The Spaniard's Passion

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY evening Sophie dressed for the party, and even though she was going to wear her black gown—the one she’d worn the past two years—she put on her best lingerie underneath. Maybe she didn’t have jewels but that didn’t mean she couldn’t put her best foot forward.

The black lace garter belt fit snugly around her waist and she carefully rolled the delicate silk hose up each ankle, over her calves, over the knees to the top of her thigh where she attached the tiny black garter strap.

She snapped the hooks on her black lace strapless bra and stepped into her gown.

Sophie stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Black, black, black.

She didn’t want to feel this way; hated feeling this way. It was nearly Christmas for heaven’s sake! She’d made a mistake, but couldn’t she ever be happy again? Would it be so awful if she just looked pretty one more time?

If she just felt festive once?

Forgive me, Clive, she whispered, and peeled the black dress off her shoulders and down past her hips.

Standing in her closet she stared at the few gowns she had left, including the one dress she wanted to wear, the one dress she’d never worn. It’d been bought for her honeymoon with Clive and yet the resort they went to turned out to be quite casual.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. “Sophie, it’s half six and the guests will be arriving soon.”

“I’m already ready, Louisa,” Sophie answered, reaching for the red gown.

The bedroom door opened and Louisa appeared in full party regalia: long gray satin dress, diamond and pearl necklace, diamond and pearl brooch, diamond and pearl earrings, even a little diamond and pearl tiara tucked into her puffy silver hair. “You’re not even close to being ready!”

Sophie pulled the shimmering strapless red shantung silk dress from the closet. “All I have to do is zip it.”

“You’re going to wear that?” Louisa eyed the red dress with suspicion. “What about your black gown?”

“I’ve worn that two years in a row—”

“And it looks splendid on you.”

“Clive bought me this dress,” she said, stepping into the slim long skirt with the small train. But she wasn’t thinking of Clive. She was thinking of Lon—even though he wasn’t coming tonight. “I’ll be downstairs in just a moment.”

Downstairs Sophie did a last minute inspection. The ballroom glittered. The six magnificent chandeliers with the five thousand crystals shone on the polished stone floor and the enormous Christmas tree in the corner. The small orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz and even though no guests had arrived yet, the scene felt magical—like marzipan confections painted and dusted in sparkling sugar.

She spent the first hour of the party greeting guests at the front door, collecting coats, accepting hostess gifts, and generally making visitors feel welcome.

At least, that had been her objective until Lon showed up with a bouquet of white lilies he placed in Sophie’s arms.

“What are you doing here?” she choked, stunned to see Alonso slide a long black wool overcoat from his shoulders, revealing a gorgeous tuxedo beneath.

“The Countess can’t hire staff for this job?” he replied, leaning down and greeting her with a kiss.

She turned her head so his lips brushed her cheek. “Don’t start,” she whispered into his ear.

He held her a moment longer than necessary and then kissed the side of her neck, just below her ear. “I haven’t even begun.”

His voice hummed in her, as did the suggestive promise. She struggled to catch her breath, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation, the zing of adrenaline.

He’d barely kissed her. How could such a light touch be so electric? How could such a fleeting brush against her neck make her feel so hot and tense?

“I had a change of plans,” he said, stepping away, adjusting the cuffs on his dress shirt. “Fortunate, isn’t it?”

No. What she felt for Lon was crazy and intense and she couldn’t stand the tangled emotions he stirred within her. “I’ll give the flowers to Louisa,” she answered, grateful for the appearance of new guests arriving. Someone had to save her from Alonso. It’d once been Clive’s job, but he couldn’t do that anymore.

“They’re for you. If I brought Louisa flowers, they’d be yellow mums.” He continued to study her, his narrowed gaze taking in every detail of her snug red gown, the matching red shoes peeping from beneath the hem, the twist and loop of her long hair—fastened low at her nape so coiled tendrils fell between her bare shoulder blades.

“Have any of your friends arrived?” he asked, finishing his inspection, his gaze resting on her bare throat and ears.

“Uh—no.” She tensed. “You’re the first.”

“I’m glad it worked out that I could come. I’m really looking forward to meeting all these wonderful friends.”

Friends. She fought panic. Her friends were actually just one, and the one happened to be Federico Alvare. And somehow she thought Lon already knew…

“Are these the same friends you’re going to Brazil with?” he persisted.

Sophie inhaled sharply. How did he know she was going to Brazil? How could he know? She’d told no one. No one, that is, but Federico…

Lon’s eyes never left her face. “Why don’t we find some water for your flowers, Sophie?”

“I can’t. The guests—”

“Oh, yes you can,” he interrupted gently, kindly. “The guests are fine. It’s you, darling, I’m worried about.”

She took a small step backward. She didn’t like Lon like this. He was even more frightening. Far too intimidating. “There’s no reason to be worried—”

“When were you going to tell me about your holiday plans, Sophie? Or were you just going to sneak away with Federico without telling me?”

It felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath her. A moment ago she’d felt so hot she wanted to peel off her dress, and now she felt covered in frost. Again her thoughts spun, wondering how could he know such a thing? How did he find out?

Lon saw Sophie swallow, a convulsive little swallow. She was afraid.

She should be. If Sophie landed in Sao Paulo with Federico, Miguel Valdez would skin her alive.

“Maybe we should go to the library,” she whispered.

“Good idea.”

In the library he closed the paneled doors behind them. “I want to hear everything.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“The jury’s out on that, love.”

They stared at each other from across the library. Lon rather admired Sophie’s verve. She was showing more spirit than she’d shown in years. But her confidence was misplaced. She had no idea what she was doing. No idea who she was dealing with. “Does the Countess know?”

“What do you think?” Her hands balled into fists. “And how did you find out, anyway?”

“Is that what you’re most worried about?”

She couldn’t read his mood. His blue eyes, that strange startling ice blue, were devoid of any emotion. She couldn’t read him at all right now. “What should I be worried about?”

“How about draining your bank account? Handing over ten thousand pounds to a complete stranger—because you don’t know Federico Alvare, and you did give him the money, didn’t you?”

She couldn’t answer. She stared at him and curled her fingers into her hands.

“You applied for a Brazilian visa,” he continued. “You had Federico buy you an airline ticket.”

They were booked on a flight on December 26th. Federico had made the plans. He’d booked the tickets, too. “There’s no reason I can’t go on holiday. I haven’t had a holiday since Clive died.”

“Clive died in Brazil.”

“So I’m not allowed to visit the country now?”

“Not if you intend to visit the rough neighborhood in Sao Paulo where he died.”

She held his gaze. “Is there something I should know about his death? Something you haven’t told me? Because you were the one that arranged to have his body sent home.”

“I helped with the funeral arrangements. But it’s your good friend, Federico, who worked with Clive in Brazil. Have you asked Federico about your husband’s death? I’m sure Señor Alvare should have a few…details.”

“He does know people in Sao Paulo who might be able to help me. He’s secured the services of a private investigator.”

Lon smiled thinly. “Federico’s hiring you a private investigator?”

She lifted her chin. “Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because he’s not to be trusted. He’s dangerous—”

“And you’re not?” she flashed, unable to keep her temper. Alonso could be just as intimidating as Federico…if not more so.

He made a sound of disgust. “You don’t even know the meaning of dangerous, muñeca, and Alvare is taking total advantage of you if he’s charging you ten thousand pounds for your trip.”

“Half of it is to cover travel expenses, the other half is for the private investigator.”

“It doesn’t cost five thousand pounds to get to Brazil, and if you want someone to show you around—”

“This is my trip,” she interrupted fiercely. “These are my contacts, my plans. I used to live in South America. I’m not totally unfamiliar with the dangers of traveling, and what’s ten thousand pounds if it brings me peace? Ten thousand pounds is nothing to you. It’s chump change in your world.”

“In my world.” He laughed, softly, unkindly, and moved to the beverage cart with the Irish crystal decanters of whiskey and brandy. Lon poured himself a neat shot into a Waterford tumbler. “My, our situations are reversed, aren’t they? Amazing the difference just ten years can make.”

Strains of music seeped through the closed library doors, as did the high echo of laughter. The guests would be dancing now—Countess Wilkins’ parties ran like clockwork. “You’ve been lucky,” she said tautly, drawing her arms closer against her body.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. It was work.” He gave his drink a swirl, glancing down briefly at the glints of amber and gold before his gaze settled on her. “Hard work.”

Whether it was luck or hard work, he had millions. Millions of pounds in raw minerals. He owned one of Latin America’s largest emerald mines. He’d parlayed his earnings into high-tech investments, satellites and computer chips. He could buy and sell small countries in cash. Many people might call themselves high-tech millionaires these days, but few rivaled Alonso’s stunning success.

One of Lon’s black eyebrows lifted, his blue eyes piercing hers. “Tell me, if I’d been ‘filthy rich’ five years ago would you have married me instead of Clive?”

Her heart fell, and she struggled to contain her temper, forcing herself to look away from the mockery in his intense gaze to the thin white scar running from the corner of his eye to the edge of his cheekbone. “I did not marry Clive for money.”

Lon’s eyes crinkled at the corners but he wasn’t smiling. “He didn’t have any, did he?”

“You were supposed to be his best friend. He adored you, worshiped the ground you walked on—”

“Spare me the histrionics, love. You might have married the man, but I know Clive better than you. He wasn’t a Boy Scout. Not even close.”

Evil man. God, she hated him right now. “Get out.” She walked swiftly to the double doors, her long gleaming red silk gown rustled with each step, and yanked open the library door. “I’ll give the Countess your apologies. She’ll be disappointed you had to leave so early, but sadly, business called you away.”

