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As he raised his head on a level with hers their eyes locked and as he slowly bent towards her with a smothered groan it was as though he was fighting something deep within himself, the turmoil he was feeling reflected in the darkness of his face.
Her heart began to pound and the blood raced madly through her veins in an agony of excitement. She had wanted this to happen from the first moment she had seen him, she realised with a little shock of horror, had wanted to know what the feel of his lips would be like.
He rested his hands either side of her slim shape as he took her mouth in a gentle, exploratory kiss that changed within seconds as he felt her mouth quiver beneath his. His lips became hard, demanding, and she felt her bones turn to water at the deeply searching invasion of his mouth. No other man had kissed her like this before! The thought burnt into her mind at the same moment as she shuddered against him, unable to resist the powerful desire that was sending shafts of pleasure trembling through her body.
As he felt her response he lowered himself on to the bed until he was lying above her, close enough for her to feel his evident arousal but without the full weight of his body resting against hers. She couldn’t believe that another human being was making her feel like this as frantic, hot excitement had her tumbling into another dimension. Before Sancho most of her dates had been nonentities with a relatively chaste embrace on the doorstep; in fact she knew she had gained something of a reputation for being an icy cool blonde. Sancho had made her feel different but even he hadn’t got past that certain something that had made her call a halt to his lovemaking before it got out of hand. She had known that one of the reasons he had suggested the Spanish trip was to overcome her resistance. But it hadn’t been necessary. Janie had had no such inhibitions.
The thought didn’t have the power to touch her at all; all her emotions, all her senses, were tied up in a whirlwind of touch and smell. She wasn’t aware of the bewildered note in her cry as his hands on her skin made her moan against the hard face but suddenly, abruptly, he had lifted himself from her and was standing away before walking across to the other side of the room.
‘Do you see now?’ His voice was deep and violent. ‘I was right, was I not? You have not yet made the transition into full awareness—you are a child after all’ The hard reality of his words hit her painfully as she stared into the glittering black eyes. He seemed angry, furiously angry, and she didn’t understand why. She hadn’t pushed him away, hadn’t told him to stop...’
‘I do not need a complication like you in my life,’ he said tightly. ‘I should never have brought you here. I should have left you back there, on the road.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ she whispered dazedly. ‘What have I done wrong?’ How could he be so hostile, so cold, when just a few minutes before ...?
‘You think you would enjoy a nice little flirtation in this safe little world in which you live?’ he asked grimly. ‘Is that what you think? But I am not one of your college friends with the time to court and woo you and persuade you into my bed. And there are others like me out there. Go home, Miss Lorne Wilson. Go back to where it is safe and controlled and ordinary before you find yourself hurt badly. You are a lamb among wolves here.’
The slam of the door reverberated round the room and she was still staring at it minutes later as she tried to take in what had happened. His words had lashed her but even as she thought about them she didn’t fully understand why he had been so enraged.
She hadn’t been the one to pull away, she hadn’t initiated the embraces in the first place, and it had been Francisco who had insisted she accompany him home despite her protests. She relaxed against the pillows after a long, taut moment, shutting her eyes as her head hammered with images and harsh, cruel words.
‘This is all unreal,’ she muttered dazedly as she settled deeper into the soft bed. He was unreal; this magnificent, larger than life house was unreal; she would wake up soon from this crazy dream and find herself curled up under a tree somewhere as she had done the last few days on the road. That was it, it was a dream, a strange and worrying and curiously thrilling dream... It was her last coherent thought before sleep overtook her.
CHAPTER THREE
THE tap on the door brought Lorne instantly awake and fully alert in a moment as though part of her mind had been keeping watch all the time. The room was dark, full of a rich, heavy dusk that carried the perfume of sweet-scented jasmine and verbena from the open window. Another gentle knock compelled her to answer and as Alfonso’s grey head appeared round the door she breathed a sigh of relief. She needed to compose herself and get her thoughts in order before she faced Francisco again.
‘Señor de Vega wishes me to inform you that dinner will be served in the main dining-room in half an hour,’ the elderly manservant said with formal politeness. ‘Benita or Teresa will come to take you downstairs and the señor thought these may be useful to you.’ He produced a pair of crutches like a magician from behind his back. It was clear from both his attitude and his unsmiling face that he heartily disapproved of this waif that his master had brought home, and as Lorne smiled her thanks the stiff façade didn’t crack by so much as a glimmer. ‘Half an hour, then, señorita.’ As the door shut, Lorne sank back on the bed again for a second before switching on the bedside lamp. At once the room was filled with a soft warm light and as she hobbled to the chair where Alfonso had propped the crutches her ankle reminded her that for the moment, at least, she was dependent on the harsh, cold master of this place for her every need.
Should she telephone Tom? Even as the thought materialised she dismissed it. She had spent the last four years managing on her own and trying to convince him that she was no longer his responsibility. The shock of her parents’ death in a car accident, the arrival of another mouth to feed in addition to his four children and then severe business worries had culminated in her brother’s first heart attack at the young age of thirty-nine just a year before she left for college. His financial burdens were still considerable and although a happy family life alleviated some of the strain she still worried constantly about the state of his health. No—she shook her head determinedly—she wouldn’t contact Tom. She would manage this herself; she had no choice.
