In Name Only

“We make no claims.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Welcome to Europe Copyright

“We make no claims.”

“Claims are two-edged swords, senorita. You may wish to renounce yours—and that is your right. But I have no intention of renouncing mine. And that is my right. And my duty.”

Cathy understood the threat, felt it like a pain in her bones, tasted it on her tongue like the taste of fear. How could she have ever thought that Javier’s eyes were warm? They were cold, cold as the deadliest Toledo steel.

DIANA HAMILTON is a true romantic at heart and fell in love with her husband at first sight. They still live in the fairy-tale English Tudor house where they raised their three children. Now the idyll is shared with eight rescued cats and a puppy. But despite an often chaotic life-style, ever since she learned to read and write, Diana has had her nose in a book—either reading or writing one—and plans to go on doing just that for a very long time to come.

In Name Only

Diana Hamilton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

HE WAS tall for a Spaniard and he had grey eyes. A warm, smoky grey, intensified by lashes as thick and as black as his straight, soft hair. But the warmth, the softness, was quite definitely counterbalanced by the grave features, the heavy straight brows, by the unsmiling sensual line of his mouth.

She didn’t know him, but she knew of him, Cathy thought on a flutter of panic as she fingered the square of white pasteboard he had handed her. Javier Campuzano.

And she knew why he had come, or thought she did, and she wanted to shut the door in his handsome, unsmiling face and pretend he was simply a bad dream. Or nightmare. Cathy shivered and the instinctive, convulsive tremor had more to do with his presence than with the unpleasant draught of cold air that sliced up from the drearily dank stairwell.

Behind her, in the tiny sitting-room of her modest north London flat, Johnny gave a cross between a crow and a squeal, carrying the undertones of impatience he always produced at the approach of a mealtime. She saw the Spaniard’s eyes flicker, breaking the unfriendly, steady regard, and she stiffened her spine protectively, reminding herself that although she was in for an unenviable few minutes it would soon be over and the unsavoury Campuzano episode could be safely put behind them.

Unsavoury apart from the end-result, of course—her darling, precious Johnny...

‘Señorita Soames?’ He repeated his question, his slightly accented, intriguingly sexy voice gathering the strength of steel, an impatience perhaps, engendered by the promise of a full-throated bellow from the hungry baby in the background. ‘If you will permit...?’

A strong brown hand made a controlled but decisive gesture towards the interior of the flat, and Cathy pushed her paint-stained fingers through the blonde silk of her hair, thrusting it away from her face, and answered resignedly, ‘Of course. Do come in, Señor Campuzano.’ He wouldn’t stay long, only as long as it took to tell her that no way would his impressive family lay themselves open to blackmail, emotional or otherwise. And she, in loco parentis, would take it, then show him the door.

She had expected the black-coated Jerezano, now head of one of Spain’s most respected and wealthiest sherry families, to show a certain amount of unconcealed distaste for the poky room, cluttered with baby and oil-painting impedimenta, where not even her best efforts with wallpaper and soft furnishings could disguise what it was: an undesirably cramped conversion in a run-down area of the city.

But his eyes were on the baby, a slow, unreadable look which, unaccountably, made Cathy shudder all over again. At five months old, Johnny was a sturdy child, already with a definite character and opinions of his own. He saw few people—strangers had not yet entered his tiny world—and now he stopped jouncing his baby-bouncer over the cheap and cheerful carpet and, his starfish hands clutching the string of colourful beads fastened in front of him, he stared at the tall, dark interloper from deep grey, serious eyes. And if Javier Campuzano couldn’t detect the obvious family likeness in the slightly olive-toned skin, those huge dark eyes, the mop of silky black hair, then he had to be blind.

But she didn’t want him to see the likeness, did she? she reminded herself tersely. Just let him say his piece and leave, never to come near any of them again. And then Johnny smiled, showing two tiny, newly emerged front teeth, and it was like the sun coming out on a rainy day. And, amazingly, Campuzano smiled too—a smile of such sincerity that her breath was whisked away, leaving a vaccum, until the protective urge filled the gap and she scooped the baby from the bouncer, holding him on her slender hip, her violet eyes stormy with an ill-defined antagonism as she stared defiantly at the child’s undoubted uncle, her soft mouth compressed.

