Jane Porter is a rising star of Harlequin Presents®. Her exciting stories are packed full of sizzling attraction and provocative passion! Jane’s feisty and courageous heroines are wonderfully matched with powerful and passionate heroes that are loved the world over!

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The Spaniard’s Passion
Jane Porter

MILLS & BOON

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For my mom, Marybeth Higuera,

who taught me to love travel and adventure. I love you!

Jane

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

THE blazing sun dazzled the eyes and the steady crash of waves on the long sandy beach lulled Sophie Johnson to sleep. She snuggled deeper into her towel on the warm sand. She’d had more fun in the last ten days than she’d had…well, than she’d had…ever.

Abruptly the sand shifted and a shadow stretched over her. Sophie’s stomach tensed: a knot of excitement and fear. Shading her eyes, she glanced up, knowing it was Alonso Huntsman. How could she adore someone so much when he made her this nervous?

Alonso was standing over her, dripping wet, his black hair slicked back from his face, the hard planes of his chest darkly tan from a summer spent in the sun. “You smell fantastic, Sophie. I think I’ll eat you.”

She tried to ignore the way her heart jumped. “It’s just lotion, Lon. I’d taste disgusting.”

He flashed her a wicked grin. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Clive Wilkins, son of prominent banker Lord Wilkins, stirred restlessly on his towel next to Sophie. “Will you two kindly shut up?”

Alonso reached for his towel, his muscles rippling as he mopped his face dry. “Are we disturbing your sleep, old man?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, you are,” Clive retorted, burying his blond head deeper into the crook of his arm.

“Just one little taste,” Lon whispered to Sophie over Clive’s head, his light blue eyes glowing. He knew he was being wicked. He also knew it thrilled her.

“One taste?”

He nodded seriously. “Just one good lick.”

Squirming on the inside, trying not to laugh, she picked up her bottle of suntan lotion and tossed it to him. Lon caught it with one hand. “Here you go, big boy. Enjoy.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Clive swore, sitting up. “You’ve just ruined a brilliant nap.” He grabbed Sophie’s arm, pressed her wrist to his mouth and flicked his tongue across her warm skin.

“Disgusting,” Clive pronounced, tossing her arm away. He lay back down again, nestling his unshaven cheek to his arm, the blond bristles glinting gold. “She tastes like synthetics and plastic. You’d hate it, Lon. Now, will you two please shut up so I can sleep?”

“You just don’t want me to taste her,” Lon mocked, dropping down next to the two of them. “I think you’re jealous, old man.”

Clive didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Jealous of you two pathetic human beings?” His aristocratic English had never been more precise. “Of course, you big Scottish meat-head. You and the princess are the two best friends a man could ask for.”

Meat-head. Princess. Sophie bit her lip, trying not to giggle, but she couldn’t hold the laughter in. Once she started to laugh Lon and Clive joined in, and suddenly her eyes were burning with tears she wouldn’t cry.

This was the best school holiday of her life. No, make it the best summer of her life. Clive and Lon were impossible. Incorrigible. Irredeemable. And she’d never loved anyone so much.

Nothing, she thought as she surreptitiously wiped a tear away, gazing out at the Pacific Ocean where the waves crashed against Buenaventura’s white sandy beach, nothing would ever top this. Nothing would ever be as sweet; nothing would ever be as innocent.

If only time would stop and the three of them could remain together, forever, like this.

CHAPTER ONE

“HOW much?” Lady Sophie Wilkins asked, holding her hand up, watching the ring catch the light. The marquis cut emerald surrounded by smaller diamonds glittered in the jewelry store’s bright fluorescent lighting, throwing off white sparks like fireworks exploding on New Year’s Eve.

“Ten thousand pounds,” the jeweler answered.

She turned her hand a little, mesmerized by the hot glow of the emerald and the brilliant blue and yellow streaks of fire in the white stones.

She heard the jewelry store door open but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the glittering stone on her finger. Ten thousand pounds, she silently repeated, ten thousand pounds, knowing she’d never have anything half so beautiful again. But she couldn’t keep it. She had to get to Brazil, and she still had so many bills to pay, and ten thousand pounds would settle a lot of debts.

Her silence troubled the jeweler. “I might possibly be able to do ten thousand five hundred,” he said as though she’d squeezed the offer from him, “but that’s my best price, Lady Wilkins. I couldn’t go higher.”

“Not even though you’ll get twice that much tomorrow?” a deep male voice asked mockingly.

Sophie felt a shadow cross her grave. It couldn’t be…

Slowly she looked up, and slowly her eyes focused. The air left her throat. She swayed a little on her feet. “Lon?”

“Sophie.”

She couldn’t look away, her hand balled into a fist and she kept staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of some business.”

“Business?” she repeated numbly, as if it were a foreign concept, although she knew Alonso was one of the world’s leading emerald exporters.

The jeweler hurriedly put away his monocle and the black velvet pad on the counter. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow, Mr. Huntsman. The stone’s not even cleaned yet.”

Sophie’s eyes searched his face even as her fingers curled around the wedding ring still on her fourth finger. “You’re buying a stone?”

“An emerald,” Lon answered.

He’d traveled halfway around the world to buy an emerald? “Must be valuable.”

His eyes never left hers. “It came from my mine, so I suppose you could say it has sentimental value.”

