meal, as she was already aware, was the all-important meal in the Spanish home, and she wanted to make sure that her visit to Jorge did not clash with this.
As she had suspected, the receptionist was able to confirm that in Seville it was the general rule to eat later in the evening—normally about ten o’clock—which gave her the remainder of the afternoon and the early evening to make her visit, Jessica decided.
She had already formulated a plan of action. First she intended to discover if Jorge’s family were listed in the telephone directory. If they were she would telephone and ask when she might call, if not she would simply have to call unannounced.
She lunched lightly in the hotel’s restaurant—soup, followed by prawn salad, and then went up to her room to study the telephone directory. There were several Calvadores listed in the book, but none under Jorge’s address, and Jessica was forced to the reluctant conclusion that she would simply have to call unannounced.
A call to the reception desk organised a taxi to take her to her destination. She showered and changed into soft jade green silk separates, from Colin’s new range; a pleated skirt that swirled softly round her legs and a blouson top with full sleeves caught up in tight cuffs. The colour suited her, Jessica knew, and to complement it she brushed toning jade eye shadow over her lids, thickening and darkening her lashes discreetly with mascara.
Soft kid sandals of jade, blue and cerise completed her outfit. It was warm enough for her to be able to dispense with a jacket, and she was just flicking a comb through the silken length of her hair when her phone buzzed and the receptionist announced that her taxi had arrived.
Because she spoke Spanish so well, Jessica had no qualms about giving the driver instructions herself, but she began to wonder if, after all, she had made some mistake, when they drove into what was obviously a very luxurious and exclusive part of the city. Imposing buildings lined the streets, here and there an iron grille giving a tantalising view of the gardens beyond. Fretworked balconies and shutters lured the eye, but Jessica was left with an overall impression of solitude and privacy strictly guarded, so that it was almost as though the buildings themselves seemed to resent her intrusion.
At last the taxi stopped, and rather hesitantly she asked him if he could return for her in half an hour. That surely would give her sufficient time to explain the situation to Jorge? She only prayed that he was in!
Quickly checking the address Isabel had written down on the scrap of paper she had given her, she climbed unsteadily out of the car and glanced hesitantly at the imposing frontage of the building. There was no need for her to feel nervous, she reassured herself; the building, impressive though its outward appearance was, probably housed dozens of small apartments. However, when she reached the top of the small flight of stone steps there was simply one bell. She pressed it and heard the faint ringing somewhere deep in the recesses of the building. An aeon seemed to pass before she heard sounds of movement behind the large studded door.
Honestly, it was almost like something out of a horror movie! she reflected as the door swung back, creaking on its hinges.
The man who stood there had ‘upper-class servant’ stamped all over his impassive countenance. He looked disapprovingly at Jessica for several seconds and appeared to be on the point of closing the door in her face when she babbled quickly, ‘My name is Jessica James and I’ve come to see Señor Calvadores. Is he at home?’
The man seemed to consider her for an age before grudgingly opening the door wide enough for her to step into a hallway large enough to hold her entire flat. The floor was tiled with the famous azulejo tiles, so beautiful that she almost caught her breath in pleasure. If only Colin could see these! The colours were fantastic, shading from softest blue to a rich deep azure.
‘If the señorita will please wait,’ the manservant murmured, opening another door and indicating that Jessica was to precede him into the room. Like the hall, it was enormous, furnished in what she felt sure must be priceless antiques. Whoever Jorge was, he quite obviously was not a poor man, she reflected, gazing in awe at her surroundings.
‘Señorita James?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I will see if el Señor Conde can see you.’
‘El Señor Conde!’ Jessica stared after his departing back. Isabel had said nothing to her about a title. What was the matter with her? she asked herself sardonically several seconds later; surely she wasn’t impressed by something as outmoded as an inherited title? She, who had always despised those who fawned on the county and titled set, because of who they were rather than what they were!
She was lost in a deep study of a portrait above the fireplace—a Spanish don of the seventeenth century if she was any judge, formidable and with a magnetism that refused to be confined to the canvas—when she heard footsteps outside the door, firmer and far more decisive than the manservant’s. She felt herself tense. Now that the moment was almost upon her she felt ridiculously nervous. What on earth was she going to say? How could she simply say baldly that Isabel no longer wanted him; and that in fact he was an embarrassment to her, now that she was on the verge of becoming engaged to another man.
The door opened and the man who stood there took her breath away. Her first impression was that he was impossibly arrogant, standing there staring down the length of his aristocratic nose at her, his lean jaw tensing, as though he was controlling a fierce anger. Ice-cold grey eyes flicked disparagingly over her, the aquiline profile inclining slightly in an acknowledgement of her presence, which was more of an insult than a courtesy.
He was tall, far taller than she had expected, his hair dark, sleek as ravens’ feathers, and worn slightly long, curling over the pure silk collar of a shirt she was sure had been handmade especially for him.
Everything about this man whispered discreetly of wealth and prestige, and never in a million years could Jessica imagine him holidaying on the Costa Brava and indulging in a holiday romance with her cousin.
For one thing, he must be almost twice Isabel’s age—certainly in his early thirties—and nothing about him suggested the type of man who needed the admiration of a very young girl to boost his ego. This man did not need any woman; his very stance suggested an arrogant pride which would never admit to any need of any kind. He was the result of centuries of wealth and breeding of a type found almost exclusively in the great Spanish families, and Jessica felt her blood run cold at the thought of telling him that her cousin had decided she preferred someone else.
‘Señorita James?’
He spoke perfect accentless English, his voice clipped and cool, and yet despite his outward control, Jessica sensed that beneath the ice-cold surface raged a molten torrent of barely held in rage. But why? Or had he guessed her purpose in coming? This man was no fool, surely he must have realised from the recent tone of Isabel’s letters how the land lay?
‘Señor Calvadores?’
Her voice was no way as controlled as his, and she had the dismal conviction that he knew he had unnerved her and that he deliberately intended to.
It was obvious that he didn’t intend to make things easy for her. So much for Spanish hospitality! Jessica thought indignantly. He hadn’t even offered her so much as a cup of coffee. Well, there was nothing for it but to plunge in; there was no easy way to say what had to be said, and all she wanted to do now was to say her piece and make her escape. His attitude and hauteur had killed all the sympathy she had initially felt towards him. Never in a thousand years could she imagine her flighty young cousin holding her own against this man whose very stance exuded an arrogant contempt that filled the air around them.
‘I’ve come to see you about
