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‘No problem,’ said Cassandra, jockeying her son into putting on his shorts. ‘We were happy to have you, weren’t we, David?’
‘What? Oh, yeah.’ David grinned, and he and Horst exchanged a high-handed slap. ‘I like showing him what a ditz he is when it comes to board racing.’
‘Ditz? What is that, a ditz?’ queried Horst, and then grinned himself when he realised the joke was at his expense. ‘Jerk,’ he said succinctly. ‘I will not tell you what I could call you if your mother was not here.’
‘Feel free,’ taunted David, and, giving the other boy a push, he darted off along the beach.
Horst followed him, and pretty soon they were rolling and tumbling together, with a complete disregard for the clothes they had just donned.
Cassandra sighed, and after returning the two boards the boys had left to the attendant she started after them, easily overtaking them with her long-legged stride. Her ankle-length voile skirt was showing the effects of sand and seawater, too, and she draped David’s towel about her shoulders to protect her smarting shoulders as she reached the cliff path.
The boys went up ahead of her, David the taller and therefore the quicker of the two. He was already a good-looking boy and she could imagine what a heartthrob he was going to be when he was older. So long as he didn’t do what his father had done, she mused sombrely. That was one problem she did not want to have to deal with again.
The Pensión del Mar was situated near the top of the cliff path, a narrow-fronted building with a striped awning protecting its pristine white façade. Cassandra had been favourably impressed with its appearance and with the service offered which, considering what they were paying, was considerably cheaper than similar accommodation back home. The proprietor, Señor Movida, was a charming man, too, and he was doing everything he could to make their stay a happy one.
To Cassandra’s relief, the small Fiat that the Kaufmans had hired was parked on the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, which meant that Horst’s parents were back. In fact, Herr Kaufman was standing in the doorway to the pensión, watching for his son, and Horst bounded ahead to greet his father.
‘Lucky dog,’ muttered David enviously, and Cassandra cast a startled look his way.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said Horst is lucky having a father,’ declared David gruffly. Then, before his mother could make any response, ‘I wonder if there’s been any post for us.’
‘Post?’ Cassandra blinked. ‘Do you mean a letter? Who would be writing to us? We just spoke to your grandfather last night on the phone.’
David shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, not altogether convincingly, and Cassandra knew a sudden chill. But then Herr Kaufman was coming towards them and she was forced to put her own doubts aside.
‘Thank you for looking after Horst, Mrs de Montoya,’ he said warmly, his eyes moving appreciatively over her slender figure so that she became intensely conscious of her damp skirt. ‘Has Horst been good?’
‘He’s been very good,’ Cassandra answered swiftly, wondering if she was only imagining the avidity of his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’
‘It was most enlightening,’ replied the man, nodding. ‘We visited many of the palaces and museums. Not something my son would be particularly interested in, I think.’
Cassandra forced a smile. ‘I think not,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t imagine David being interested in old buildings either.’
‘I might be,’ protested her son, but Herr Kaufman wasn’t listening to the boy.
‘Did you know that your name, de Montoya, is quite a famous one in Andalusia?’ he asked conversationally. ‘We have been reading some literature about this area, and it seems the de Montoya family is well-known both for the quality of the fortified wines they produce and for the magnificent bulls they breed on their estate just north of here. I do not suppose you are related to them, Mrs de Montoya?’
‘No,’ said Cassandra quickly, aware that David was now listening to Herr Kaufman with unusual interest. She gestured towards the pensión. ‘Is that likely?’ she asked, trying to make a joke of it, and then felt the fizzy soda she had consumed in the middle of the afternoon rise into her throat.
A man had just emerged from the building behind Horst’s father and she felt the colour drain out of her face. Almost convulsively, she clamped a desperate hand on David’s shoulder. The boy objected, but for once she was unaware of him. Her eyes were riveted on the newcomer. It couldn’t be, she thought sickly. But it was. Enrique de Montoya had paused in the doorway of the pensión and was presently surveying the scene that greeted his cold dark eyes with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt.