As he’d talked she’d gone hot, then cold, and now she tugged her wedding ring from her finger and handed it to the jeweler. “I accept your offer.”

The jeweler nodded his head, pocketing the ring Clive had given her nearly six years ago. “Will you take a check, Lady Wilkins?”

“Yes.” Her throat seemed to be squeezing closed. “Thank you.” The jeweler moved across the shop and chilled, Sophie began to button her long wool coat.

“You’re selling your wedding ring?” Lon asked, black lashes lowered, concealing his expression.

“It’s a reputable jeweler,” she answered, hating the defensive note that had crept into her voice.

“You’re short on cash?”

“I’m fine.” There was no way she’d ever tell Lon the truth. She didn’t want pity, and she didn’t want sympathy from him, either. She’d chosen Clive. End of story. “I didn’t realize you were back in the country.”

“I have a house in Knightsbridge.”

“You live here in London?”

“Part of the year.”

“I had no idea.”

Lon heard the pang in her voice, and he felt a shaft of hot emotion. He’d known from the start that her marriage had been rocky, maybe even downright unhappy, but she’d never said a word against Clive. “I travel back and forth between South America quite a bit. Depends on business.”

He hadn’t seen her in years and yet she was still beautiful. More beautiful. If anything, grief had etched her features finer, darkening her eyebrows, softening her mouth, creating deeper hollows beneath her cheekbones. Few women could achieve with plastic surgery what nature had given Sophie so freely.

The jeweler returned with a check which Sophie silently pocketed. Transaction completed, she murmured her thanks and Lon escorted Sophie outside. “What about your business?” she protested.

“The stone’s not ready. I’ll come back later.”

It was cold outside. The late afternoon temperatures dipped low. Sophie took a quick breath, trying to clear her head. Lon here. Impossible. Incredible. She’d never once bumped into him in all the years since they’d left Colombia.

She drew her coat closer as throngs of pedestrians pushed past them, and her gaze took in Harrod’s festive windows across the street. The ornate building’s majestic turrets were illuminated with countless white lights and windows were decked with wreaths.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Lon said, breaking the uneasy silence between them.

Which meant it’d been almost two years without Clive. Sophie bit her lower lip, fighting tears and the confusing emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

God, she’d missed Lon. He’d been her friend for years and then he’d just disappeared from her life. She struggled to think when she’d last seen him but she couldn’t even figure out how long it’d been.

“You still look like a savage,” she said huskily.

“And you don’t like savages.”

“I liked you.”

“Past tense?”

Sophie’s eyes stung all over again and the wind tugged at her coat, nipping at her skin. What lies they’d told themselves to make her decision all right.

“I have to go home,” she said, voice thickening. “The Countess is waiting.”

The first raindrop fell from the heavy dark clouds. “I’ll take you.”

“It’s too far. An hour and a half—”

“I’ll take you,” he repeated, and he practically tucked her beneath his arm, her head against his shoulder, her body pressed to his side.

He was still hard, solid, imposing and she shivered all through her feeling as if she’d been washed overboard and was close to drowning.

He’d only been back in her life twenty minutes and already nothing was the same. But that’s how Lon had always been. Huge. Imposing.

In his car, Sophie felt the strangest emotion—crazy emotion—longing, regret, desperation. She thought she’d do just about anything to go back in time and find the teenagers they’d all once been.

“I’ve missed you, Sophie,” he said quietly.

Her heart lurched. You’re far too lonely, she chided herself even as her heart lurched again. It was a painful jump, much like the painful jumps she’d felt as a teenager when she knew he wanted her and she didn’t know what to think, or what to feel.

Hot tears started to her eyes and she blinked. It was embarrassing, being so emotional. She hadn’t felt this way in ages. Ever since Clive died she’d been very controlled, very contained, but here she was about to leap out of her skin.

She wanted to blame her nerves on fatigue, stress, holiday jitters, but it was Lon. He’d always done this to her. Tied her up in knots. Made her feel so many things.

He was still magnetic. Compelling. His unusual coloring—very black hair and very light blue eyes—drew attention. He certainly wasn’t your typical Englishman, and maybe that’s what fascinated the women. He looked foreign. Dangerous.

But then, he was dangerous.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, shifting and accelerating.

“You.” She tried to disguise the intensity of her feelings, but wasn’t succeeding. She shouldn’t be here alone with him. She couldn’t let herself get close to him. They weren’t teenagers anymore, and she knew Lon didn’t play games. No, Lon played for keeps.

And she didn’t do keeps. At least, not with Alonso. He was still too unpredictable, still too intimidating.

Her gaze traveled his broad forehead, the wide jaw, the strong nose before settling on the thin scar running along the edge of Lon’s right cheekbone. The scar hadn’t been there five years ago. “How did you get that scar?”

“Nicked myself shaving.” He leaned back in his deep leather seat. It was a deep scar, an ugly scar. It wasn’t a shaving mishap.

“Must have been a big razor.”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “Huge.”

She couldn’t look away from the scar. It should have ruined his hard face. Instead it added strength. Character. With the creases at his eyes and the scar high on his cheek, he looked like a man that knew his way around the world. Like a man who’d come to terms with life. “Did it hurt?”

“Losing you hurt more.”

She sucked in a breath and glanced down at her bare hands. Her left hand felt so empty without her heavy ring.

