an earthenware pot, he held it up.
‘Which is?’
‘Various meats, and vegetables.’
‘Meats?’
‘Still a vegetarian?’ he guessed.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise for that.’
He made it sound as if she had plenty to be sorry about without the fact that she was a vegetarian, Sophie thought wryly. ‘Do you have anything else?’
Xavier shot her a look that suggested this foray into domesticity was about as far from fun for him as it got. Remembering she had vowed to be nice to him, Sophie said, ‘Don’t you miss that wonderful chef your mother used to employ at Casa Bordiu?’
‘I don’t miss anything about my old life—with the exception of seeing my parents most days,’ he said, the expression in his eyes hidden from her as he turned away.
‘But all that opulence and then this—’ Instantly, Sophie knew she had gone too far, delved too deeply into realms he would rather forget. When he turned around the shadows in his eyes were darker.
‘Opulence?’ He spat out the word like poison, and then drew himself up to lash her with his pain. ‘Have you forgotten how my brother was killed? Opulence—’ He stopped, his face an ugly mask, but the words dredged up from some fetid place at his core hung in the air between them like a dissonant chord.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Sophie said gently.
‘Don’t bring it up again,’ he rapped, each word staccato.
But she hadn’t, he had, Sophie registered.
Xavier turned angrily on himself. This was his worst nightmare come true. All he could see when he looked at Sophie was her father. She had the same blue eyes, the same blonde hair, and the same slim build. On her father it had been an insipid combination—perfectly suited to his character. Xavier’s lips curled in self-disgust. It was no use trying to shovel blame for the accident on to that weak excuse for a man. The blame for Armando’s death rested squarely on his own shoulders—one day he’d have to confront that, but not today—and not with Sophie Ford. He cast another glance at her. She was her father’s daughter all right. She looked so like him. She shared the same tainted blood. Women like her were good for one thing only…
His senses flared as he looked at her. With that in mind he would have to build a few bridges. Didn’t they say revenge was a dish best served cold? Though when they got between the sheets, he’d take his hot. Little Sophie Ford had ripened like a peach for the plucking—and he was developing quite an appetite.
‘It’s baked over a heated stone inside a hole in the ground,’ he said pleasantly.
Sophie actually flinched as she hurried to pay attention. It was as if the tense exchange had never taken place. Xavier might have been conducting a presentation to a class of students, she realised, as he carried on describing the food they had available.
‘What else have you got?’ she said, glad to play along.
‘Papa a la Huancaina,’ he said, removing a lid from the second pot with a flourish.
She was relieved to see him relaxing a little. She guessed his emotions had stalled ten years back at the time of the accident. Rather than confront the deep well of grief inside him at the time, he had simply shut himself off from it. This wasn’t the Xavier she knew—this was a man who cared for nothing and no one; a man who had forgotten how to love, Sophie mused, vowing to cut him some slack.
‘It could have been prepared especially for you, señorita: boiled potatoes with cheese bathed in a mild chilli sauce.’
At least he had forgotten to scowl this time, Sophie noticed wryly. Maybe there was hope for a reasonable working relationship after all. ‘Sounds great,’ she agreed.
‘And for pudding we have tropical fruit.’ He introduced each one in turn. ‘Papaya, mango, passion fruit.’
‘So, what did you have to give the local big shot in exchange for all this?’ she teased. But from the minutest change in his eyes she saw that her attempt at humour had missed its mark by a mile.
‘Is that important?’
His voice was soft and unthreatening, but Sophie knew she had touched a nerve. There was something in his eyes—unanswered questions that must have lain dormant in his mind for years. Suddenly something occurred to her: surely he didn’t imagine she was one of the people who thought him responsible for his brother’s death? The very idea was offensive to her, ludicrous.
‘If it was anything to do with the full moon and virgins, no, not particularly,’ she said in a desperate attempt to lighten the situation. She leapt with alarm as the box hit the floor with a slap.
‘Is that what you think of me?’ Xavier demanded quietly. Tension swirled around them like a mist, making the tiny kitchen feel a good deal smaller.
‘Of course not.’ Sophie was frightened by the intensity in his gaze, and at the same time the thought of Xavier doing anything underhand was inconceivable.
Silently, he returned to the business of lighting the cooker, signalling the end of the exchange.
They had to get to know each other all over again, Sophie realised, as she watched him. The impetuous teenager she had once been was as far removed from her present incarnation as Xavier was from the life-loving young aristocrat who used to rip up the roads with his high performance cars.
Over supper they discussed nothing more controversial than the various treatments for asthma, a condition Sophie had suffered from since infancy. Then, after helping him to clear up the dishes, she made an excuse to escape to her own bed. Away from Xavier’s distracting presence, Sophie hoped it might be possible to get her thoughts in order and have a decent night’s sleep before their early start the next morning.
Snuggling deep into her sleeping bag, half-clothed, she meant to spend an hour or so quietly mulling over everything that had happened. But the moment her head touched the pillow her eyes drifted shut, and she knew nothing more until an insistent tapping on the window brought her fully awake the next morning.
Gathering her thoughts, Sophie clambered out of the low-slung bed and stared out of the window. A Peruvian couple stood waiting outside, a broad smile on the woman’s round face, with just a little more tension showing on the face of her male companion.
‘Just a minute,’ Sophie called to them as a cluster of impressions struck her all at once: Xavier’s bed hadn’t been slept in, the floor felt chilly under her bare feet, even though the sun was beaming promisingly outside, she was in Peru! Excitement ripped through her as she pulled on her jeans and made for the door. Whoever the couple were, they looked friendly, and Xavier had to be somewhere around…didn’t he?
She was here to do a job, Sophie warned herself as she went to open the outer door to the clinic. Even if an unashamedly primitive part of her insisted on responding to the fact that Xavier was masculinity incarnate—a fact that excited and worried her in equal measure—it was high time she got on with it.
But where were the keys? And, more importantly, where was Xavier?