Dear God, how could this be? she fretted weakly. She’d told no one but her father that she was coming here, to this particular address. People knew she was holidaying in Spain, of course. Her boss at the bookshop where she worked knew, for example. She’d had to tell him what she was doing when she’d arranged for the time off. But he wouldn’t have told anyone. No one here, anyway. Certainly not the de Montoyas.
Her mouth dried. He looked just the same, she thought painfully: just as proud, just as arrogant, just as condescending as before. And just as attractive, though her attraction to him had been as crazy as that of the rabbit to the snake. He’d used that attraction, too, ruthlessly, and then expected her to do exactly as he’d wanted.
‘Is something wrong?’
Herr Kaufman had noticed her pale face and Cassandra hoped with a desperate longing that it was only a terrible coincidence that Enrique was here. He’d seen them, but perhaps he hadn’t recognised them. Well, her actually. He’d never seen David, didn’t even know of his existence.
She had to get away. The urge to run was irresistible, and, without considering what David might think of her sudden change of plan, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.
‘I’ve got a headache,’ she told Herr Kaufman swiftly. ‘It must be the sun. David, come with me. I need some aspirin. We’ll just pop along to the farmacia—’
‘Oh, Mum!’ David was predictably awkward. ‘Do we have to? We’ve just got back from the beach. I want a shower.’
‘David!’
‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance,’ broke in Herr Kaufman, possibly seeing a chance to compensate her for looking after his son. ‘I’d be happy to go to the farmacia for you.’
‘Oh, no. I—’
But it was too late. Before she could formulate a convincing excuse, one which would allow her to escape before Enrique recognised them, a tall shadow fell across their little group. And a voice, one which she would have sworn she’d forgotten, cut into their exchange.
‘Cassandra?’ Even the way he said her name was horribly familiar. ‘It is Cassandra, is it not? I am not mistaken?’
As if Enrique de Montoya would ever admit to being mistaken about anything, thought Cassandra wildly, forced to tip her head back to look up at him. He knew exactly who she was, and before she could do anything to protect her son Enrique’s dark eyes had moved almost dismissively to the boy at her side.
‘And this must be—David,’ he continued, only to suck in a strangled breath when he saw the boy.
David! Cassandra blinked. How had he known her son’s name? But before she found an answer to this, she saw the devastation his identity had wrought in Enrique’s stunned expression. Yes, look at him, she wanted to scream accusingly. See what you did; see what you’ve lost!
But of course she didn’t do anything of the kind. The de Montoyas were too polite for that. Besides, Herr Kaufman was still there, looking at Enrique with considering eyes, glancing from him to Cassandra and back again with obvious enquiry. He was probably wondering what someone who looked like Enrique de Montoya—who dressed like Enrique de Montoya—could have in common with a rather dishevelled English housewife. Enrique’s three-piece suit and grey silk shirt were obviously designer-made, whereas Cassandra’s clothes had never been particularly stylish, even when they were new.
‘You are a friend of Mrs de Montoya?’ It was the German who spoke, although David was close on his heels.
‘Do you know my grandfather?’ he demanded, and even as Cassandra was absorbing the shock of learning that her son knew something about this Enrique found his tongue.
‘I—yes,’ he said through clenched teeth, the look he cast at Cassandra full of emotions she couldn’t hope to identify. ‘I— I am your—’ His harsh voice was strained. ‘Your uncle,’ he got out tightly. ‘Enrique.’ He took a laboured breath. ‘I am—happy to meet you at last.’
‘You are Enrique de Montoya? The Enrique de Montoya?’
Herr Kaufman was persistent, and although Cassandra could hardly blame him for being curious, she wished he would show some discretion.
Enrique was gradually recovering his composure, however. She could see it in the way he straightened his shoulders and looked at the other man with bleak assessing eyes. He’d weathered the blow she’d dealt him and now he was exercising damage control. He had no intention of allowing anyone else to see his real feelings, and his thin lips lifted in a cold smile.
‘I have that privilege,’ he said now, in answer to the other man’s question. ‘And you are?’