“So you’ve never married?” she asked, swiftly changing subjects, trying to find safer ground. Clive had told her once that Lon maintained homes and offices in Bogota and Buenos Aires but it seemed like a universe away from her life in England.

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Live-in girlfriend?”

“You’re quite curious, muñeca. Are you interested in applying for the job?”

His slow, mocking smile set her heart racing and her limbs felt like lead. Oh, he was still dangerous. He still turned her inside out, made her feel shaky and jittery. “Sorry. Not interested.” She should have never gotten into his car, should never have agreed to this. “Living-in is less exciting than fairy tales would lead us to believe.”

“The disillusioned princess.”

“Hardly a princess.”

“No, just an impoverished lady forced to sell her house, her car, and now her wedding ring.”

Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. He could hurt her in ways no one else could. “They’re just things,” she whispered.

“And what are things when you’re surrounded by warmth and tenderness and love?”

She almost hated him right now. He was so cold, so cynical. He had to know she was living alone with the Countess, Clive’s mother. He knew the Countess, too. He knew she wasn’t warm, and he had to know Sophie was virtually trapped at Melrose Court with no personal space, or freedom, anymore.

But she didn’t say that, didn’t say a word. If he wanted to be cruel, fine, let him. He’d be gone soon. He’d drop her at Melrose Court and drive off into the night and she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

“I would have paid you twice as much for your ring, Sophie.” Lon’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity. The emerald alone was worth twenty thousand pounds. The setting was another ten to fifteen.”

She shrugged. Don’t think about it, she told herself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to get more. “I’m happy with what he paid me.”

“As long as you’re happy,” he answered, running a hand across his brow, rubbing tiredly.

His hair was long, longer than he’d ever worn it ten years earlier, and the back nearly touched his shoulders. He was too big for the black Porsche. His shoulders filled the car. His hands on the steering wheel were large, his skin burnished from hours in the sun.

But he wasn’t just big. He was strong. Immensely powerful. She knew Lon had worked in the mines personally, years before he’d ever bought his share. He hadn’t been afraid of the explosives, the tight quarters, the perils of collapsing tunnels and elevator shafts.

What an odd pair they were. Lon, afraid of nothing, and Sophie, afraid of everything.

“How long did the honeymoon last, Sophie?”

She startled, shocked by his nerve. “That’s none of your business.”

His smile was cool. “I want to know. Tell me. How long did it take before you knew you’d made a mistake?”

Her mouth went dry. She struggled to swallow. “Take that back!”

“Not a chance.”

“You have no right—”

“I loved you.” Lon’s voice dropped, his jaw tightening with anger. “Clive never loved you. He just didn’t want me to have you.”

“No.”

“Yes. And you, silly girl, were so damn afraid of your feelings, you ran straight into his arms.”

Her head swam, Lon’s words nearly making her ill. She reached for the door handle as if she could escape.

But there was no escape. Lon had found her. Lon still wanted her. And deep inside she knew this time Lon would never let her go.

“Do you know what it was like, realizing I’d lost you forever?” He ground his teeth together as he stared straight out the windshield, night falling all around them. But the strain showed in his face, reflected by the dashboard lights, and the greenish dashboard light heightened the paleness of his scar. “I knew you’d never have an affair, either. Good sweet Sophie Johnson would be true to her husband. And you were, weren’t you?”

His leather coat had fallen open and his black cashmere sweater was v-necked, a fairly deep v-neck that showed tanned skin and hard muscles. Lon’s chest was wide, deep, the thick muscles wrapping his rib cage in sinewy bands.

She blinked back stinging tears. “Of course I was loyal.”

“Of course.” He smiled but there was no warmth, no mercy in his eyes. “You’re loyal to everyone—but me.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt hot and prickly all over. “We were young, Lon. I was young.”

“Not that young.”

“And it was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough for me to forget.”

“Lon.”

“Don’t think it’s over, Sophie.” His deep voice held her, trancelike, and she found herself looking up at him. His eyes should have been black, but they were the lightest, clearest blue. “It’s not even close to being over. You’re not even twenty-eight. I’m thirty-two. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

By the time they arrived at Melrose Court, Sophie felt dizzy, her stomach churning so hard she was certain she’d soon be ill. Lon shot her a hard look after parking. “Did you eat anything today?”

“I’m fine.” But stepping from the car she was anything but fine. Her legs nearly buckled under her and tears of rage filled her eyes.

Ignoring her protest, Lon swept her up the stairs. “She’s feeling a little faint,” he informed a startled Countess Wilkins, his arm still wrapped around Sophie’s waist. “Could you get a glass of water?”

The Countess disappeared and Lon stared down in her face. “You’re looking a little pale, Sophie.”

Only Lon would be so ruthless. Only Lon would want to punish her. Yes, she’d liked him all those years ago. And maybe yes, she’d loved him, but he wanted more than her love. He’d wanted everything. All of her. He was like a vortex and he scared the hell out of her.

“I’m not ready to date again,” she whispered, conscious that Louisa would return any moment.

“No?”

“No.”

“So it’s not true about you and…what’s his name? Rich, good-looking man. Dark hair, rather like mine, dark eyes—”

“Federico,” she interrupted with a soft strangled sound.

“Federico,” Lon said slowly, thoughtfully drawing the name out. “Sounds foreign.”

