long will you be in Rio?”
“Actually, I’m going to Argentina first. I promised Gabby O’Halloran—she’s an old friend from boarding school—that I’d redecorate the casco on her family’s estancia. It’s about an hour and a half out of Buenos Aires. I’ll probably stay there for Christmas.”
“You be careful in Rio. Last time I was there all the safes in the hotel were burgled. It’s incredible the things that happen in that city. They have to be seen to be believed. Funny you should mention Buenos Aires. Astra’s just bought into a partnership in a hotel down there.”
India sat up and looked at him. “Astra?”
“Yeah, my company.”
“You own the Astra Group?”
“Uh…yes. Is that good or bad?”
“Neither, it was just a comment.” She seemed embarrassed at having shown surprise.
“We’ve gone into partnership with the owners of the Palacio de Grès. Are you familiar with it? It was a private residence that had already been partially restored. They’d begun building the hotel behind it. Then the funding went dry and they realized they’d need experienced management as well, so they came to us. We liked the deal, and what do you know? Off on another venture.” He laughed, hoping to distract her.
“As a matter of fact, I visited the house once as a little girl,” India remarked. “The owners, Señor and Señora Carvajal y Queiroz, were friends of my parents. They must be very old now if they’re even still alive. I remember being fascinated by its beauty. It’s a unique example of its kind in South America.”
“Hernan Carvajal is the present owner. He told me he was left the property by his grandparents. I guess they must have been your parent’s friends.”
“What a treat to have the opportunity of working with such a wonderful setting. Are you going to preserve the house as the common area?”
“Exactly.”
“But tell me, how has the new hotel been conceived?” She leaned forward, eyes alive with sudden interest.
“As I said, we’re building vertically behind the house.” He put down his glass and leaned forward, pushing the tea tray aside. Then he began drawing with his forefinger on the velvet surface of the ottoman. “Let’s say this is the main house, okay?” She nodded. “When you go in, you have the black-and-white marble hall—”
“Which will be your perfect reception area!” she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. “You know, the old salon overlooking the gardens would make a perfect setting for tea. Even a bar,” she added thoughtfully. “Something in the style of what they have at the Alvear but—”
Her sentence remained in midair as the library door flew open, followed by a draft of cold air. Jack watched in astonishment as Lady Serena Hamilton marched into the room. What on earth would she of all people be doing here? he wondered, watching as she threw her suede jacket carelessly over a chair and walked toward the fire.
“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands. “The weather’s simply foul and that wretched man at the funeral home is utterly incompetent. Ah, tea. Just what I need.” Jack saw India stiffen. Then, glancing at Serena, who’d turned abruptly toward him, he rose reluctantly from the sofa.
“Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling archly. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Hello, Serena,” he countered. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Her arrival couldn’t have been more unfortunate. As had been their one-night stand, he reflected grimly, wondering how she was going to play out the scene.
India watched, intrigued, as Jack and her half sister sized each other up, like two opponents, waiting to see who would strike first. She noticed that under the urbane surface Jack’s eyes had turned hard and unyielding. Like chips of blue ice, she realized with a shock. The relaxed individual of moments before had become a formidable adversary.
“You two know each other?” she asked, looking from one to the other, disconcerted by the underlying tension.
“In a manner of speaking.” Jack glanced at her. “I made Lady Serena’s acquaintance at a cocktail party the Kinnairds gave a while back.”
“Acquaintance?” Serena lifted a shapely eyebrow and threw him an arch smile before flopping onto the sofa next to where Jack had been seated. He remained standing and moved close to the fire. “You still haven’t told me what brought you here today.” She made a moue with her well-defined crimson lips.
“He brought me home from the glen,” India interjected, wishing at once that she hadn’t.
“The glen? What were you doing there?”
“I went for a walk,” she answered curtly, annoyed that she had to explain. She watched Serena stretch out her long legs, encased in black leather pants and boots, toward the fire. Angus stirred and turned over before the hearth.
“I took a potshot at her.” Jack smiled ruefully and glanced at India. “Since I nearly killed her, the least I could do was walk her home.” He leaned back against the mantelpiece and assessed Serena as he might a potentially dangerous situation. “Now you tell me. What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” she answered smugly.
This, India reflected, wasn’t strictly true. Serena lived—or was supposed to be living—at her flat in Edinburgh, though, according to their mother, she and her dreadful boyfriend, Maxi von Lowendorf, had been frequent visitors of late. It was strange, for Serena and her mother had never got on too well. India sighed, wishing she herself could have been here more often. Her mother had sounded troubled the last time they’d spoken on the phone, and India wished Lady Elspeth had told her more of what was preying on her mind. Now it was too late.
“Oh, now, about that tea…” Serena reached forward, then gave a tight, disappointed smile. “Oh, it’s cold and there’s no cup, of course. Never mind, I’ll just do without,” she said with a long-suffering sigh.
“I’ll get another pot,” India replied, glad of an excuse to escape. “And I’ll grab an extra cup, too.”
“Would you, darling? That’s awfully kind,” Serena murmured with a condescending smile.
India left the library and walked smartly along the corridor to the pantry. One never knew if Serena meant what she said or if she was being sarcastic. She grimaced, wishing she could like her half sister more.
In the pantry she removed a cup and saucer from the cupboard and then passed by the kitchen, drawn by the delicious smells of fresh baking that had reached into the corridor.
“Mmm,” India exclaimed. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Walker.” Laying the cup down on the counter, she went over to the kitchen table where the housekeeper was wielding a wooden spoon in a large enamel bowl with zealous determination. “What are you making?” she asked, switching on the kettle.
“Preparing fer tomorrow,” Mrs. Walker answered with a sad shake of her gray head, her hazel eyes bright in a face creased with kindly
