out a small cigar case. Putting one of the narrow cheroots between his teeth, he continued: ‘You will recall what I have told you about her already? She is—how shall I say?—not used to meeting strangers.’ He paused as he lit the cheroot with a slim gold lighter. ‘Coming to England, if indeed she ever does, will be a terrifying experience for her.’
Domine pulled a wry face. ‘So?’
His mouth tightened, the lines that bracketed it deepening. ‘You are not at all like her, are you? You do not begin to understand how she might be feeling.’
Domine felt indignant. ‘How could I? Does she know how I’m feeling right now? Of course not. We’re two different people. We’ve had a different upbringing.’
‘That, alas, is true,’ he responded curtly, and she did not misunderstand his preference. ‘But it may be that you could—help her.’
‘Me?’ Domine was astounded. ‘How could I help such a—a paragon?’
It was hardly wise to taunt him, but his evident admiration for her cousin was irritating, and Domine was not used to being ignored. Besides, he was expecting too much if he thought she could stick around, knowing Griffons would have to be sold, seeing everything she had ever loved come under the auction hammer, just to help the one person who was responsible for destroying her and Mark’s lives.
‘You are bitter,’ Luis Aguilar said now, irritating her even more. ‘That is understandable. But I must point out that your cousin cannot be held responsible for your grandfather’s aberrations.’
Domine glared at him. ‘Thank you, but I don’t require a lecture from you concerning my grandfather’s behaviour, aberrant or otherwise! And while we’re on the subject, I am not bitter; sad, perhaps, but not bitter!’
Her outburst had annoyed him, she could see that, and his next words confirmed it. ‘It seems to me that Sir George knew what he was doing when he made his last will and testament,’ he commented crushingly. ‘Neither you nor your brother seem to have any self-discipline whatsoever, and behave for the most part like a pair of irresponsible children!’
Domine clenched her fists. ‘Then what could we possibly do to help Lisel?’ she demanded, uncaring in the heat of the moment what Mark might think of her behaviour, and was almost gratified when he retorted:
‘I cannot for the life of me imagine!’ in cold chilling tones.
Of course, after that there was nothing more to say, thought Domine rather tremulously. Deciding she would not wait for him to walk out on her, she would walk out on him, she made to slide off her stool, but to her astonishment his hand came out and gripped her arm, preventing her from making her escape. She parted her lips to make some angry objection, and then closed them again when he turned those night-dark eyes in her direction. She did not comprehend the meaning in their hypnotic depths, but she could not move under that paralysing appraisal, her breath coming in shallow gulps as she returned his stare.
‘Wait!’ he commanded, and she realised how close he had been to losing his temper. ‘Perhaps my words were—careless, reckless; call them what you will. However, I tell myself, I would rather you were honest with me than—than merely paying lip service to my position.’
His position! Domine gazed at him in bewilderment. What position? What did he mean? As Lisel’s friend? Her adviser? Or was he hinting that he had power of attorney to act on her behalf?
She became aware that his fingers were numbing her wrist, but she had no desire for him to relax them. On the contrary, she liked him touching her, and there was the growing realisation that she was arousing him to show emotion. Until that moment he had displayed a singular lack of any kind of feeling, except perhaps contempt, and there was a curious satisfaction in knowing she had succeeded where Mark, even at his most objectionable, had not.
As if he was aware of what she was thinking, his hand was immediately withdrawn, and she looked down at the livid marks his fingers had left on her skin. She did not bruise easily, but she would be surprised if she had nothing to show for this afternoon’s violence, and his warring expression revealed his consciousness of that fact. No doubt he was regretting his behaviour bitterly, and the opportunity it had given her to expose his lack of self-control.
‘I am sorry,’ he said now, not looking at her, but hunching his shoulders over his glass, staring concentratedly at the row of coloured bottles which highlighted the back of the bar. ‘I did not mean to hurt you. I simply wanted—time to explain why I had brought you here.’
‘Yes?’
She refused to help him, and he went on more slowly: ‘My intention was to ask whether you would be agreeable to visiting your cousin. I would like you to come to Puerto Limas, to stay near your cousin, to befriend her. To prepare her, if you can, for the way of life she will be expected to contend with if she comes to England.’
He looked at her then, but now Domine was so shocked she found it impossible to sustain the advantage she had gained. ‘You—want me to—to come to Peru?’ she gasped, and when a movement of his head implied his consent: ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Why not?’ The dark features were a mask hiding his true feelings. ‘She is your cousin, after all, a blood relation. Surely that must mean something to you.’
‘We probably don’t put as much emphasis on blood relationships as you do,’ replied Domine dazedly, trying to come to terms with his new disclosure. He was asking her to visit Peru, she kept telling herself incredulously, he was actually suggesting she should travel more than six thousand miles to stay with a cousin she had not even met!
Shaking her head, she looked at him doubtfully, trying to understand his reasoning. ‘But you don’t even like me,’ she protested, incredulity giving way to practicality. ‘Do you?’
His hesitation was scarcely flattering. ‘I would rather not discuss personalities, Miss Temple,’ he declared at length. ‘I am prepared to concede that the women of my acquaintance do not behave as you do, but I am equally disposed to admit that Englishmen do not treat their women with the same—respect. Therefore no analogy can be made.’
Domine’s indignation was superseded by her curiosity. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, unable to use the formal señor as she asked the unpalatable question, and his dark brows ascended with evident impatience.
‘I suggest we go and have lunch,’ he essayed firmly, making no attempt to satisfy her inquisitiveness. ‘I took the liberty of ordering for us both when you were delayed, and the waiter has just signalled that all is now prepared.’
The dining room of the Crillon was all ornate carving and fine lace curtains. The tablecloths were lace, too, and their table was set against the wall, partially concealed by a huge rubber plant. The head waiter himself saw them seated, and after the smoked salmon had been served Domine spent some little time looking about her.
‘It’s very—Victorian, isn’t it?’ she remarked absently, not really thinking to whom she was speaking, and then grimaced when she realised she had his undivided attention. ‘I mean …’ she shrugged awkwardly, ‘all lace curtains and potted palms. Or in this case, a potted rubber plant.’
‘You don’t like it?’ he queried, watching her with an intentness that was unnerving, and she hastened to correct his impression.
‘It’s not that. It’s just—well, different, that’s all.’