Sophie shivered, and her dark blue gaze, dropped. “Aren’t we all?”

Any other time Alonso would have smiled. It was true. Just as Lon and Sophie had met as teenagers in Latin America, most people in their sphere had lived all over the world. Diplomats, engineers, miners, bankers, foreign investors. But Lon couldn’t smile, not when they were discussing Federico Alvare.

Miguel Valdez was one of Latin America’s biggest druglords and Federico Alvare served as his right-hand man. A former MI6 agent, Lon knew Federico personally, and Federico would drag Sophie to hell if he could.

“It’s all right if you have a new boyfriend,” he continued conversationally, trying to ignore the fire burning through his middle. Sophie and another man? Possibly. Maybe. Barely. Sophie and Federico Alvare? Never. And it was this rumor that had brought him back to England. His contacts said Lady Wilkins was in trouble, that she was associating with one of the world’s most dangerous criminals. He hadn’t believed it until now. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be dating. It’s been two years.”

“I’ve no interest in dating again, and he’s not a boyfriend. He’s just a…friend.” Sophie couldn’t even meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. “Federico used to work with Clive.”

She was either painfully innocent or damn brazen. Right now Lon couldn’t figure out which. “I had no idea.”

Sophie’s lower lip quivered and she pressed her lips together, pressing down. Her small pale face suddenly looked tight and a damp tendril slipped from the twist of dark hair pinned up at the back. “No, you wouldn’t know. After Clive and I married, you wouldn’t have anything to do with us.”

He watched, fascinated, as the long tendril clung to the side of her neck. Lucky tendril. Lucky neck. Now he had to protect that pretty neck before something tragic happened. “It was a two way street, Sophie.”

“Clive tried,” she gritted, her blue eyes fierce. She was wearing a cream sweater dress and the top two buttons had popped open giving him a glimpse of an ivory bra strap.

“Not very hard.”

“You never returned his calls. You’ve no idea how much it hurt him, how much it hurt both of us.”

Lon was perfectly happy letting Sophie talk. He was too interested in the open buttons of her sweater dress, the hint of creamy breast, the long pale column of her throat, her very sweet mouth…

Sophie’s lips, even without lipstick, were full and pink and right now all he wanted to do was drink the angry words from her mouth, draw the air from her lungs, fold her into him.

His body hardened just looking at her. He physically craved Sophie. His mind wanted her mind. His skin wanted her skin. His body wanted to be lost in hers.

“You could have called me,” he said even as the Countess returned with the glass of water.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” Louisa Wilkins said, giving Alonso a brief embrace. “It’s been years. Two years. Since Clive’s funeral, I believe.”

Lon heard Sophie’s swift inhale and felt her stiffen. “I think you’re right,” he answered, anxious to move on to less sensitive topics. “But you look wonderful, Louisa, not a day older.”

The Countess practically beamed. She’d missed male company, too. “Thank you, Alonso. Very kind of you to say. And you are staying for dinner, aren’t you?”

Sophie’s blue eyes looked panicked. “I think he’s busy, Louisa.”

“Not that busy,” Lon corrected. “I’d love to stay.”

The Countess folded her hands over her stomach. “I’ll have Cook add another place to the table.” She turned to Sophie. “And Sophie, show Alonso the whiskey. If I remember, he likes a good drink before dinner.”

In the library Sophie watched Lon pour himself a neat shot. “It seems she’s developed a soft spot for you.”

Alonso capped the crystal whiskey decanter. “It’s the holiday season. She’s feeling nostalgic.” He sipped from his crystal tumbler. “I imagine Christmas is quite difficult for her.”

Sophie said nothing. She just took a seat on the slip-covered sofa and curled her legs beneath her.

“It must be difficult for you living alone with the Countess here,” he said far more calmly than he felt. On the inside he was growing angry. Irritated. He didn’t like losing his temper.

Other officers had kidded him that when pushed, he had an almost superhuman strength, and it was true, he could lift twice his body weight. Easily. Once in training camp he’d clean and jerked 600 kilos and others had just gaped. He’d told them it ran in his family, that his dad was a miner from Scotland, but it was only part of the truth.

His stepfather was Scottish, and a miner. His biological father was an Argentine aristocrat who killed himself by driving a hundred miles an hour into a tree. Drunk, of course.

It was Lon’s Argentine blood that got him in trouble.

Sophie shifted miserably. “Louisa’s been very good to me.”

Talk about laughable. The Countess had always treated Sophie like a second-class citizen. But maybe he was being too harsh. Maybe things had changed. “She looks well,” he said. “But how is she really doing?”

“She’s in remarkably good health, and of course, this time of year, she’s very focused on the ball.”

“Oh yes. The annual Wilkins Christmas Gala. I received my invitation last week.”

Sophie couldn’t hide her surprise. “You got an invitation?”

“I get one every year.” Lon answered with satisfaction. He knew, just as she did, that the Countess had never particularly liked him. “I’ve just never been in the country before.”

“You’re attending, then?”

He heard the wobble in her voice. She didn’t want him to attend. Interesting. “Should I?”

“No.” She flushed, and added quickly, “It’s just not your kind of party. Hundreds of people. Not enough food. I don’t think you’d even know anyone attending.”

“But it’d be worth it if I could see you.”