‘You’ve come on behalf of your brother Francisco,’ she stated quickly, feeling a wayward pulse beat strongly, warningly, at the base of her throat as his smile vanished into glacial facial rigidity. But better to get this out of the way at once, get it all over and done with. ‘I—we——’ she corrected herself automatically ‘—lay no claim whatsoever on your family. Not now, nor in the future.’ Not for the first time she wished Cordy had never sent that second letter. The complete silence following the first had been telling enough.

Francisco Campuzano, younger brother of the head of the distinguished family whose business empire stretched way beyond the world of vineyards, bodegas and wine shippers, had obviously ignored the fact that he had sired a son. The total silence that had followed that first letter, when Cordy had written to say she was pregnant, had clearly demonstrated that he preferred to forget that he had spent the night with a sexy English blonde who was on a modelling assignment in Seville.

So the head of the family’s presence here now, at this late stage, could only indicate that he meant to put the damper on any ambitions the mother of the child might have regarding the Campuzanos’ wealth and standing. And that was fine by her, she thought, smiling down at Johnny, who had decided to explore her mouth, pushing his tiny fingers against her even white teeth.

‘Mam-Mam-Mam...’

Cathy’s smile broadened and, just for a moment, she forgot the presence of the Spaniard. She was quite unashamed of assuring herself that the first coherent sounds the baby had produced, only a day or two ago, meant that he recognised her as his mother. And she was his mother, she thought staunchly, maybe not biologically, but in every other way that mattered. And soon, if the adoption went through smoothly, he would legally be hers. If she lived to be a thousand she would never be able to understand how Cordy could have abandoned him so callously.

But the quality of the silence had her uneasily raising her eyes to meet the steady grey regard of the Jerezano. And the unconsciously tender smile was wiped from her face as she registered the detailed assessment that ranged from the top of her blonde head down to her comfortable old canvas shoes, an assessment that suddenly, and inexplicably, made her aware of her body in a way she had never been aware before, a way that seemed to blister her skin.

‘Yes, I recognise you,’ Campuzano stated with a cool decisiveness that took Cathy’s already ragged breath away and brought a puzzled frown to her smooth, wide brow. He took a step or two back, just avoiding the easel and canvas, as if to gain further perspective, the faint query in his smoky eyes—as if he doubted his own statement—melting away as he pronounced, ‘At that party in Seville you wore the glamour of your trade. I stayed only moments—as a duty, you understand. You were one of the team who had been working on publicity brochures for my hotels. But I was there long enough to see you draped over Francisco.’ For an infinitesimal moment his voice caught, then firmed, ‘And after seeing the child for myself—won’t you tell me his name?—I can only accept your claims.’

So he believed she was Cordy! Cathy thought with an inner quiver of incipient hysteria. Cordy would be furious if she ever discovered that anyone could possibly get the two of them mixed up! But caution silenced her instinctive denial, and she told him coolly, ‘His name is John.’

She had learned caution or, rather, had it thrust upon her when, after the death of their mother, she had become more or less responsible for her younger sister. Even then, Cordy had been a handful, self-willed, vain and already showing signs of the unscrupulousness that would lead to the abandonment of her child. Cathy had been dismayed, but not surprised, when she had learned of the pregnancy.

‘Juan.’ Javier Campuzano used the Spanish pronunciation and Cathy bit back the objection she might have made as being unworthy and said instead, her voice distinctly edgy,

‘You’ll have to excuse us.’ She hoisted the baby higher into her arms, cradling her cheek against the downy softness of his. Already he was beginning to look a bit square round the mouth. Any moment now he would show his displeasure at the lateness of his meal with bellows of rage which would rock the room. ‘I have to mix his feed.’ And one—she hoped—parting shot. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. We make no claims.’

