The Balfour Legacy

Chapter Ten

‘SO HOW exactly did you get into bullfighting?’

Carlos slid the cork from the bottle of wine and slanted her a look of irritation as he poured some into her glass. ‘Infierno, Kat—why won’t you give up on that?’

‘Because I’m curious, that’s all. You know pretty much everything there is to know about me, Carlos, but you always get so tight-lipped about your own past.’

Staring at him across the table, which tonight—like most nights—she’d laid on deck beneath the stars, Kat didn’t bother pointing out that they had to talk about something. They couldn’t spend every spare minute having glorious sex and revelling in its lazy aftermath, as the luxury yacht skimmed the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean and they waited to find out if she was having his baby. It was the elephant in the room. The subject they never touched on.

Yet it was funny how life sometimes adapted to the strangest situations. Or maybe that was the enduring wonder of the human spirit—that you always got on and made the best of things. And with Carlos conducting business deals and Kat cooking up increasingly ambitious meals, sometimes it felt like playing house. Even if deep down she knew that all they were doing was a form of displacement therapy, while they tried to ignore the great question mark which hovered over them.

Sometimes it frightened her—the ease with which she had been able to push the burning issue far from her mind and to concentrate instead on the proud, dark allure of her Spanish lover. Even if she knew that she was storing up danger for the future—because she had started to care for him in a way which would never be reciprocated.

She had become his eager and responsive lover—though time after time she had told herself it was crazy to become emotionally involved with a man whose heart was famously as cold as ice. Why, hadn’t he warned her of that himself when he’d recounted with amusement just why his yacht had been given its unusual name of Corazón Frío? A Spanish newspaper had nicknamed him ‘Cold Heart’ because of a particularly ruthless takeover bid he had executed—which had coincided with a starlet selling her story of their doomed relationship. And Carlos had shown complete contempt for the article by adopting the name for his superyacht.

As the days ticked by, Kat found herself in a terrible dilemma—knowing that she should be praying that there was no baby. Because Carlos didn’t want a baby—he had made that quite clear.

‘If you are pregnant, then we will cope,’ he had stated in a flat voice which she had found especially chilling. ‘And our child will never want for anything.’

Except two parents who loved each other, Kat realised miserably.

Her troubled thoughts cleared and Kat found Carlos staring at her across the table, his expression curious as he pushed away his plate.

‘You were miles away, Princesa,’ he observed softly.

Grateful for the candle-light which disguised a multitude of emotions, Kat shrugged. ‘Well, there’s a lot to think about.’

‘And it makes you frown?’ he prompted.

‘Sometimes.’ She met the question in his eyes. ‘Well, it’s not exactly…ideal—this situation we find ourselves in,’ she said carefully. ‘Is it?’

There was a pause and Carlos gave a ragged sigh, knowing that evasion would be kinder. But ultimately, what could he say—other than the truth? ‘No, of course it isn’t. But there’s no point in discussing it until we know one way or the other, is there? I thought we’d already decided that.’

‘Which is why I was asking you about bullfighting.’ Kat’s voice lowered defensively. ‘I’m certainly not trying to invade your precious privacy, Carlos—just trying to make conversation.’

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Was he really the tyrant she sometimes hinted at? And if she was expecting his child, then did she not have the right to know something of his past?

But where to begin? He stared at her across the flickering candle-light. ‘We were poor,’ he said simply. ‘And I mean dirt poor. My mother used to work around the clock to provide for us—in fact, I hardly saw her when I was growing up.’

Kat remembered some of the remarks he’d made about spoilt, wealthy women. Was that why he had sounded so caustic—because his own mother had had nothing? ‘And…your father? What about him?’

‘My father?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, my father was too busy chasing his dreams of being Spain’s best matador to care about anything or anyone.’

‘So he was a bullfighter too?’

He drank a little more wine. ‘He was, until a horrific accident in the ring led to the loss of his arm—and the even greater loss of his dreams. For a while he was a broken man, until he realised that he might be able to live out those ambitions through his son. And that is what he set about doing.’

There was an odd, brooding kind of silence. ‘So?’ she prompted softly.

His mouth twisted. ‘So he sat me on my first bull at three.’

‘Three?’ Kat echoed in horror.

‘At five he armed me with my first sword,’ continued Carlos implacably. ‘And because Spanish law decrees that novice bullfighters must be at least sixteen, at ten he uprooted us all to Central America—where the rules are more…relaxed.’

