touch her. If she did—if she let it into her heart—then it would surely destroy her. It proved how vulnerable she already was that she should actually feel herself aching to tell him that he was wrong, and demand that he listen to the truth. Vidal would never listen to the truth because he didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to think the worst of her—just as he had wanted to prevent her from making contact with her father. To him she was someone who just wasn’t good enough to be treated with compassion and understanding.

‘You can’t stop me taking a lover if I want to, Vidal.’ It was the truth, after all.

Without looking at her, Vidal replied grimly, ‘Ramón is married, with two young children. Unfortunately his marriage is going through a difficult time at the moment. Ramón is known to have an eye for pretty girls, and his wife is not at all happy about his behaviour. I have no wish to see their marriage fall apart and their children left without a father, and I promise you, Felicity, that I will do whatever it takes to make sure that does not happen.’

Vidal had turned off the main drive and onto a narrow, less well-maintained track, at the end of which, rising above the heavily laden orange and lemon trees, Fliss could see the top storey and attic windows of a red-roofed house. It gave her the perfect, much-needed excuse not to respond to Vidal’s crushing comment, but instead to retreat into what she hoped was a dignified silence—whilst her heart thumped jerkily against her chest wall in a mixture of anger and chagrin.

In that silence Vidal drove them through what felt like a tunnel of spreading branches. Sunlight dappled through them to create an almost camouflage effect on the bark of the trees, and the crops in the close-mown grass below them. And then Fliss got her first proper glimpse of the house. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart flipping dizzily with emotion. If it was possible to fall in love with a house then she just had, she recognised.

Three storeys high, whitewashed, it filled her with delight. There was delicate detail in its iron-grille-surrounded balconies, and there were bright slashes of colour from the geraniums tumbling from pots outside
the house and the bougainvillea blossom against the lower walls of the house. Oddly, there was something almost Queen Anne about the architectural style of the building, so that there was a familiarity about it—as though somehow it was welcoming her, Fliss thought emotionally as Vidal brought the car to a halt outside a pair of wooden double doors.

‘It’s beautiful.’ The words were said before she could call them back.

‘It was originally built for the captive mistress of one of my ancestors—an Englishwoman seized in a fight at sea between my ancestor’s ship and an English vessel in the days when the countries were at war with one another.’

‘It was a
prison?
’ Fliss couldn’t hold back her distaste.

‘‘If you want to see if that way. But what I would say is that it was their love for one another that imprisoned them. My ancestor protected his mistress by housing her here away from the judgement of society, and she protected the heart he had given her by remaining true to him and accepting that his duty to his wife meant that they could never officially be together.’

After what Vidal had told her, Fliss had expected the house to wear an air of sadness and disillusionment, but instead the first impression she had when she stepped into the cool white-painted hallway with its tiled floor was that the house was holding itself still, as though in expectation of something—or someone. Her father?

The air smelled soft and warm, as though the house was regularly aired, but Fliss thought that beneath that
scent she could still smell a hint of male cologne. An ache of unexpected longing and sadness swept through her, catching her off-guard, so that she had to blink away her betraying emotion. She had genuinely thought that she had wept all the tears she had to weep for the father she had never known many, many years ago.

‘Did my … did my father live here alone?’ she asked Vidal—more to break the silence between them than anything else.

‘Apart from Ana, who was his housekeeper. She has now retired and gone to live in the village with her daughter. Come—I shall show you the house, and then once you have satisfied your curiosity I shall return you to the
castillo.’

Fliss could sense that Vidal was holding both his impatience and his dislike of her on a very short rein.

‘You didn’t want me to come here, did you? Even though my father left the house to me?’ she accused him.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Vidal agreed. ‘I didn’t and don’t see the point.’

‘Just like you didn’t see the point of me writing to him. In fact as far as you are concerned it would have been better if I had never been born, wouldn’t it?’

Without waiting for Vidal’s reply—what was the need, after all, when she already knew the answer to her own question?—Fliss moved further into the house.

Although it was far more simple in style and decoration than the
castillo,
it was still furnished with what Fliss suspected were valuable antiques.

‘Which was my father’s favourite room?’ she demanded,
after she had walked though a well-proportioned drawing room and explored the elegant, formal dining room on the opposite side of the hallway, as well as a smaller sitting room and a collection of passages, storerooms, and a small businesslike office situated at the back of the house.

For a minute she thought that Vidal wasn’t going to answer her. His mouth had hardened, and he looked away from her as though impatient to be free of her company. She held her breath.

But then, just as she thought he was going to ignore her, he turned back to her and told her distantly, ‘This one.’ He opened the door into a small library. ‘Felipe loved reading, and music. He …’ Vidal paused, looking into the distance before he continued. ‘He liked to spend his evenings in here, listening to music and reading his favourite books. The sun sets on this side of the house, and in the evening this room is particularly pleasant.’

The image Vidal was painting was one of a solitary, quiet man—a lonely man, perhaps—who had sat here in this room, contemplating what might have been if only things had been different.

‘Did you … did you spent a lot of time with him?’ Fliss could feel the words threatening to block her throat. Her hand went to it, tangling with the slender gold chain that had been her mother’s, as though by touching it she could somehow ease away the pain she was now feeling.

‘He was my uncle. He managed the family orchards.’ Vidal gave a shrug which Fliss interpreted as dismissive
and thus uncaring. ‘Naturally we spent a good deal of time together.’

Vidal was turning away from her. Releasing her chain, Fliss looked back at the desk, her attention caught by the gleam of sunlight on the back of a small silver photograph frame. Driven by an impulse she couldn’t control, she picked it up and turned it round. Her heart slammed into her ribs as she looked down at a photograph of her mother, holding a smiling baby Fliss knew to be herself.

Her hand shaking, she put the photograph down.

Vidal’s mobile rang, and whilst he turned away to take the call Fliss studied the photograph again. Her mother looked so young. So proud of her baby. What had her father thought when he had seen the photograph? Had he been filled with regret—guilt—even perhaps longing to have the woman he loved and the child he had created with her there with him? She would never know now.

He had kept the photograph on his desk, which must mean that he had looked at it every day. Fliss tried to drive away the feeling of deep sadness permeating her, but still her questioning thoughts tormented her. Had he ever hoped that one day they would meet? He had never made any attempt to contact her.