‘We?’ He was not to be so easily banished, she realised, watching the black bars of his straight brows draw together as his eyes flicked down to her ringless fingers. ‘Who are “we”?’

‘Johnny and I, of course,’ she answered with a blitheness that was part bravado, part guilt. But Cordy had walked away from her baby, making it clear she didn’t need the encumbrance, and that, in her book, meant that her selfish sister had automatically forfeited any rights to make claims of any kind.

‘Ah.’ Something that looked remarkably like relief flickered across those memorable features, then, ‘But he is hardly old enough to make that sort of decision,’ Campuzano remarked drily, the sensual mouth turning down at the corners, the arrogance in the way he held his head making her want to slap him. ‘And you?’ Broad shoulders shrugged beneath expensive black cashmere, ingrained courtesy softening the insult as he added, ‘Are you prepared to convince me of some newly discovered sense of maturity and responsibility?’

Swallowing the impulse to tell him that he was mistaken, that she wasn’t the woman who had been irresponsible enough to make love with a man she barely knew, unprotected against conception, who had been immature enough to go to bed with a man she had met for the first time a scant few hours before, Cathy was mortified to feel her face begin to flame. And he read the violent blush as an admission of something more serious than mere shortcomings—of course he did—and one black brow drifted upwards as he drawled, ‘I think not.’ He smiled, a humourless indenting of his lips, as if he was fully aware of how the sheer power of his presence robbed her of speech, of breath.

His personality was too strong, smooth and deadly, and his presence in this room seemed to electrify the very air she breathed. She had been right to be cautious, she comforted herself, clutching the now squirming baby closer, and just how right her instincts had been was brought violently home when he told her, the suavity of his sexy voice serving only to emphasise the underlying brutality, ‘Claims are two-edged swords, señorita. You may wish to renounce yours—and that is your right. But I have no intention of renouncing mine. And that is my right. And my duty.’

She understood the threat, felt it like a pain in her bones, tasted it on her tongue like the taste of fear. How could she have ever thought his eyes were warm? They were cold, cold as the deadliest Toledo steel. But her chin came up, the warmth of the wriggling child in her arms giving her all the courage she needed to fling witheringly, ‘Are you trying to tell me that after all this time Johnny’s father has decided he wants to claim his son?’ Her cheeks were growing hotter by the second, her voice shriller, and she didn’t care. She had to make it clear that any claims the reluctant father made would not be tolerated. Not now, not at this delicate stage of the adoption proceedings. But she couldn’t admit to that, of course, and so she resorted to sniping, ‘After ignoring Johnny’s existence for five months, and the fact of his conception for seven months before that, his belated attentions are not welcome now. Or needed. And why didn’t he come himself?’ Her eyes flashed purple fire. ‘Too cowardly? Did he send you to do his dirty work?’

For a timeless moment he looked as if his body, his features, had been painfully hewn from a block of ice, and then he said, his lips barely moving, ‘Francisco está muerto.’

She needed no translation. Her face was ashen, the word ‘dead’ ringing hollowly inside her skull. In the depth of his emotion he had instinctively reverted to his own language and, for her part, she could have bitten her tongue out. And, when she could, she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘How could you?’ For a fragment of time violet eyes met smoky grey in an instant of sympathy and understanding and, inexplicably, Cathy felt bound to him, bonded with something that went deeper than compassion. And she knew precisely how mistaken she’d been in imagining anything of the sort when he told her, urbanity again sitting easily as a cloak on his wide shoulders, ‘As Juan’s mother, you have undoubted claim. But that doesn’t minimise my own. As Francisco is no longer here to legally recognise his son, then I take it upon myself to do so in the name of the Campuzanos. He is of our family, of our blood. And besides—’ his eyes narrowed, not above taunting ‘—he is my heir. And now—’ his tone gentled as he held out strong brown hands ‘—he is getting grumpy! Fix his feed. I will hold him. And don’t worry...’ He smiled tightly into her apprehensive eyes. ‘I won’t spirit him away. Leave doors open to keep an eye on me, if you don’t trust me.’