‘Kaufman,’ said the German eagerly. ‘Franz Kaufman, señor.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you.’
Enrique hesitated long enough to make the other man uneasy before accepting the gesture. ‘How do you do?’ he responded, and then turned back to Cassandra.
‘Are you really my uncle?’
David had been silent long enough, and at last Franz Kaufman seemed to realise he was intruding. ‘If you will excuse me, Horst and I must go and see if my wife is ready to go into town,’ he declared, and Cassandra saw Enrique’s brow arch in acknowledgement.
He’d probably thought the other man was with her, she brooded bitterly. God, she wished he was, she thought, forgetting her own discomfort with Kaufman’s familiarity earlier. But she wished she had some weapon to use against Enrique, something to hurt this man who had attempted to destroy her life.
CHAPTER TWO (#ue7d92631-1f03-5b7e-b3ca-baa4e8dd16f4)
THE silence after Franz Kaufman’s departure was deafening. Enrique guessed it was up to him to answer the boy’s question, but for all his appearance of calm he was as taut as a violin string inside.
God! He’d been so sure he knew what he was doing when he’d decided to come to the Pensión del Mar and confront Cassandra with her sordid little deception. So sure it was the only thing he could do to keep her away from his father. Instead, he was left with the distinct suspicion that he should have left well enough alone.
‘I—yes,’ he said, after deciding there was no point in denying their kinship. ‘Antonio de Montoya was my brother,’ he conceded obliquely, aware that Cassandra was looking almost as sick as he felt. ‘You are David, I presume?’
Before the boy could answer, however, Cassandra grasped her son’s arm and pulled him round to face her. ‘What have you done?’ she demanded harshly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘What have you done?’
The boy had the grace to blush at his mother’s obvious distress. ‘I told you there might be some post for us,’ he mumbled, trying to drag himself away from her. ‘I didn’t know—he—was going to turn up, did I?’
No, he hadn’t known that, admitted Enrique to himself. But perhaps he should have suspected that such a bombshell would secure more than a casual response.
Unless… Unless the boy had assumed that his paternal grandfather knew of his existence?
‘Did you really expect we might ignore your letter?’ he asked now, supremely conscious of Cassandra standing stiffly beside her son, her whole being emitting the kind of hostility he’d never thought to have to face again. It was hard to remember that she had brought this on herself. It wasn’t his fault that she’d chosen to keep her son’s existence from them.
‘No.’ David swung round, evidently relieved to be distracted from his mother’s fury. ‘I knew you’d want to see me. I told Mum ages ago that I wanted to meet my Spanish grandfather, but she said you weren’t interested in us.’
‘Did she?’ Enrique couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘But she told you how to get in touch with us, no?’
‘No!’ Cassandra was incensed. ‘I wouldn’t do such a—’
But David’s excited voice overrode her protest. ‘No, Mum didn’t tell me anything. I got your address from my dad’s passport,’ he explained proudly. ‘Mum keeps it in a box upstairs.’ He gave his mother a defiant look as she tried to interrupt him. ‘You do,’ he insisted, clearly deciding he might never have another chance to defend himself. ‘You know you do. Along with all that other stuff: Dad’s wallet and letters and things.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘I’m sorry.’ Although he didn’t look it. ‘I found the box when I was looking for—for something else.’
‘What?’ Cassandra’s demand promised retribution, and David hunched his thin shoulders.
‘My catapult,’ he muttered, and she stared at him.
‘You were looking for your catapult in my wardrobe?’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s true.’ David was defensive now. ‘I’d already looked in your knicker drawer and—’
Cassandra uttered something unrepeatable, and despite the seriousness of the situation Enrique felt his lips twitch with uncontrollable mirth. There was something so ludicrous in talking about catapults and knicker drawers when moments before his whole life had shifted on its axis.
