black crêpe shift she had already laid out, and braided her long blonde hair. The minimum of make-up and she was ready, ten minutes early. A pity, that. Counting off the seconds to the coming confrontation could only put her already jangling nerves even more on edge.
Meeting her wide violet eyes in the mirror, she made a conscious effort to ease away the tiny frown line between her arching brows, and wondered again how Javier Campuzano could have mistaken her for Cordy.
At five feet seven, they shared the same height, and both had fine, clear skin and blonde hair to shoulder-blade length. But there, as far as Cathy was concerned, the resemblance ended. Cordy’s blue eyes were more sapphire than violet, her cheekbones far more pronounced, her nose longer and slightly aquiline, giving her features far more sophistication than Cathy’s. And whereas Cordy’s figure was model-girl-svelte, truly elegant, Cathy’s curves were far more generous—positively earthy, she sometimes felt.
But then he would no doubt put the weight gain down to recent motherhood, and he had admitted he’d only stayed at the party for a very short time. And she hadn’t put him right, had she?
She wasn’t at all easy about the deception; in fact if she thought about it for too long she ended up feeling definitely ill! But she’d had no option and would keep up the pretence to the bitter end, because if he ever found out that she was merely Johnny’s aunt, that his real mother had done a bunk, then he would take control of the baby and make sure there was nothing she could do about it.
But it wouldn’t come to that. She would lie until she was blue in the face if she had to. And on that positive—if reprehensible—thought she stiffened her spine and strode forth to do battle with the man who was her enemy.
CHAPTER THREE
‘AN APERITIF, Cathy?’
She hovered in the open doorway and watched as he laid the papers he’d been engrossed in aside, his urbane smile not quite reaching his eyes as he rose to his feet.
‘Thank you.’ She sound breathless. Her heart was performing a mad tattoo against her breastbone. He rarely used her given name, preferring the formal ‘señorita’, investing it with the delicate sarcasm she had come to dread. And now his lightly hooded eyes were making a lazy yet thorough inspection of her black-clad body and she saw his wide shoulders rise in a minimal shrug that barely moved the surface of the fine white alpaca jacket he wore.
Cathy turned on teetering heels, trying not to stumble as she made for one of the soft leather-covered armchairs arranged around the massive open fireplace, the chimney breast soaring way up to the raftered ceiling. The drift of his cool eyes had been a slow sexual insult, making her shatteringly aware of all that dominant Spanish machismo so tenuously concealed beneath the suave veneer of grace and good manners.
Warily, she watched as he poured the pale golden liquid from a bottle bearing the distinctive Campuzano label, and he sounded as if he were purring as he placed the curved, slender glass beside a silver bowl of plump olives on the low table at her side.
‘Try the fino. If it is too dry for your palate we can substitute an oloroso. The British used to be our biggest market for the sweeter, heavier sherries—the drink for elderly maiden ladies, we consider it here— but now their tastes appear to have changed; we now export far more fino to your country—’
‘Don’t knock it!’ Cathy advised in a cold little voice. ‘Maybe all those elderly ladies have acquired more sophisticated tastes. Or drink gin.’
Did he have to act so superior all the time? Or couldn’t he help it because it was an integral part of his nature? The latter, she suspected, and was thrown off balance when he smiled—really smiled this time—as he assured her,
‘I don’t knock it, believe me. When Drake singed the beard of the King of Spain he also carried home around three thousand casks of sherry and so founded our highly profitable trade links with England. So no, I wouldn’t dream of knocking one of our best markets!’ He seated himself almost directly opposite her with an indolent grace that only served to remind her of his powerful masculine virility, his grey eyes appearing almost seductively drowsy as he questioned, ‘Is the drink to your taste?’
Pulling herself away from the mesmeric spell of his hooded gaze, Cathy took a hasty sip and then another. The pale wine was crisp and delicious, slightly aromatic, the chilled liquid sliding down her throat, tasting like sunlight gently touched by frost.
‘Very much so.’ Her eyes smiled into his, her heart warmed by this rare moment of something she could almost believe to be closeness. ‘I confess, I could become addicted.’ Idly she traced a line in the condensation on the curved surface of the glass and heard herself asking with an interest she had never expected to feel, ‘If the market for the sweet sherries is declining, why don’t you produce more dry?’
‘It is not so simple. It all depends on the development of the flor... However—’ he spread his strong, finely made hands at her look of incomprehension and rose to refill her glass ‘—when we visit Jerez I will take you to the bodega where I shall attempt to explain. If you are interested.’
She was, almost in spite of herself, in spite of those feelings of mutual mistrust which flowed so strongly between them, the deceit on her part and the dictatorial arrogance on his. But he had given her an opening she couldn’t pass and, taking another fortifying sip, she leant back in her chair, making an effort to relax, crossed her legs above the knee, and asked, ‘When, exactly, shall I get to visit Jerez and your mother?’
‘Why the hurry?’ There was a touch of contempt in the steady grey gaze, a flick of something that made her shudder as his eyes deliberately assessed the long, exposed elegance of her crossed legs. ‘Is the finca too quiet, too rustic for your tastes? Lo siento—I’m sorry you have become so quickly bored.’
Horrible, horrible man! Cathy’s face turned an uncomfortable red as she hastily set her feet side by side and tugged down her skirt. He’d been looking at her unthinkingly exposed legs as if they were goods on offer—shoddy, second-hand goods—and instantly rejected them. Cordy—or her reputation—had a lot to answer for!
‘My main reason for agreeing to come to Spain was to allow your mother to see her grandson,’ she told him with a cool dignity she was proud of. ‘If you won’t take us to her, then I must find some means of going on my own. I’m sure Tomás—’
‘My mother will receive you when she is ready,’ he injected suavely. ‘It is not so long since Francisco’s death; she needs time to adjust to the idea that he left a child. And Tomás will take you nowhere; I forbid it.’
Forbid? Yes, he was perfectly capable of doing so. As far as he was concerned, his word was law and Tomás and every other subject in his kingdom would obey it right down to the very last letter. Something sharp and hot rose in her throat to choke her and her voice was hoarse with anger as she flung at him, “Then what the hell am I doing here? Couldn’t you have waited until she was ready to see him? Why waste my time?’
Anger turned back on her in waves of frustration as it met the unbreachable wall of his apparent disregard. There was not a flicker of emotion on those dark, impressive features, merely the schooled control of a man who had witnessed the demeaning antics of a fishwife but was too polite to comment. And she sagged back in her seat, suddenly drained, as he rose with inherent grace and pressed a discreetly concealed button near the wide cedarwood door.
‘Come, it is time to eat.’
Just like that. Just