It was a challenge she had to accept, but how could she trust him when she didn’t know what he wanted? To absorb Johnny into the Campuzano family? He’d made that much clear. But to what extent? Her hands shook as she got the water and mixed the formula, and her soft lips were compressed as she gave thanks for the instinct that had urged her to keep the truth from him.

If he knew that his nephew’s mother had abandoned him... Cathy gritted her teeth; she couldn’t bear to think about that.

‘You take him, if you’re so concerned. Adopt him, or something, with my blessing,’ Cordy had said as soon as it had become obvious that Francisco Campuzano had no intention of acknowledging his son. Cordy had seen the baby as a pawn, a key to unlock the door that would lead to marriage into wealth and prestige, and when that obviously wasn’t going to happen she didn’t want to know.

As it was, the Jerezano believed she had the greater claim to the baby, as his mother. And that was something he must go on believing—until the adoption order had safely gone through, at the very least.

Squeals of delight were coming from the living-room as she carried the bottle through, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Javier Campuzano had discarded his coat, the expensive, beautifully tailored garment flung haphazardly over the back of a chair, and he was bouncing the crowing baby on his impeccably suited knees, strong hands supporting the sturdy little body, his own face lit with a smile that gave an entirely and heart-stopping new dimension to his lean and handsome features.

Relaxed, he was a man she could find irresistibly attractive, she acknowledged dizzily as her heart began to beat again, picking up speed as if to make up for lost time. And that was something she hadn’t admitted in a long time, not since Donald.

But she recognised the momentary foolishness for what it was as, becoming aware of her hovering presence, he rose elegantly to his feet, holding the baby securely against his shoulder, the smile wiped away as if it had never been as he told her, ‘The preliminaries are over, señorita. I now propose to lay my cards on the table.’

Oh, did he? Cathy stamped on the impulse to tell him to get lost, and took the baby without a word. Settling herself on the chair she always used to nurse Johnny, she told herself that it wouldn’t hurt to hear what he had to say. As long as he believed she was the child’s mother she didn’t have to agree to a single thing.

He took his time over settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the gas fire, and his eyes were coldly determined as he told her, ‘Having seen you and recognised you, having seen Juan, I can’t dispute that he is Francisco’s son. One day I will show you photographs of my brother at roughly the same age. You would swear they were twins, if you didn’t know better.’

Was she supposed to make some comment? She was too edgy even to look his way, and kept her eyes on the contentedly sucking baby. And Campuzano continued smoothly, ‘I intend to make sure that Francisco’s son is brought up in full knowledge of his Spanish heritage. One day he will inherit, become head of the family. Do you have the remotest idea of what that means?’

Forced by the edge of steel in his voice to emerge from the wall of uninterest she had carefully hidden herself behind, Cathy raised unwilling eyes and met the cold intensity of his. She shivered, forcing a cool disbelief into her voice as she queried, ‘Have you no sons of your own to inherit, señor?’ and saw his mouth compress to a line that was as bitter as it was brief, and, oddly, felt wildly exultant. Somehow she had flicked him on the raw, and surely it wasn’t too ignoble of her to rejoice in the knowledge? Ever since he had announced himself she had been feeling apprehensive, edgy and very, very vulnerable, so paying him back felt good!

But her elation lasted no time at all because, as she eased the teat out of the baby’s mouth and lifted the sleepy bundle against her shoulder, she saw Campuzano’s eyes follow every gentle movement with an intentness that was infinitely disturbing and heard him say, ‘My wife died. There were no children. I have no desire to replace her—much, I might add, to my mother’s disapproval. However—’ he spread his hands in a gesture that Cathy found poignantly fatalistic ‘—I looked to Francisco to marry and provide heirs. But he died.’

But left an heir. Battening down her agitation, Cathy got to her feet and carefully laid the child in his Moses basket, tucking the blankets around his body, the reward of a tiny, sleepy smile and the downdrift of thick black lashes making her loving heart twist in anguish.

Javier Campuzano would take him from her if he could; the dark intent, the threat, had been threaded through everything he had said so far.