But his humour must have shown in his face because Cassandra turned on him, her anger dispersing any pretence of courtesy he might have made. ‘You find it funny?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Well, of course, why would I expect anything different from you? No doubt you find the whole thing hilarious. You and your father can have a good laugh about it when you get home. Which I suggest should be sooner rather than later. Whatever you may think, there’s nothing for you here.’
Enrique sobered. ‘You think not?’ he asked succinctly, and knew a momentary satisfaction when anxiety replaced the fury in her eyes. ‘I beg to differ.’
Cassandra held up her head, and he had to admire the way she overcame her obvious dismay. ‘I think we’ve said all there is to say,’ she insisted tensely, but Enrique shook his head.
‘Not nearly,’ he responded coolly. ‘And I have to tell you that the only reason I am here is because my father is in the hospital in Seville. He had what they call a triple bypass—yes?—ten days ago. Had he not had this operation, he would have received David’s letter himself.’
Cassandra was obviously taken aback at this explanation, but although her lips parted she didn’t say anything. It was left to David to express his concern and to ask if his grandfather would be home soon. ‘We have to go home in less than two weeks,’ he explained earnestly. ‘Do you think he’ll be back before then?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether he will or not,’ declared Cassandra, proving that whatever Enrique had thought she had had nothing to do with the letter. ‘I have no intention of allowing you to associate with—with the de Montoyas, David. We’ve managed without their involvement in our lives for the past nine years. I have no desire to change the status quo.’
‘But I have,’ cried David indignantly, a sulky curve pulling down the corners of his lips. Lips which were distinctly like his own, noticed Enrique unwillingly. ‘They’re my family, just as much as you and Grandad are.’
Enrique had never thought he would ever feel sorry for Cassandra, but he did then. Her face, which had been flushed with anger, became almost dangerously pale, and the hand she lifted to push back the heavy weight of her hair was trembling.
‘But they don’t want you, David,’ she said, her voice breaking under the strain. ‘Do you?’ She looked at Enrique with eyes he was uneasily aware were filled with tears. ‘Do you? Dammit, tell him the truth, can’t you?’
It was after eight o’clock before Enrique got back to Tuarega. It hadn’t been that late when he’d left Punta del Lobo, but he’d spent at least an hour driving aimlessly along the coastal road, trying to come to terms with what he’d learned.
God! His hands tightened on the wheel of the Mercedes. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened. At no time had either he or his father imagined that the woman who had married his brother and who had been widowed less than twenty-four hours later could have conceived a child. And yet she had. There was no doubt that David was a de Montoya.
But she hadn’t known a thing about the letter. Her reaction had proved that. As the boy had said, he’d taken it upon himself to write to Julio de Montoya. The letter had been posted before he and his mother had left England.
He groaned.
Of course, it was tempting to shift all the blame onto Cassandra. She should have known what her son had done. He was only nine years old, por el amor de Dios. How difficult could it be to keep track of his movements?
But he also knew that he was not speaking from personal experience. And just because the sons and daughters of his close friends were fairly biddable that was no reason to suppose all children were the same. Indeed, he thought wryly, it could be argued that David was already exhibiting facets of his de Montoya heritage.
At the same time he felt a searing sense of injustice that Cassandra had kept the boy’s existence from them. And that, without David’s intervention, they might never have learned that Antonio had had a son.
Yet could he wholly condemn her for it? After what had happened—after what he had tried to do—she probably thought she’d had every right, after Antonio was killed, to cut the de Montoyas out of her life.
But, God, his father was going to get such a shock. If he’d known of the boy’s existence, Enrique knew he would have moved heaven and earth to gain custody of the boy. Whatever he’d thought of Cassandra, whatever he’d done to try and stop their marriage, David was his grandson. His only grandson to date. And, where Julio de Montoya was concerned, blood was everything.
Which was probably one of the main reasons why Cassandra had kept the information from them, Enrique acknowledged shrewdly. She knew better than anyone how ruthless his father could be—how ruthless he had been in pursuit of his father’s wishes.