He shrugged and there was another odd kind of silence while Kat watched a series of conflicting emotions chasing across the hard, handsome face of her Spanish lover. ‘And did you like it?’ she whispered. ‘Bullfighting, I mean.’

‘I loved it,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘And I was good at it.’ There was a pause, before he gave a brief, hard smile. ‘Too good.’

‘How can you be too good at something?’

‘Because it makes it difficult to walk away, even when you know it’s the right thing to do. I left the ring when I was barely twenty—when I was on the brink of a glittering career.’ His voice lowered as his mind took him back to that hot and dusty day—remembering the heat and the dust, the strong smell of death. ‘I made the kill, dropped my cloak and, as the crowd grew silent, walked away without a backward glance.’

There was a moment as Kat registered the sheer drama of his words. ‘But why?’ she whispered.

Carlos looked at her, knowing that, like her, he had secrets which at times had proved unbearable—and like her, he had buried them deep. How could a man admit to the humiliation of having been forced to endure cruelty in his own home? The fierce beatings he had suffered at the hands of his father. Because hadn’t that cruelty made him the man he was today?

‘Because my father beat me,’ he said slowly. ‘In fact, he spent most of my childhood beating me. It was all about control. To show me who was boss. To get me to do what he wanted—which was to be the greatest bullfighter in the world. And then, when I was a teenager and old enough to stand up for myself, he stopped.’ He paused, and his eyes glittered. ‘Because by then there was no longer any need to threaten me with physical violence since I stood on the brink of a career he had coveted all his life. Success and riches and fame were all there for the taking.’

Kat stared at him. ‘And that’s why you walked away from it,’ she breathed. ‘You took back control of your life—and, in doing so, you were punishing him for all the hardships you’d endured at his hands.’

Carlos nodded, her perception surprising him, even though he found it slightly unnerving. ‘Exactly.’

Kat nodded. It made more sense now—or rather, he did. He had known brutality and hardship on a scale which few others would identify with—and not only because he had been beaten by his father. Fancy putting a little boy of three on a bull and then two years later presenting him with a real sword. No wonder they called him Cold Heart!

She rose to her feet. The expression on his face expressly told her that he did not want any sympathy. In fact, there was only one thing which she was in a position to give him—and maybe not for much longer. Because if she wasn’t pregnant, what then? She tried to push the unwelcome thoughts from her mind—but one in particular kept coming back to taunt her. That if he hadn’t taken her virginity, then he would have put her on a plane back to London days ago and it would all be over. She was only here because she had to be.

But still she went over to him and put her arms around his neck, tenderly nuzzling her lips in the thick dark curls which grew around its nape. And, as if sensing her thoughts, he lifted his head to look at her, but his eyes were shuttered.

‘Any day now, you should know?’

‘Yes.’ The question took her by surprise and she found herself resenting it for all kinds of reasons. It made her feel like some hen sitting on top of an egg, waiting to see if it was going to hatch. Suddenly, she saw the vivid image of her body as a cage, its contents having the potential to trap them both with a baby they’d never planned. And Kat shuddered—for how on earth could she bear to trap a man like Carlos, a man who had spent his childhood trapped by his father’s ambition?

In the muted light of stars and candles, Carlos observed her tense reaction to his question and narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t want to be pregnant, do you?’ he bit out harshly.

She walked away from him, distractedly shaking her head to halt words which seemed intrusive—afraid that she might give herself away, because how could she possibly explain to him all her mixed emotions? Especially when he’d never made any secret of the fact that he didn’t want a baby. He hadn’t even wanted an affair with her, had he? We are too different, he’d said.

But Kat knew that she couldn’t dwell on Carlos’s lack of feelings for her. She had to be strong. She would cope with whatever hand fate had dealt her. And if she was pregnant, then she would love his baby with a fierce love, but she would not hold Carlos Guerrero ransom to fate. It would not be fair, not after all that he had told her. She shook her head. ‘Not now, Carlos,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to discuss it. In fact, I’m…I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

His mouth hardened—angry with himself for having broken a lifetime rule of non-disclosure. Why the hell had he poured out all that poison about his childhood? And angry too at the way his rashness—his lust—had the potential to complicate Kat Balfour’s life in a way she’d never envisaged. Nor deserved. ‘So go,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m not stopping you.’

She did—but for once he didn’t follow her, though she waited and waited with breathless expectation, until she realised that her wait was in vain. Eventually, she must have fallen asleep because when she awoke in the cold, grey hours of dawn, Carlos was not beside her—and a chill feeling of dread stole over her heart. Creeping from her cabin, she went to look for him, half hoping he might still be out on deck, perhaps having fallen asleep where he sat.

