No one she knew called her Cleopatra. No one except Serena Montoya, of course. Dear heaven, this man must be something to do with her.
‘Who—who are you?’ she got out uneasily, suddenly conscious of her less than glamorous appearance. Snatching off the beanie, she thrust it into her pocket. ‘I—I was just going out.’
‘I had sort of gathered that,’ remarked the man, faint amusement tugging at the corners of his lean mouth. ‘I guess I’ve come at a bad time.’
Cleo pressed her lips together for a moment and then said, ‘If—if Ms Montoya sent you, there wouldn’t be a good time.’ And let him make what he liked of that.
The man’s hand dropped from the frame of the door and he straightened. ‘I have to assume you didn’t like Serena,’ he commented drily, and Cleo made a sound of impatience.
‘I neither like nor dislike her,’ she said, not altogether honestly. ‘And my name’s Cleo. Not Cleopatra.’
‘Ah.’ He glanced up and down the hall before looking at her again. ‘Well, Cleo—whether you like it or not, sooner or later we have to talk.’
‘Why?’
‘I think you know the answer to that as well as I do,’ he replied levelly.
‘Because some old man says I’m his son’s daughter?’ demanded Cleo tersely. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No.’ The man shook his head. ‘Not just because my grandfather says it’s so—’
‘Your grandfather?’ Cleo felt as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted a little. ‘You—you’re Ms Montoya’s son?’
He laughed then, his lips parting to reveal a row of even white teeth. What else? thought Cleo irritably. The man was far too sure of himself.
Then he sobered, his grin totally disarming her. ‘No,’ he said, and she didn’t know why she wasn’t relieved by his explanation. ‘My name is Dominic Montoya. Serena’s my aunt.’
Cleo swallowed. ‘I see,’ she said. But what did that mean?
‘She’s yours, too,’ he added, unsteadying her still further. ‘Robert was my father, as well.’
Cleo couldn’t speak. This man was her brother? She didn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.
‘That’s impossible,’ she managed at last, and he pulled a wry face.
‘Yeah, well, that’s the way it is.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Get used to it.’
‘It can’t be true—’
‘Cleo?’
She had never been more relieved to hear Eric Morgan’s voice. The young man from the apartment on the floor above was coming down the stairs just along the hall from her door.
‘Is everything OK?’ he asked, coming to join them, and Cleo could tell from his tone that he’d heard at least some of what they’d been saying.
His eyes flickered suspiciously over the man standing by her door, but Cleo had to admit his words had more bluster than substance. In his navy duffel coat and club scarf, Eric was at least half a foot shorter than Dominic Montoya, and in any physical contest she doubted he’d stand a chance. Nevertheless…
‘It’s fine, Eric,’ she said now, grateful for his concern. She gestured towards her visitor. ‘Mr Montoya was just leaving.’
Dominic knew a momentary sense of irritation. Serena had been right, he thought impatiently. Cleopatra—Cleo—whatever she called herself, was arrogant. And stubborn. It would serve her right if he and his aunt abandoned the whole business.
But she was labouring under a misapprehension if she thought his grandfather would give up. Jacob Montoya was not that kind of man.
‘Are you ready, Cleo?’
The little man was annoying, inserting himself between them as if he had a right to be there, and Dominic had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from making a foolish mistake. If he wanted to speak to her again, he had to keep this civil. But the temptation to blow them both off was incredibly appealing.
‘OK,’ he said now, taking a step back from the door, his eyes holding hers with a narrowed insistence. ‘Enjoy your evening—uh—Cleo. We’ll talk again, when you have more time.’
He strode away, descending the stairs without a backward glance, and Cleo expelled a breath that was neither relieved nor convincing. She’d wanted him to go, she told herself. So why did she feel this sense of frustration? Why did she care that she’d been less than polite?
‘You OK, Cleo?’
Eric was obviously aware that something wasn’t quite right, but Cleo was in no mood to explain things to him now.
‘Just a misunderstanding,’ she said, pulling out her woolly hat again and putting it on. ‘Shall we go?’
‘But who was that man?’ Eric asked, as she turned out the light and locked her door. ‘Does he work for the education authority?’
As if, thought Cleo bitterly, and then wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to pass Dominic Montoya off as someone she’d met at work.
But no, she was no good at lying. ‘He’s not important,’ she said, starting down the stairs so that Eric was compelled to follow her. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain. I haven’t brought an umbrella.’
Cleo noticed the car as soon as she came out of school the following afternoon.
It was already getting dark. A slight drizzle was falling and the huge black SUV idling at the kerb just outside the playground entrance did look slightly sinister.
The children had long gone, so she knew she didn’t have to worry about infant predators. Just an adult one, perhaps, with his quarry already in his sights.
Putting up her umbrella, she angled it so that she couldn’t see the SUV any more and, stepping onto the pavement, turned determinedly towards the bus stop. She’d timed her exit to coincide with the bus’s timetable. A woman alone didn’t linger long in this area, particularly after dark.
The SUV was facing in the opposite direction, so she reckoned that if her bus was on time she ought to be able to board it before the car turned round.
But she hadn’t accounted for the fact that the vehicle might simply use its reverse gear. And the road was quiet enough, so it presented no danger.
Even so, the main thoroughfare frequented by the city’s buses was just ahead and she quickened her pace. She didn’t want to run, even though every nerve in her body was urging her to do so.
Then the car stopped just ahead of her, the driver’s door was pushed open and a man got out. A tall man, wearing jeans and a sports jacket over a black T-shirt. He was at once familiar and unfamiliar, and Cleo found she was clutching her shoulder bag to her chest, as if for protection.
‘Hi,’