Sophie started to rise and then sat down again. She pressed her hands tightly to the sofa cushion. “Nothing’s going to happen between us, Lon. I’m not over Clive. I’m not ready for anything new—”

“I’m not new.”

How true, she thought, feeling her heart mash in her chest. He wasn’t new. He’d been part of her world for nearly fifteen years but fifteen years ago he hadn’t been right for her. Ten years ago he hadn’t been right. And even today, he wasn’t what she needed. “Please do not make this ugly, Lon. Do not force me to be rude.”

“You? Rude?” He laughed without humor. “You couldn’t be rude if you tried. You’ve made diplomacy an art form. You turned tact into a virtue. You can rest now, Sophie. You’re the martyr you always wanted to be.”

Her head swam. She sank her fingers into the old down-filled cushion. He was so good at wounding her. So good at finding the jugular. “And you, Lon, do you enjoy being deliberately unkind?”

He watched her delicate features tighten, her mouth pinching, her voice dropping so her words were barely audible.

She looked so fragile sitting on the edge of the over-stuffed sofa, so unlike all the cool, casual women he’d learned to fill his life with.

Sophie wasn’t cool and casual. She was rare, and beautiful, almost otherworldly, and he’d once wanted her so badly that losing her had been a death.

Yes. He had been deliberately unkind. He’d meant to hurt her. Deep down he still wanted her to suffer for choosing Clive instead of him.

He’d lost his heart the day he walked Sophie down the aisle, literally handing her over to Clive.

He’d never said it aloud, couldn’t even dwell on the memory, but he’d hated her for asking him to walk her down the aisle. He’d hated filling in for her father who was too ill to participate in the wedding. He’d hated that she’d even try to turn him into family…a surrogate brother or parent.

He didn’t want to be her father.

He wanted to be her lover.

“No,” he answered grimly. “I don’t enjoy being unkind. I just am.”

CHAPTER TWO

LON shook his head regretfully. “It seems as if I’ve enormous control, Lady Wilkins, except when it comes to you.”

“And you wonder why Clive felt uncomfortable around you after we married?” She choked, rising from the sofa.

No, he didn’t wonder why Clive felt uncomfortable around him—he knew. But he couldn’t tell Sophie that, couldn’t tell her anything of Clive’s secret past. Clive had never told her who he was—or what he’d become—and although Lon knew, he’d vowed years ago to protect Sophie from the truth. Because the truth would crush her, just as it’d crushed him.

Clive had been one of them, one with them. He wasn’t supposed to turn into a stranger…

Emotions hot, memories tangled, Lon marched toward her. “If Clive and I grew apart, it wasn’t due to my civility—”

“Or lack of,” she interrupted fiercely, taking a step backward. She didn’t have room to move. The sofa was behind her. Lon in front of her. “You were everything to Clive. He adored you. You know he did. You were his very best friend in the world. So why would he pull away from you? What happened?”

“We grew up.”

“It can’t be that simple. You had been best friends for years. You did everything together. Same boarding school. Same university. Same friends. He even applied to the Royal Air Force when you did.”

Lon’s blue gaze glowed down at her. “Maybe it was too much togetherness. Maybe Clive would have done better making new friends, surrounding himself with people. Because I don’t think I was that good for Clive. I don’t think I made him feel good about himself.”

They were heading into uncharted territory here. She knew Lon had been angry with Clive for a long time now and she needed to understand, just as she needed to understand what happened to Clive in Brazil. “Why weren’t you good for Clive? How did you stop making him feel good about himself?”

He hesitated, as if unwilling to go where she wanted to go. “We…changed,” he said finally. “We grew apart.”

She couldn’t let this go. This was part of the mystery surrounding Clive, part of the mystery surrounding the demise of her marriage. “Clive didn’t change. You must have changed—”

“Clive changed, too. Clive could be very complicated.”

Clive, complicated? Sophie didn’t believe it for an instant. Clive was the least complicated person she’d ever known. “You’re not making sense. I know you, Lon, I know you can be direct, but you’re speaking ’round the subject right now. You’re not telling me anything that I don’t already know.”

“And what good would it do you, to tell you why Clive and I had a falling out? How will it help?” He reached for her, adjusted the cream knit collar on her sweater dress. “We were friends, the three of us, and I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt you.” His fingers brushed the side of her neck.

She felt an arrow of pleasure pierce her neck and then shoot fire through her middle. Sophie balled her hands, trying to deny the coil of desire and pleasure.

Life wasn’t about desire, or pleasure. Life required a cool, calm head. Life required practicality.

And Lon was the least practical man she knew.

Sophie held her breath, trying to hang on to the anger, trying to keep from letting her feelings intensify. Remember who he really is, she silently reminded herself. Lon’s a traveling man. She was right to pick Clive. Lon never sticks around. He’s the ultimate bachelor—no ties, no roots, no children, no home.

During their boarding school days Lon was one of the students that never went home. Not on weekends. And not even for most school holidays.

She’d thought it was his mother’s choice for years, and it wasn’t until they’d matriculated that she learned it’d been Lon’s choice. Lon couldn’t bear to live with his mother and new stepfather.

“Do you ever see your mom anymore?” she asked, trying to ignore his hand that remained on her collar, his touch light, deft, even as she tried to ignore the old ache that had returned to her chest. He made her feel so much…

Too much.

The intensity scared her. Still.