But he didn’t want to think about that now. This was not the time to be feeling the twinges of conscience. He had to remember how Cassandra had seduced Antonio away from his family, his duty, and the girl he had been engaged to marry. She hadn’t shown any conscience, any remorse, not even when—
He took a deep breath. No. He would not get into his own role in the affair. The fact that it had ended in tragedy was enough to warrant any sense of outrage he might feel. Cassandra had destroyed so much: Antonio’s honour, his loyalty, his future. Was it possible that his brother had found out what a faithless bitch his new wife was and that was why he’d crashed the car as they drove to the south of England on honeymoon?
No! Once again, he couldn’t accept that. If he did, it would mean that Antonio had found out what Enrique and his father had tried to do. Surely, in those circumstances, Cassandra would have wanted him to know, would have wanted him to suffer as she was surely suffering now.
His jaw compressed. Thankfully he had succeeded in hiding the extent of the devastation David’s appearance had had on him. As far as Cassandra was concerned his shock had been short-lived, swiftly superseded by the anger he’d felt at her deception. No doubt she believed him to be entirely without feeling, and perhaps it was better if it stayed that way. But how the hell was he going to tell his father?
He shook his head. It would have been so much easier ten years ago. Then, Julio de Montoya had been a strong and dominant man, perfectly capable of handling any situation, with a merciless disregard for anyone who got in his way. He had ruled Tuarega with a rod of iron, and that was why he had found it so hard to accept when Antonio had defied him and insisted he wanted to marry the English girl he’d met while he was at college in London. Julio would have done almost anything to stop that marriage, even to the extent of sending his elder son to England with orders to use any means at his disposal to prevent it.
Enrique’s nostrils flared with sudden self-derision. That he hadn’t succeeded had always been a source of bitterness between himself and his father. He doubted Julio had ever forgiven him entirely for his failure, but his father had never known what had really happened, why Enrique had returned home without achieving his objective.
He could have stopped the wedding. If he’d told Antonio the truth, he was fairly sure his brother would have called it off. But he hadn’t said a thing. Because he’d been too ashamed of what he’d done; because he’d had only disgust for his part in it. He’d flown back to Spain knowing that Cassandra had won.
But had she? Now he was not so sure, and he despised himself for his weakness where she was concerned.
It was dark as he drove up through the valley where his family had lived for hundreds of years. Lights glinted from narrow windows in the village and the floodlit spire of San Tomás’s church was a reassuring sight. It was easy to believe that nothing changed here, that the ghosts of his ancestors would see and recognise the sights and sounds of other centuries in the immediacy of the twenty-first, but he knew better. There had been many changes, most particularly during General Franco’s years as president. But fortunately the political climate in this rural area had never mirrored that found in the cities, and as he accelerated past the fields and paddocks where his toros bravos, or fighting bulls, were grazing, he felt a sense of pride in his family’s achievements.
But that was short-lived. Thinking of his family reminded him that he had promised to ring his mother this evening. She was staying at the apartamento in Seville while her husband was in the hospital there and Enrique had said he would ring no later than seven o’clock. It was long past that time now, and he was ashamed to admit that for the past few hours he had given little thought to his responsibilities.
His mother would be sure to think that he’d forgotten, or that he simply didn’t care. Since Julio’s illness Elena de Montoya had become over-sensitive, looking for slights where none were intended, as if she was afraid that her husband’s incapacity somehow affected her authority. Perhaps she feared that if Julio died Enrique would no longer have respect for her, which was ridiculous.
Still, it was true that since Antonio’s death she had come to depend on him more and more. Julio’s heart attack some months ago had only increased her demands on his time, and, although Enrique knew it was only to be expected in the circumstances, it wasn’t always easy to balance his own needs with those of his parents.
Enrique brought the powerful car to a halt beside the arched colonnade that had once fronted a coach house and which now provided garaging for the estate’s many motor vehicles. Years ago, Enrique’s grandfather had kept a shining Hispano-Suiza here, and he remembered being allowed to ride in the front of the car on special occasions. He also remembered the punishment he’d received when the old man had found out he had taken the car out alone. He’d been afraid he’d never be allowed to have a car of his own.