She turned, finding him, inevitably, at her shoulder, his brooding eyes on the child. She wanted to scream, to make him go away and never come back, and, to hide her reaction, defuse a little of the pressure he was putting her under, she said quickly, ‘I was sorry to hear of Francisco’s death, but he can’t have been much interested in his son’s existence, otherwise he would have contacted my...’ She caught herself just in time, and altered quickly, ‘Answered one of my letters.’

Her face flushed. She wasn’t used to dissembling. Her character was straightforward and direct, but she was fighting for Johnny, for the right to keep him, for the right to give him all the love his natural mother was incapable of feeling. And she didn’t want all the unwilling sympathy he aroused when he told her with painful simplicity, ‘About a week after your... encounter—shall we call it?—he was involved in a car accident which left him hooked up to a life-support system. He was in a coma for many months and when he regained partial consciousness he was paralysed. His eventual death must have come, for him at least, in the form of a release. When your letters arrived my mother’s housekeeper put them aside. They were forgotten until I came across them two weeks ago when I began putting my brother’s effects in order. Maria was not to blame. She was, like the rest of us, distraught by what had happened, by the fact that Francisco couldn’t open his own mail, much less read it. I know, however, that he would have acknowledged his son.’ He drew himself up to his full, intimidating height, deeply rooted family pride marking his features with a formidable severity.

Cathy’s breath caught in her throat as she unwillingly admitted to his dark male magnificence, but she fought the grudging admiration as he added scathingly, ‘If you’d got to know him at all, you too would know that much, at least. I can’t know, of course, how deep the emotional side of your brief relationship went, but from your reaction to the news of his death I would judge it to have been regrettably shallow on your part.’

‘Oh... I...’ Cathy floundered. She had been forced into an unsavoury corner, and raked her memory for Cordy’s explanation of events. Self-protectively, she dropped back into her chair, drawing her legs up beneath her. ‘We had two glorious days and nights,’ Cordy had confided. ‘Eating, drinking, making love. Not much sleeping. From what he told me, and what I picked up from discreet enquiries, he comes from a fabulously wealthy family. Just one older brother who runs the whole family show—a bit of an enigma from what I can gather, but we can rule him out, because you know how the Spanish have this thing about pride and honour, and the importance of family? So, by my reckoning, I’m on to a winner! He was pretty cut up when I had to leave Seville, of course, and I did promise I’d let him know when I had some free time to entertain him in London. But you know how busy I’ve been.’ She had given an elegant shrug. ‘Never mind, I just know he’ll be delighted when he gets the news. I’m going to write and tell him, get it down in black and white.’

Aware that Javier was waiting for some reply, Cathy frantically edited what she had learned of the brief affair from her sister and came up, lamely, with, ‘We only knew each other for a couple of days.’ She knew she sounded defensive, and that was down to the circumstances, the way she was having to go against her instincts and lie. And there wasn’t anything she could do about that.

‘Long enough, however, for your child to be conceived,’ he replied with a dryness that shrivelled her bones. Slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he drew two sheets of paper from an inside pocket and spread them out in front of her. ‘Obviously, from reading your letters, up until five months ago you wanted Francisco to know of the existence of his child. You did write these letters of your own free will?’

What could she say? To deny it would let him know more than was safe. She nodded mutely, hating the web of deceit that was enmeshing her more firmly by the moment. And she felt even more guilty when he remarked, a thread of humour in his voice, ‘You sign your name indecipherably. You are the mother of my nephew—I think I should know your name, don’t you? Try as I might, I can’t fathom it.’

She didn’t blame him. The letters were written in Cordy’s affected, flamboyant style, and were not too difficult to read, with patience. But the signature was something else: an enormous C connected to a Y which could have been any letter under the sun, with a mere squiggle in between. She cleared her throat and answered stoically, Cathy. Short for Catherine.’

‘So, Cathy, what were you looking for? A financial settlement—or marriage?’ His voice had hardened, making her heart beat faster. Besides, he had come closer, crowding her, swamping her with the power of his presence. ‘Why the repudiation of all claims now?’