“When I can,” he answered, his gaze holding hers, his blue eyes shadowed with secrets he never shared. His blue eyes had been shadowy like that as a teenager at Langley, and yet as he, Clive and Sophie left school, the shadows had cleared. But the darkness was back again. The hardness, too. “Mother and Boyd have returned to Scotland. They live just outside Edinburgh. I’ve promised Mother I’d join them for Christmas. I’ll probably return to London on Boxing Day.”

And on Boxing Day she’d be boarding a plane for Brazil. “Are they well?”

“Yes. They’re enjoying Boyd’s retirement. And you,” Lon said, tugging gently on her collar. “How are you? Are you happy?”

His deep, rough voice went all the way through her and she shivered inside, shivered with a longing that she couldn’t control. Lon still overpowered her in every way possible.

“Happy?” she whispered, knowing that even if she couldn’t love him the way he’d wanted her to, she couldn’t hate him, either. “My husband’s dead. I’ve lost my home. I depend on my mother-in-law’s generosity.” Her eyes met his. “What do you think?”

His thumb brushed her chin. “I think you need me.”

“You’re still unbelievably arrogant.”

“And you’re still deep in denial.”

The library doors opened abruptly. The Countess entered, extending a hand to Alonso. “Dinner, my dear, is served.”

During dinner, Countess Louisa was in fine form, regaling Lon with story after story.

The Countess was one of the worst storytellers alive, but Lon, bless him, listened attentively as Louisa described the Somerset Ladies Horticultural Association’s autumn plans in stunningly dry detail.

Sophie wondered how Lon could possibly keep a straight face. Ten years ago Lon would have never listened to Louisa’s dull stories.

But then, ten years ago Louisa wouldn’t have talked to Lon.

They’d all changed so much in the past ten years. No, make that the past five years. Losing Clive had changed everything for them.

Lon looked up and his gaze met hers. She could have sworn he knew what she was thinking, and he looked at her with so much warmth, and hunger, Sophie felt breathless with curiosity.

Would he ever kiss her again?

Would he—could he—make her feel what she’d once felt when she was eighteen and still so excited about life?

The Countess rattled her cup as she returned it to the saucer. “Have you had enough dessert, my dear?” Her question was addressed to Lon.

“Yes, Louisa. Thank you.”

“Then you’ll join me in the library,” Louisa stated, pushing away from the table even as Sophie rose and began stacking the dishes.

“Why don’t I stay and help Sophie clear the table?”

The Countess waved her hand. “Nonsense. Sophie’s fine.” Louisa sailed forward and took Lon’s arm as if he were the last man alive. “Aren’t you, Sophie?”

“I’m fine,” she agreed, not because she couldn’t use the help in the kitchen, but because she needed a few minutes alone to pull herself together.

Seeing Lon—talking to Lon—discussing the past, had thrown her into a tailspin. She was supposed to be concentrating on her trip to Brazil. Instead at the moment all she could think about was Lon, and the way it’d once been between them.

But wasn’t this how she’d always felt around him? Dazed. Nervous? Hopelessly excited?

“I’m fine,” she repeated more firmly, this time for her sake, not his. She wasn’t a teenager anymore. She’d become a woman. A wife. And now a widow. If she could handle all those life changes, she could certainly handle an evening with Alonso. “I’ll join you as soon as I’m done.”

Sophie was elbow deep in soap bubbles when a long arm covered in fine black cashmere stretched past her, and picked up a dish towel.

“What are you doing?” she asked, turning to get a glimpse of Lon.

He’d pushed up his sleeves and was applying the dish towel to one of the rinsed dinner plates. “Helping you finish.”

“The Countess won’t like it.”

“The Countess doesn’t know. She thinks I’m in the lavatory.” He grinned, and his smile was so boyish, so much like the Lon she remembered from their summer holiday, that Sophie’s heart tightened, too full of memories and pain.

“You haven’t really changed,” she said, shooting him a dark glance.

“No. And you wouldn’t want me to. Now hand me the next plate.” Again his arm reached past her and she felt a tingle of pleasure as he brushed her hip with his own.

“How long have you been staying with the Countess?” he asked.

Her whole body felt far too sensitive. “A little over a year now,” she answered hoarsely. “Ever since Humphrey House was closed.” Humphrey House had been the house Clive took her to as a bride. “I couldn’t manage the maintenance and repairs anymore.”

“What’s it like living with her?”

“Interesting.”

“But you two must be getting along to survive a year?”

“I haven’t had much choice though, have I?” And then she shrugged. “But things are fine. I’m fine. I’m lucky she’s opened her home to me.”

“But?”

“There’s no but. England’s not South America. It’ll never be South America.”

He reached for the last plate. “So you think about Colombia?”

She smiled. “All the time.” Her voice dropped, and she stared into the sudsy water for a long moment. “They were the best years of my life.”

That was telling, Lon thought. She’d been an outcast at Elmshurst. There were two other Americans at the elite girls boarding school, but they were both very wealthy, and very connected. Sophie was neither. “What do you remember when you think about Columbia?”

“Buenaventura.”

The school holiday at the Wilkins beach house. Clive had managed to convince his father to invite both Lon and Sophie that summer.

Dishes done, Sophie pulled the plug on the sink. “It was an amazing holiday.”

