Mistress Of La Rioja

And then she reminded herself that as his guest he was owed certain courtesies. ‘That is, I would like to stay for at least a few days, maybe longer, if that’s OK with you. I’d like to see a bit of Teo.’

Unseen, his eyes narrowed. No, it was not ‘OK with him.’ He did not want this woman in his home for a minute longer than necessary—for reasons which were both simple and highly complex. He wanted her, but he could never have her. Not now. Not ever.

‘Spaniards are famous for their hospitality, Sophie,’ he said softly. ‘And therefore my home is yours for as long as you wish it.’

Sophie nodded. Unless he made it impossible for her to remain, of course. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

‘De nada,’ he answered.

The car swept up a gravelled drive, and through the broad canopy of strange trees Sophie saw the welcoming lights of the large hacienda.

He opened the door of the car and she thought that she caught the drift of oranges and lemons, the soft night air thick with the scent of exotic blooms. She gazed at the imposing building which looked as if it had been there for ever. There was a sense of beauty, and of history, which she found impossible to ignore, despite the heartbreaking circumstances which had brought her here.

And then she was caught in the ebony glitter of those beautiful, mocking eyes.

‘Welcome to my home, Sophie,’ he said softly.

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