their luggage. Rafael spoke to them in a language that was definitely not Spanish and then strode forward to greet the older man who was approaching them.
He was Rafael’s estate manager, Joaquin Paez. He shook hands with her. ‘Sefiorita Morrison,’ he murmured gravely, with an old-world courtesy much in keeping with their gracious surroundings.
The estancia was a beautiful white villa, built in the Spanish style. The rambling spacious contours hinted at the alterations made by different generations. Fabulous gardens, lushly planted with shrubs and mature trees, ringed the house, and beyond she could see a whole host of other buildings stretching into the distance. Maria Cristina had told her that the ranch was a self-contained world of its own, with homes for its workers and their families, a small school, a church and even accommodation for the business conferences which Rafael occasionally held here.
A small, plump woman in a black dress appeared as they reached the elegant veranda at the front of the house. As Rafael addressed her in Spanish, the little woman’s smile faltered. She shot a shocked glance at Georgie and then quickly glanced away again to mutter something that just might have been a protest to Rafael.
Georgie hovered, feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Of course they weren’t talking about her…why should they be? She was here at the Berganza home on sufferance until such time as her passport could be replaced. Rafael had come to her aid when she got herself locked up in prison purely because she was his sister’s friend and Maria Cristina would have been deeply shocked had he done otherwise. In the same way, Rafael’s sister would doubtless also expect her brother to offer hospitality to Georgie in her own unfortunate absence.
So, Rafael was grimly going through the civilised motions for the sake of appearances, Georgie told herself, Maria Cristina had no idea how her brother and her best friend felt about each other and, at this late stage, neither one of them could wish to be forced to make pointless explanations. Georgie’s passport would be replaced within record time if Rafael had anything to do with it… she was convinced of that fact.
‘My housekeeper, Teresa, will show you to your room,’ Rafael drawled.
Teresa, whose wide smile had almost split her face on their arrival, now bore a closer resemblance to a little stone statue. With a bowed head, the housekeeper moved a hand, indicating that Georgie should follow her.
Georgie entered the impressive hall and stepped on to an exquisite Persian rug, spread over a highly polished Wvooden floor. Rafael swept off through one of the heavy, carved doors to the left. A wrought-iron staircase of fantastically ornate design wound up to the floors above, Georgie climbed it in Teresa’s rigid-backed wake. The walls were covered with paintings, some of which were clearly very old. They crossed a huge landing, Georgie’s heels clicking at every step. A door was flung wide with a faint suggestion of melodrama.
‘What a heavenly room,’ Georgie whispered helplessly, absorbing a level of opulence which quite took her breath away. And the décor was so wonderfully feminine, from the delicate contours of the gleaming antique furniture to the gloriously draped bed awash with lace. Lemon and blue and white—her favourite colours.
Doors led out on to a balcony, adorned with tubs of riotously blooming flowers.
Unselfconscious in her enchantment, Georgie walked past the silent older woman and opened a door that revealed first a fully fitted dressing-room and then, beyond it, a positively sinfully sybaritic bathroom with a marble Jacuzzi bath, gilded mirrors and gold fitments shaped like…mermaids. Mermaids? As a child Georgie had been fascinated by fantasy tales of mermaids and unicorns. A peculiar sense of déjà vu swept her, a funny little chill running down her taut spinal cord.
‘Ees crazy bathroom,’ Teresa said almost aggressively, and Georgie spun. ‘You like crazy bathroom, señorita?’
Georgie moistened her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue and simultaneously caught a glimpse of the wonderful painting on the wall opposite the bed. Unless she was very much mistaken—and closer examination told her she was not—the exquisitely detailed oil portrayed a unicorn in a forest…
Realising that Teresa was still awaiting a reply, Georgie mumbled weakly, ‘I like the bathroom, the room…everything, but I feel a little—a little tired.’
‘Dinner is served at nine. If send maids to unpack,’ Teresa announced with a stiff little nod, and indicated a bell-pull on the wall. ‘You wish anything, you call, senorita.’
On cotton wool legs, Georgie sank down on the edge of the bed. It was coincidence that the d£cor should mirror her own taste to such an extent. What else could it be but coincidence, for goodness’ sake? Kicking off her shoes and dispensing with the coat, Georgie lay down, smothering a yawn. In a minute, she would get up and wash and change and explore. She intended to make the best of this unexpected stay at the estancia. After all, she was on holiday and, had the concept of
being grateful to Rafael not been utterly repellent to her, she would have thanked him for making it possible for her to spend at least a few more days abroad.
A lamp was burning by the bed when she woke and the curtains had been drawn. Checking the time, Georgie rose in a hurry. Her pitifully slender wardrobe had been hung in a capacious closet in the dressing-room while she slept and every crumpled garment had been ironed as well. A single drawer contained the rest of her clothing and she sighed. Her collection of neat skirts and jackets which she had worn on teaching practice had all been winter-weight and, when it had come to packing for a hot climate, Georgie had had to fall back largely on outfits last worn in Majorca two years earlier on a family holiday. Beachwear, strictly speaking, she conceded, fingering a pair of Lycra shorts with a frown.
She was desperate for a bath but there was only time for a quick shower. Then, donning her one smart outfit, the elegantly cut fine white dress which she had worn for her graduation ceremony, Georgie brushed her rippling mane of curls and dug through her few cosmetics to add some delicate colour to her cheeks and lips. A maid passing through the hall showed her into a formal drawing-room which she found rather oppressive. She was studying a portrait of a forbidding but very handsome man when the door opened behind her.
‘You find your accommodation comfortable?’
She turned, her wide hesitant gaze falling on Rafael and, although she had told herself that she would be perfectly composed, her stomach cramped instantly with nerves. The sight of Rafael in a dinner-jacket, a white shirt accentuating the exotic gold of his skin and the darkness of his eyes, took her back in time and she tensed, tearing her attention from him and sliding down on to the nearest seat. ‘Very,’ she said stiffly.
‘What would you like to drink?’
Georgie tensed even more and she was furious with herself for being so over-sensitive. ‘Any thing,’ she muttered.
Taut as a bowstring, she watched him cross the room to a cabinet and listened to the clink of glass. How did he contrive to make her feel that every sentence he spoke to her was a put-down? A someone’s-walking-over-mygrave sensation seemed to take over more strongly with every minute she remained in his radius. Angrily, she bent her head. She hated him. Naturally it was a severe strain to be forced to accept his hospitality and feel the need to be at least superficially polite.
Indeed, Georgie only had to think of the damage he had done when she had been at a very impressionable age, and her blood boiled. Rafael’s deliberate attempt to reduce her to the level of a promiscuous slut back in her hotel room had simply provided fresh fodder for the bitterness of the past. But it had also brought alive again raw emotions which she had put behind her a long time ago,