Lon’s chest felt tight. She sounded so wistful. So alone. Did she even know how lonely she was? “Come home with me for Christmas,” he said impulsively, thinking she’d be happier—and safer—with him. He needed to keep her away from Federico, needed to make sure she wouldn’t do anything foolish over the holidays. “My mother would be pleased to have you join us. It’d be a quiet Christmas—”

“I can’t leave Louisa here alone,” Sophie interrupted.

“She can come.”

“She won’t.”

“Then that’s her choice, but you shouldn’t let her decisions influence you.”

She hesitated. Her expression grew pensive. “How is your mother and Boyd these days?”

“Learning to peacefully coexist.”

“It’s been nearly twenty years.”

“It took her a long time to stop comparing Boyd to my father.”

“Poor Boyd!”

“He knew my mother was marrying him on the rebound. He knew theirs wasn’t a love match.” Lon was smiling as he leaned against the counter but Sophie felt a quiet menace in him. “You never did like my mother, did you?”

Sophie wished this topic had never come up. She didn’t know how to extract herself gracefully. She and Lon had known each other too long to lie. “I’ve never understood her.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally. “What’s there to understand?”

“You were the one that told me she’d had an affair with a married man for years.”

“The affair was with my father.”

Sophie swallowed. She heard the steely note in Lon’s voice and knew she’d touched a nerve. “I just don’t understand how she could put you through that…you were just a little boy…”

“He loved her. She loved him—”

“He was married! What about his wife’s feelings? What about his other children’s feelings? How could your mother not see how hurtful it was for you to only see your father now and then? To never have a father there at Christmas, or on your birthday?”

Lon’s jaw hardened. “He sent cards, and gifts.”

“Cards. Gifts.” Anger burned in her. “And gifts were supposed to make up for a selfish, absentee father, a depressed mother, and a broken home?”

“It was her heart, her life—”

“No! It was your heart. Your life. Her choices impacted you, too!” She spat the words at him, and suddenly Sophie saw her own home, and her own family. She wasn’t just upset for Lon. She was upset for herself. She’d lived through such loneliness as a little girl. She knew what it was like to have an absentee parent. Her mother had walked out on them when she was small and her father had spent the rest of his life struggling to make things okay.

Okay.

As if anything would ever really be okay again.

But Lon didn’t know that Sophie’s hostility was directed at her own mother as well as his and he’d taken another step away from her. “I had no idea how much you disliked my mother.”

“I don’t—”

“She doesn’t need you judging her. She doesn’t need anyone judging her. She’s allowed to make her own mistakes, just as you’ve made yours.”

“What mistakes?”

“Still playing ostrich, aren’t you?” he retorted, dropping the damp dish towel on the counter and walking out.

As Sophie watched Lon walk away her heart felt like it was being ripped in two.

They’d once been so close. He’d been the most important person in her life. How had it come to this? Why had it come to this?

Clive.

Sophie reached up, pressed the palm of her hand to her temple. Her head felt as if it were so heavy, so unbelievably tired. She’d been trying to keep so much secret, and hidden inside, but all the details, all the travel and party problems, were overwhelming her.

There was only so much one could remember…only so much one could do…

If she could just get Louisa’s gala behind her.

If she could just keep Lon from meeting Federico.

If she could just get on the plane and head for Brazil…

Just another couple days, she reminded herself. Hang in there. Be patient. You’ll be in Sao Paulo before you know it.

Sophie drew a deep breath, and pulled her shoulders back. Time to go face Louisa and Alonso.

Not that she wanted to.

“Ah, there she is,” Louisa said, turning and indicating Sophie’s presence, as Sophie entered the semidark ballroom. “We were just wondering if you’d washed yourself down the sink.”

“Oh, no, nothing as exciting as that.” Sophie answered, glancing at Lon. But he wouldn’t make eye contact.

Instead he glanced at his watch. “It’s time I headed back to London.” He leaned toward Louisa, kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“My pleasure.” Louisa laid a hand on his arm. “And I trust we’ll have your company at the ball on Saturday?”

“Unfortunately I’ve had plans for quite some time.”

“What a shame. Sophie’s invited some of her other friends. I’m sure you’d enjoy them.”

“I’m sure I would, too.” His smile was tight. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Happy Christmas, Louisa.”

Sophie walked with Lon through the rest of the ballroom. Though the grand room was empty now, it’d be transformed in three days time with a twelve foot tall tree in the corner, garland at the doors, and fragrant boughs at the windows.

“It’s going to be quite a party,” Lon said, stopping to look behind them.

Sophie knew that just decorating the enormous tree would take her and two staff members all day. “It always is.”

He looked down at her, no smile anywhere in his hard blue gaze. “Will I know any of your guests?”

Blood surged to her cheeks. “I don’t think so.”

He studied her expression for a long, tense moment. “You make me nervous, Sophie.”

She forced a laugh. “You, nervous? Come on Lon. You’re Superman. Only thing you’re afraid of is kryptonite!” And she moved on, toward the front door, feeling as if she were walking a tightrope.

She couldn’t manage her feelings around Lon.

She couldn’t manage Lon.

And she couldn’t forget the past. Her life felt nearly impossible now. Ever since Clive died she’d struggled along, confused. Disoriented. It was grief, some said, but for Sophie it was more.

She reached the entry and faced the second floor landing where Wilkins family portraits covered the pale green walls.