Lon didn’t move from the fireplace. “I have no pressing business.”

“I want you to go!”

“Close the door, Sophie. You’re drawing a draft.”

“I will not tolerate you degrading my husband in his own home.”

“But this was never his house. It’s his mother’s house, just as Humphrey House was his father’s house. Admit it. Clive never even owned a flat of his own.”

Fresh color surged through her cheeks and she felt her composure begin to slip. Nervously she pressed a hand to her stomach, smoothing the expensive fabric, even as she struggled to gain control of the conversation.

This was just Alonso, she sharply reminded herself, a heathen, a misfit, a lost soul without the benefit of a proper upbringing—raised by neither his real father nor his mother—sent off to boarding schools at age four.

Yet only ten years ago he’d been one of her best friends and they’d talked openly about everything—love, life…sex. What the future would be like for them. What they’d once believed the future would be.

Well, the future had arrived and it wasn’t even close to the dreams they’d had.

Sophie drew a shallow, painful breath, and she slowly closed the library doors, trying to buy time.

Lon couldn’t hurt her, she reminded herself, the spike of pain giving way to a numbing sensation. He couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t let him. “An apology is in order.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he answered obediently, loosening the bow tie a bit before unbuttoning the top button of his crisp white dress shirt. He looked sinfully sophisticated. Wicked. Sexual. “I’m sorry to quarrel with you.”

Her gaze searched his face, noting the fine lines fanning his eyes. He was getting older. Harder. More ruthless. “It’s Clive you owe an apology, Clive you’ve insulted.”

“Darling, Clive can’t hear me.”

Why did Lon have to do this? Why did he have to persist in this blatant unkindness? Yes, he’d had a rough childhood—who hadn’t?—but after a while excuses grew old, sympathy cold. One had to grow up. Assume responsibility. “I can’t respect a man like you!”

He laughed. “Yet you’ll ask me for help whenever things get rough.”

Sophie tensed, muscles in her back screaming, head throbbing. Her control felt dangerously threatened. Just walk away, she told herself. Leave him. He’ll find his way out.

But she couldn’t ignore Lon, and instead of walking away, she moved toward him, muscles tight and trembling, emotions seething. “Maybe once I asked for your help—”

“Once?” he interrupted. “Sophie, it was more than one time.”

She flinched at his scathing tone. “Whenever I’ve asked for anything, it was for Clive.” Two years after their wedding, Clive had been overseas when war broke out in the small Third World country, and the government in power, under siege, closed the small airport, trapping Clive in the middle of the turmoil.

“But you did ask me to help.”

So Lon was right again. Pop the champagne. A celebration was in order. Long live King Lon. He never screwed up…well, not after messing up the first twenty years of his life.

“I wasn’t going to lose Clive.” She lifted her chin, stared Lon down, heart burning, rage consuming her. Clive had managed to call her a day after the airport closed, and while he talked all she could hear was the rata-tat-tat of gunfire in the background. He’d called to tell her goodbye, but Sophie had refused to accept defeat, refused to think her marriage would end so ingloriously.

She’d tracked down Alonso, and even though it’d been years since they’d last spoken, he agreed to do what he could.

Sophie had never asked what that meant. But she’d known that he would rescue Clive. She knew with his courage, his international business, and his many connections, he could do what most people couldn’t. And he had. He’d plucked not just Clive—but forty-some other European and Australian nationals—from the middle of the violent coup and brought them home again.

“But that wasn’t the only time,” Lon said softly. “When have I ever told you no, Sophie?”

Her eyes closed in admission and defeat. Twenty-four months ago Lon stepped in again when Clive died in Brazil.

Lon had taken care of everything from getting Clive’s body returned to England to squashing the rumors circulating after Clive’s death. Unidentified sources claimed that Lord Clive Wilkins had been involved in something shady in South America, and Lon had nipped that gossip in the bud.

Laughter echoed once more from the ballroom. Sophie turned her head slightly, listening to the sounds of the party. She should be there. She should go. But she didn’t move. It was as if Alonso held her captive, an invisible chain tethering her to him.

But she hated the chain. Feared it, even. He would control her, hold her, bind her to him forever if she gave him the chance. And as seductive as it sounded, she couldn’t do it, couldn’t give in to it.

Sophie looked at him. She might as well have reached out and touched him. Hot, painful sensation shot through her, a ricochet of love and lust. He was still so big. His tuxedo did little to diminish his height or hide his brawny strength. Gladiator, Clive had once whispered to her, mocking Alonso’s size and strength. Spartacus, she added, giggling, feeling safe with Clive, so secure.

The room crackled with tension. Lon could be a savage. She knew the lengths he would go to—knew that when Clive was in danger only Lon would have the heart and guts to get him out. And she felt the wild, savage streak now. Heard it in the implacable edge in his voice. Saw it in the hard glint in his eyes.

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