But the deck was empty and, for once, the light there was gloomy, the stars fading into insignificance in the pearly light and the first blush of sunrise not yet visible. In the distance she could see the faint twinkling of lights and Kat blinked her eyes in surprise. Land. Funny how it could just loom up and surprise you—when all you’d seen for days were just different variations of a stunning sea. Yet, all the time, the yacht was moving—taking them back towards France from where they’d started. And Kat realised that Carlos had cleverly timed it to coincide with her finding out whether or not she was pregnant.

Barefooted, she tiptoed to his cabin, and when the door swung quietly open it was to see his sleeping form sprawled on the bed. He had flung the bedclothes away and was lying there—gloriously naked—outlined like a golden statue against the pristine whiteness of the sheet.

His black hair was ruffled and she found herself gazing lovingly at his face—the proud lips and the haughty slash of cheekbones. She remembered what he had told her about his heartbreaking childhood—about his cruel father and a mother who sounded weak and put-upon. Was that why she had not been able to put a stop to her son’s beatings? she wondered sadly—and Kat’s heart turned over with a love she knew he was not seeking.

As she stood there silently watching him, his dark eyes fluttered open.

‘Kat?’ But he said it with all the emotion of someone saying window or door, and for a moment, their gazes locked—until she realised that he seemed to be gazing right through her. As if he hadn’t really seen her. Or hadn’t really wanted to. And then he turned over and went right back to sleep.

A dull kind of pain cloaked her heart as she crept back to her own cabin—but during the night came a different and very familiar kind of pain. Snapping on the bedside light, she found herself staring down at the crimson flowering of blood with eyes which were inexplicably filled with tears.

And it was a white-faced and trembling Kat who was already dressed and on deck the following morning when Carlos emerged.

‘You’re up early,’ he observed.

‘You didn’t come to bed last night,’ she accused, wondering if she was hiding the trembling hurt in her voice.

Dark eyebrows rose in arrogant query. ‘Are you nagging me, Kat?’

‘I’m just asking a question.’

He remembered the way she had shuddered when the subject of pregnancy had come up. Her avowal that she had no desire to have a baby. And even though her words made complete sense, something in her statement had filled him with distaste. So that he had been glad to spend the night apart from her—yes, glad. For what man would want to make love to a woman when she’d just told him something like that? ‘You said you were tired,’ he said coldly.

Was that the only reason? Kat wondered—as she registered the sudden iciness in his voice. Or was he regretting everything he’d told her about his tortured childhood? Had he wanted to distance himself after the confidences he’d shared—or simply decided that the affair had now run its course?

Well, in that case, his wish was about to come true. Biting her lip, she looked up into his hard and handsome face, trying to tell herself that this was all for the best, even if it felt as if her heart was breaking in two. ‘Well, anyway—all that’s irrelevant now. I’ve…well, it’s good news really,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘I think…’ She swallowed down the terrible feeling of loss which had washed over her and presented him with a resolute face instead. ‘I’d like someone take me ashore please, Carlos.’ She met the cool question in his eyes but she didn’t flinch, even though the unbearable intimacy of what she was about to say made her cheeks turn hot. ‘That is unless you happen to carry sanitary protection on board.’

Chapter Eleven

AN ATMOSPHERE like a heavy blanket greeted her announcement and Kat insisted on being ferried ashore as quickly as possible. She just wanted to get away from the yacht—and away from the cool indifference with which Carlos had greeted the news that there wasn’t going to be a baby.

‘I’ll take you,’ he told her, as she appeared back on deck after packing her bags, her face set and her mouth composed in a thin line.

But Kat shook her head. And have her breaking down and making a complete fool of herself in front of all the jet set milling around the port at Antibes? Risk telling him how empty her life was going to feel without him—or even worse, beg him to let her stay?

‘No,’ she said, and wobbled him an attempt at a smile. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. ‘It’s better this way, Carlos. We’re both relieved at the outcome, you know we are.’ So why did her heart feel as if someone had taken a dagger to it and driven a gaping great wound into its centre?

‘Sí,’ he said slowly. ‘You are right. It is better this way.’

Her voice was determinedly bright. ‘Well, then, there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’

He let his eyes drift over her, taking in the soft skin and the beautiful lips—and the eyes which were as blue as a Mediterranean sky. ‘Except that it was a pretty amazing affair while it lasted,’ he observed softly.