Something terrible had happened to her husband in Sao Paulo and Sophie needed to know. She had to understand or she’d never get any peace, never mind closure.

“I miss him, Lon,” she said as she heard Lon’s footsteps sound behind her. “I miss Clive. I miss his optimism and most of all, I miss the way he laughed. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s only been two years since he died. It feels like ten.”

“He’d hate what he’s done to you, Sophie,” Lon said tightly. “He’d hate that he left you like this—”

“He made a mistake.”

“He made dozens.”

“Don’t.” She turned to face Lon, pain washing over her in waves. “Don’t criticize him. Not now, not with him gone. I can’t bear it.” And she couldn’t. As it was, Clive’s death weighed on her, torturing her.

It was her fault, she thought. Karma. Payback. Revenge.

Lon’s hand rested on the ornate doorknob. “He’d hate you trapped here at Melrose Court, he’d hate that you’ve been left with so little and have to struggle alone like this—”

“It’s not his fault,” she interrupted hoarsely, unable to let him continue, unable to see herself the way Lon saw her.

Lon didn’t know her. Lon didn’t know the truth.

She wasn’t a good virtuous woman. She wasn’t the loyal loving wife she’d pretended to be.

Karma, talk about karma. She’d filed for divorce only one day before the telegram arrived announcing Clive’s death.

One day before he died. Could punishment be any swifter? It was as if the gods had said, you want to be free, lady? Wish granted—be free! Want to go it alone? Do it!

She turned away again, moving up the stairwell once more to find Clive’s portrait on the landing. Clive’s portrait hung next to his father’s, and staring at Clive’s handsome features, with his shock of blond hair, she felt like a traitor.

Her eyes burned, her nose burned, her throat burned, but the burning was nothing like the fire raging inside her heart.

Clive had tried his best and yet his love hadn’t been enough. She’d still wanted more.

Still needed more.

Her disloyalty had killed Clive, and as much as she cared for Alonso, as much as she craved his warmth and his strength, as much as she needed him emotionally and physically, she couldn’t have him. It’d be like rewarding herself for her sins.

“I know you miss him,” Lon said quietly, “but you have to move forward, not back.”

Her throat ached with all the tears she wouldn’t let fall. She’d never forget the day she received the telegram from the British consulate in Brazil. Lady Wilkins, we regret to inform you…

Sophie looked up, shook her head. Clive had only been twenty-nine. Twenty-nine. Far too young to die. “How can I move forward if I don’t understand the past? I don’t understand how Clive died, or why he died…”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

She shuddered, imagining Clive’s final minutes. Apparently Clive had been shot at close range. “But why? Why would he be there? What would take him to that neighborhood at that time of night?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Lon answered, opening the door and stepping outside. He froze on the doorstep.

Beyond Alonso’s big shoulders Sophie saw huge white flakes slowly fall. The landscape shone white, the sky a curtain of swirling snow.

“It’s snowing.” She joined Lon at the door, quarrel momentarily forgotten. “It’s beautiful.”

“I haven’t seen snow in years.”

Sophie followed him outside, and the wind gusted, blowing white flakes in through the door. She reached up to catch the delicate flakes landing on her cheeks and in her hair. The night was so quiet, so perfectly still, and it made her heart ache.

For her, for Clive, for Lon. For all of them.

“How did we come to this, Lon?” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest and watching the snow flurries fall.

“We grew up.”

Her eyes felt hot and gritty. “We were supposed to always be friends. We were the Three Musketeers.”

The corner of Lon’s mouth lifted. “Tres amigos.”

The three buddies…the three friends. Clive, Lon, and Sophie. Her eyes felt raw. Her throat was sore. She’d been holding back the emotion all night, trying to contain the staggering hurt and need. “How do we fix this? How do we make it right?”

He glanced down at her, his expression curiously gentle. “We focus on the future. We make the rest of our lives as meaningful as possible.”

“But that would mean leaving Clive behind.”

Lon didn’t answer and hot tears filled her eyes. She wished she could move toward Lon, move into his arms and feel his warmth, his strength. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” Her voice sounded raspy. “I want to be friends with you again, and I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. I’m sorry that I said what I did about your mom. I don’t dislike her. I know she’s had a hard life.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s been an unconventional life. But it’s what she wanted, and she’s learned to be happy.”

Sophie looked out at the horizon where the powdery snow reflected the moonlight, and the gently rolling landscape glittered and shone as far as the eye could see.

Lon brushed a snowflake from her temple. “You can learn to be happy, too, Sophie. It’s just a matter of choosing happiness.”

His touch made her feel hot, tingly. She balled her fingers. How could Lon still make her feel this way? The snow was dusting his black leather coat, clinging to his hair, his lashes. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is.” Lon drew his car keys from his pocket. “So what are you wearing to the gala?” He asked, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.

She made a face. “My standard black.”

“Clive hated you in black.”

She grimaced again. Clive did hate her in black. Everything he ever gave her was saturated in color. Yellows, reds, blues, greens. “Black’s practical.”

“At least you didn’t say slimming.” Lon’s smile disappeared and he stared at her for a long, pensive moment. His inspection was intense, intimate and she grew warm all over. He looked at her with undisguised desire.

“I lost you once,” he said quietly. “Don’t think I’m going to lose you again.”

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