lost!
But of course she didn’t do anything of the kind. The de Montoyas were too polite for that. Besides, Herr Kaufman was still there, looking at Enrique with considering eyes, glancing from him to Cassandra and back again with obvious enquiry. He was probably wondering what someone who looked like Enrique de Montoya—who dressed like Enrique de Montoya—could have in common with a rather dishevelled English housewife. Enrique’s three-piece suit and grey silk shirt were obviously designer-made, whereas Cassandra’s clothes had never been particularly stylish, even when they were new.
‘You are a friend of Mrs de Montoya?’ It was the German who spoke, although David was close on his heels.
‘Do you know my grandfather?’ he demanded, and even as Cassandra was absorbing the shock of learning that her son knew something about this Enrique found his tongue.
‘I—yes,’ he said through clenched teeth, the look he cast at Cassandra full of emotions she couldn’t hope to identify. ‘I— I am your—’ His harsh voice was strained. ‘Your uncle,’ he got out tightly. ‘Enrique.’ He took a laboured breath. ‘I am—happy to meet you at last.’
‘You are Enrique de Montoya? The Enrique de Montoya?’
Herr Kaufman was persistent, and although Cassandra could hardly blame him for being curious, she wished he would show some discretion.
Enrique was gradually recovering his composure, however. She could see it in the way he straightened his shoulders and looked at the other man with bleak assessing eyes. He’d weathered the blow she’d dealt him and now he was exercising damage control. He had no intention of allowing anyone else to see his real feelings, and his thin lips lifted in a cold smile.
‘I have that privilege,’ he said now, in answer to the other man’s question. ‘And you are?’
‘Kaufman,’ said the German eagerly. ‘Franz Kaufman, señor.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you.’
Enrique hesitated long enough to make the other man uneasy before accepting the gesture. ‘How do you do?’ he responded, and then turned back to Cassandra.
‘Are you really my uncle?’
David had been silent long enough, and at last Franz Kaufman seemed to realise he was intruding. ‘If you will excuse me, Horst and I must go and see if my wife is ready to go into town,’ he declared, and Cassandra saw Enrique’s brow arch in acknowledgement.
He’d probably thought the other man was with her, she brooded bitterly. God, she wished he was, she thought, forgetting her own discomfort with Kaufman’s familiarity earlier. But she wished she had some weapon to use against Enrique, something to hurt this man who had attempted to destroy her life.
THE silence after Franz Kaufman’s departure was deafening. Enrique guessed it was up to him to answer the boy’s question, but for all his appearance of calm he was as taut as a violin string inside.
God! He’d been so sure he knew what he was doing when he’d decided to come to the Pensión del Mar and confront Cassandra with her sordid little deception. So sure it was the only thing he could do to keep her away from his father. Instead, he was left with the distinct suspicion that he should have left well enough alone.
‘I—yes,’ he said, after deciding there was no point in denying their kinship. ‘Antonio de Montoya was my brother,’ he conceded obliquely, aware that Cassandra was looking almost as sick as he felt. ‘You are David, I presume?’
Before the boy could answer, however, Cassandra grasped her son’s arm and pulled him round to face her. ‘What have you done?’ she demanded harshly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘What have you done?’
The boy had the grace to blush at his mother’s obvious distress. ‘I told you there might be some post for us,’ he mumbled, trying to drag himself away from her. ‘I didn’t know—he—was going to turn up, did I?’
No, he hadn’t known that, admitted Enrique to himself. But perhaps he should have suspected that such a bombshell would secure more than a casual response.
Unless… Unless the boy had assumed that his paternal grandfather knew of his existence?
‘Did you really expect we might ignore your letter?’ he asked now, supremely conscious of Cassandra standing stiffly beside her son, her whole being emitting the kind of hostility he’d never thought to have to face again. It was hard to remember that she had brought this on herself. It wasn’t his fault that she’d chosen to keep her son’s existence from them.
‘No.’ David swung round, evidently relieved to be distracted from his mother’s fury. ‘I knew you’d want to see me. I told Mum ages ago that I wanted to meet my Spanish grandfather, but she said you weren’t interested in us.’
‘Did she?’ Enrique couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘But she told you how to get in touch with us, no?’
‘No!’ Cassandra was incensed. ‘I wouldn’t do such a—’
But David’s excited voice overrode her protest. ‘No, Mum didn’t tell me anything. I got your address from my dad’s passport,’ he explained proudly. ‘Mum keeps it in a box upstairs.’ He gave his mother a defiant look as she tried to interrupt him. ‘You do,’ he insisted, clearly deciding he might never have another chance to defend himself. ‘You know you do. Along with all that other stuff: Dad’s wallet and letters and things.’ He sighed ruefully. ‘I’m sorry.’ Although he didn’t look it. ‘I found the box when I was looking for—for something else.’
‘What?’ Cassandra’s demand promised retribution, and David hunched his thin shoulders.
‘My catapult,’ he muttered, and she stared at him.
‘You were looking for your catapult in my wardrobe?’ she exclaimed scornfully. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s true.’ David was defensive now. ‘I’d already looked in your knicker drawer and—’
Cassandra uttered something unrepeatable, and despite the seriousness of the situation Enrique felt his lips twitch with uncontrollable mirth. There was something so ludicrous in talking about catapults and knicker drawers when moments before his whole life had shifted on its axis.
But his humour must have shown in his face because Cassandra turned on him, her anger dispersing any pretence of courtesy he might have made. ‘You find it funny?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Well, of course, why would I expect anything different from you? No doubt you find the whole thing hilarious. You and your father can have a good laugh about it when you get home. Which I suggest should be sooner rather than later. Whatever you may think, there’s nothing for you here.’
Enrique sobered. ‘You think not?’ he asked succinctly, and knew a momentary satisfaction when anxiety replaced the fury in her eyes. ‘I beg to differ.’
Cassandra held up her head, and he had to admire the way she overcame her obvious dismay. ‘I think we’ve said all there is to say,’ she insisted tensely, but Enrique shook his head.
‘Not
