clearly have a very broad view of friendship,’ she said shortly. ‘But the gentleman concerned—another loose term—seems to have returned to the hole he crawled out of. I only hope he stays there.’
‘Amen to that.’ He was watching her, the silver eyes sombrely intent. ‘I did wonder, of course, if you were planning to hand him the scoop of his career. “Lady Ariadne claims another victim in best friend’s nightmare.” “Bridegroom flees with TV star.” Or something of the kind.’
Her fingers tightened round the stem of her glass. ‘What a vivid imagination you have,’ she remarked. ‘And you seem to have captured the gutter jargon perfectly. Maybe you missed your vocation.’
‘Then I’m glad at least one of us has fulfilled his or her potential,’ he said. ‘Tell me something. Did the television company realise at once it was typecasting, or did you actually have to sleep with someone in order to play Ariadne?’
Oh, God. Oh, God…
Pain and outrage, which she could not afford to let him see, clawed at her. She leaned back in her turn, smiling at him with a fair bid for insouciance.
‘Believe me, you really don’t want to know,’ she drawled. ‘But I can swear that the casting couch was never as comfortable as this one. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’
She saw a sudden flare of colour along the high cheekbones, a glint in his eyes that might have been anger, or something less easy to define, and felt a stab of bitter triumph.
But when he spoke his voice was even. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is something that you really don’t want to know. And I think Enrique is ready to serve dinner.’
She would have given a great deal to damn him and his dinner to hell and leave. But that, of course, was impossible. She was virtually trapped there.
And if she insisted on being put ashore immediately he would know that she was not as unaffected by his jibes as she wished to appear.
Besides, Sod’s Law was kicking in, reminding her that she’d eaten very little for the past twenty-four hours, and her usual appetite was being forcibly awoken by the enticing aromas of Enrique’s cooking.
She rose in silence and followed him to the dining area, realising with chagrin that she would not be facing him from the opposite end of the long table, but had been seated instead at his right-hand side. Almost close enough to touch.
An altogether too cosy, too intimate placing, but presumably done according to his instructions.
But, whatever game Diaz Penvarnon was playing, she would be a match for him, she told herself with determination.
He held the chair for her courteously, and she sank on to it with a murmured word of thanks, sending him a glancing smile.
This was how to play it, she thought, however much it might hurt. So for the next hour or so Diaz would find himself dining with none other than Lady Ariadne—’the Tart without a Heart’, as one tabloid had christened her. Television’s favourite Bitch Queen, never more dangerous or desirable than when she was planning something.
She would eat and drink whatever she was offered. She would keep up her side of any conversation and be charming. She might even flirt a little, letting her eyes under the long fringe of lashes offer him all kinds of possibilities. Knowing she was unreachable. Untouchable.
And once the meal was over she would yawn prettily, excuse herself, then leave.
Because first thing in the morning, wedding or no wedding, she would be inventing some dire emergency that required her elsewhere immediately, and catching the next available train out.
Which, she told herself, would finally be the end of it. She could not afford to look back. Or to hope. Not again. Not ever.
Although London wouldn’t necessarily be her first destination of choice, she thought wearily. It was hardly a sanctuary for her these days. Even now there were going to be issues to be dealt with before she could attempt to get her life back on track.
And there was also Daisy to consider. Daisy, her friend, whose husband had left her, and who would be shocked and frightened, needing all the comfort and support Rhianna could give her.
But at least, she told herself, that would force her to put the sorrow of her own rejection, her own loneliness and fear, to the back of her mind until she was somehow strong enough to deal with them. Whenever that might be.
She stifled a sigh as she shook out her linen table napkin.
In this whole, reeling, unhappy mess, her only certainty was that it would not be soon. That it would take every scrap of courage she possessed even to survive.
And that the campaign was starting here and now, at this table, with this man.
If the circumstances had been different, she would have openly revelled in the food a beaming Enrique brought to them.
The first course was an array of tapas, individual little dishes of spicy sausage, olives, prawns, anchovies and marinated peppers. This was followed by a fillet of lamb, pink and tender, served with garlicky roasted vegetables, and the meal concluded with almond creams, all of it served with a flavoursome Rioja.
It was a delicious and leisurely performance, with Diaz suddenly transformed into the perfect host, and Rhianna found, to her own surprise, that she was perceptibly relaxing her guard as the evening went on. Which could be dangerous.
‘Goodness,’ she said, half-laughing at one point. ‘All this, plus Juan and Enrique too. Is this some reversion to your Spanish ancestry?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s pointless to deny it exists, and just occasionally over the generations it comes roaring back.’ He drank some wine. ‘We were all pirates at the time of the first Elizabeth, the Spanish and the English alike,’ he went on reflectively. ‘All raiders and looters, feathering our nests in the name of patriotism. Taking what we wanted when we saw it, and to hell with the consequences. And my many times great-grandfather was certainly no different. Before his ship went down Jorge might even have been the man lighting the torch that fired Penzance. Quien sabe? Who knows?’
‘And then he met Tamsin and married her,’ Rhianna said quietly.
‘Met her and seduced her,’ he corrected. ‘A fairly high-risk initiative in those days. Her father might as easily have slit his throat as said, “Bless you, my children. The wedding’s on Thursday.”‘
‘But it worked out well,’ she persisted. ‘He stayed on in an enemy country so he must have loved her.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But don’t forget she was an heiress, and he was then a younger son with his way to make in the world. A few lies about his origins, and a crash course in English may not have seemed too high a price at the time. His own good fortune came later.’
‘What a cynical point of view,’ Rhianna said lightly. ‘I prefer the romantic version.’
His mouth hardened. ‘With true love triumphant, no doubt? I can see why that would appeal. Unfortunately real life rarely supplies neat endings.’
‘So I’ve discovered.’ Her smile was brief and taut. She needed to