‘You are managing the crutches very well.’ As she limped into the huge ornate dining-room with Teresa at her elbow Francisco rose immediately from an easy-chair at the far end of the room and moved quickly to her side, his dark face carefully expressionless. ‘Come and sit down; dinner will be served shortly. Would you care for a glass of wine, sherry?’
‘Sherry would be lovely, thank you.’ She sank gratefully into a wide cushioned chair and flexed her arms for a moment. She had concentrated so fiercely on her balance in order not to go sprawling at his feet that she hadn’t looked at his face, but now as he handed her the beautiful crystal wine glass her eyes met his and the sensation that passed through her body was like a small electric shock.
In the bright light from the magnificent glittering chandelier overhead that dominated the embossed carved ceiling he looked even more dangerous than she remembered. There was a darkness about him, an almost primitive power that seemed to be waiting to break forth from the surface veneer of civilisation. A small shiver snaked down her spine. He was handsome, yes, and that tall, lean body would cause any woman to turn for a second glance, but the aura of cold authority and remoteness that sat on him like a second skin was undeniably chilling. This man would be capable of almost anything. Once the thought had formed she knew it was true. Almost anything...
‘I have delayed dinner for a few minutes in order to talk to you in private.’ As he pulled a chair close to hers and leant forward she stared at him in naked apprehension before forcing a quick smile to her lips.
‘Oh, dear, what have I done now?’
He didn’t respond to her smile but his eyes were like warm velvet as they moved slowly over her pale skin, resting for a minute on the silvery sheen of her hair before returning to meet hers. ‘You have done nothing, Lorne. The fault is mine.’
However could she have thought his eyes were hard? she thought dazedly. Suddenly his whole face was warmer, tender, and for a moment she could see why he would have been a perfect doctor. The transformation was bewildering. Just when she had thought she had got him all taped he had metamorphosed in front of her very eyes.
‘I have never behaved in such a reprehensible manner towards a guest in my home before—do you believe that?’ She couldn’t reply, her mind didn’t seem to be functioning, but her small nod seemed to satisfy him. ‘I would like to offer you my apologies and to assure you that it will not happen again. It was the very opposite of what I intended—’ He broke off abruptly. ‘Quite inexcusable.’
She swallowed hard and then smiled more naturally although his last words had caused a small pang of she knew not what. ‘I’m sorry too; I seem to have caused a great deal of trouble. You’ve missed your appointments...’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I’m not usually so stupid.’
‘I am sure you are not but we are not discussing your actions,’ he said softly as he took one of her hands in his, looking down at its tininess in his large hands before setting it back abruptly in her lap. ‘Do you forgive me, Lorne, for behaving little better than your pursuers?’
‘Yes, it’s all right, you didn’t...’ Why did she blush so easily? she thought wretchedly. She must resemble a boiled lobster at the moment whereas he was devastatingly cool and controlled, his dark eyes searching her face with something in their depths she couldn’t read.
Dinner was served ten minutes later and when she was seated at the shiny dark wood dining-table in which the place settings of silver and exquisite arrangements of flowers that festooned the table were reflected in perfect detail the unreal feeling came back, stronger than before. This time yesterday she had been curled up under a somewhat prickly bush on soft sand looking up into a sky that was a dark blanket alive with a pulsing tapestry of stars, and trying to convince herself that the rustlings and movements in the undergrowth near by were her imagination and that the rumbling hunger pains in her stomach were good for her soul.
There were certainly no hunger pains tonight, she thought wryly as she finished the first course of gazpacho, a refreshing cold soup, made from tomato, cucumber, olive oil, bread, garlic and other seasonings and chilled with ice. It was delicious, the best she had tasted since coming to Spain, but she felt so tense and awkward seated opposite Francisco at the vast dining-table being waited on by the attentive Benita and Teresa that she had a job to force the food down.
Francisco sat in enigmatic silence, lounging comfortably in his seat, his dark eyes lazy as they wandered over her face now and again and his big body relaxed. Looking at him now she couldn’t believe the scene in the bedroom when the cold mask had been ripped aside and blazing passion had taken its place but neither was he the cold, austere stranger who had rescued her on the road. Who was he? What was he? He seemed to have a mask for every eventuality and she had the feeling she hadn’t even begun to see the real Francisco de Vega.
‘Have you lived here long?’ They had started on the second course of fresh lobster with aubergine salad and patatas bravas—spicy potatoes—and she felt she just had to break the silence that was grinding at her overwrought nerves.
‘The estate has been in my family for generations,’ Francisco said quietly. ‘I inherited it on my father’s death ten years ago.’
‘Oh.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Well, it’s very beautiful, very Moorish somehow.’
He nodded, his black eyes closed and hooded against her as their glittering light moved over her face again. ‘The Arabs ruled my country for hundreds of years and the Phoenicians, Greeks and Romans all claimed it for their own. Even now the separate kingdoms which made up the original Spanish nation remain very much in evidence in a diversity of language, culture and artistic traditions. You may have appreciated that in your travels?’ She nodded slowly as his deep rich voice continued. ‘Our history encompasses the Romans, Moors and the “Golden Age” of Renaissance imperialism and in certain parts villages have changed little since Columbus set sail. Most true Spaniards can trace their origins for centuries.’
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