for slights where none were intended, as if she was afraid that her husband’s incapacity somehow affected her authority. Perhaps she feared that if Julio died Enrique would no longer have respect for her, which was ridiculous.
Still, it was true that since Antonio’s death she had come to depend on him more and more. Julio’s heart attack some months ago had only increased her demands on his time, and, although Enrique knew it was only to be expected in the circumstances, it wasn’t always easy to balance his own needs with those of his parents.
Enrique brought the powerful car to a halt beside the arched colonnade that had once fronted a coach house and which now provided garaging for the estate’s many motor vehicles. Years ago, Enrique’s grandfather had kept a shining Hispano-Suiza here, and he remembered being allowed to ride in the front of the car on special occasions. He also remembered the punishment he’d received when the old man had found out he had taken the car out alone. He’d been afraid he’d never be allowed to have a car of his own.
But now was not the time to be having memories about the past. He knew it was seeing Cassandra again, meeting the boy, remembering what had happened ten years ago, that was responsible for his reminiscing about happier times. But the past wasn’t going to help him now. Somehow he had to decide what he was going to do about the present, and, although he intended to ring his mother, there was no way on earth he could tell her where he had been.
Or what had happened, he conceded, nodding to the man who had emerged from the building to take charge of the car. As he strode across the forecourt to the magnificent entrance of the palacio his mind was already busy finding excuses for his tardy behaviour.
Hardly noticing the intricately carved doorway, with its wrought-iron façade, he strode through a high-ceilinged entry that was distinctly Moorish in design. With a carved ceiling and tiled walls, this was the oldest part of the palacio and displayed its heritage in a dozen different ways. Enrique had always believed that Tuarega owed its name to the wild tribe of the Sahara, whose influence had spread beyond the shores of North Africa. But, whatever its history, there was little doubt that it owed its origins to the Saracen invaders who had occupied this part of Spain at the time of the crusades.
Generations of Spanish conquerors had followed them, of course, and much of the present building had been erected in more recent centuries. But the palacio had retained its atmosphere of light and coolness and space, successive craftsmen sustaining the delicacy of design that had characterised its Muslim architecture.
The courtyard, where he had eaten breakfast that morning, was immediately ahead of him, but Enrique turned left before reaching the outer doors, mounting a flight of marble stairs to an upper landing. One of the palacio’s many retainers stopped him to ask if he had eaten, but Enrique wasn’t interested in food. First he had to ring his mother, then he had to try and take stock of what his options were. And what he was going to do about them.
Cassandra had given him no latitude. As far as she was concerned he was sure she would prefer to consign him and all his family to hell. She hadn’t even let him talk to David, with or without her presence. She’d dragged the boy away into the pensión, probably hoping that she never had to see him again.
Which was decidedly naïve, he conceded grimly, thrusting open the door into his apartments and consigning his tie to the nearest surface. Whatever his own feelings in the matter might be, there was no way he could ignore the fact that David was his nephew. His parting words to the boy—that they would meet again, and soon—had been met with a cold ‘Over my dead body!’ from his mother, but Enrique was not deterred. Whether Cassandra chose to make this easy or not was of no interest to him. David was a de Montoya. Sooner or later he would have to learn what that meant.
CASSANDRA propped her chin on her hands and stared wearily across the table at her son’s sulky face. She ought to be really angry with him, and she was, but she couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit of sympathy, too.
After all, it wasn’t his fault that she’d never told him the truth about his de Montoya relations. She’d always avoided any discussion of her late husband’s family, hoping, pointlessly as it had turned out, that David would accept the fact that they and his mother just didn’t get on. It wasn’t as if he was short of an extended family. Cassandra’s two sisters were both married with children of their own. David had aunts and uncles and cousins, as well as his maternal grandfather to call on. Foolishly, she had thought that would be enough.
Clearly, it hadn’t been. Like his father before him, David was far too intelligent to accept her prevarication. But to go through her things, to seek out Antonio’s passport and write secretly to Julio de Montoya without even telling her what he’d done… Well, she didn’t know how she was going to forgive him for that.
She sighed, wondering what the chances were of them getting an earlier flight home. Not very good, she surmised, remembering how full the plane had been on the journey out. Besides, she’d paid for a two-week holiday package and if she wanted to change the return date she would obviously have to pay extra for their seats.
Not an option she wanted to consider. She had already spent over her budget in coming here and she was loath to ask her father to bail them out. That, too, would entail more explanations than she was prepared to face at present.
‘Are you going to maintain this ridiculous silence for much longer?’ she enquired at last, forcing her son to look up from the scrambled eggs and bacon he had ordered in spite of her protests. A fried breakfast was far too heavy in this climate, in her opinion, but David had not been in the mood to compromise. ‘Because if you are,’ she added, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
David emptied his mouth of food, took a gulp of orange juice, and then regarded her with accusing eyes. ‘Do I get a choice?’ he enquired insolently, and Cassandra knew a totally uncharacteristic desire to smack him.
‘I won’t be spoken to like this, David,’ she said, folding her napkin and placing it beside her plate. She, herself, had eaten nothing, and the sight of the greasy food was enough to turn her stomach. ‘I realise you think you have some justification for acting this way, but you’ve got no idea what a nest of vipers you’re uncovering.’
‘A nest of vipers,’ scoffed her son, around another mouthful of egg. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. If you ask me, you’re just jealous because Uncle Enrique liked me.’
Jealous!
Cassandra’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You think so?’ she said, the urge to wipe the smug look off his face becoming almost overwhelming. ‘And what would you know about it?’
‘I know Uncle Enrique is nice, really nice,’ declared her son staunchly. ‘Gosh, you were so rude to him, Mum! It’s a wonder he even wants to see me again.’
Cassandra pressed her lips together, feeling the unwelcome prick of tears behind her eyes. Oh, yes, she wanted to say, Enrique de Montoya wants to see you again. Now that he knows I have a son, he’ll do everything he can to take you away from me.
But, of course, she couldn’t tell her son that. She couldn’t be so cruel. Apart from anything else, it was unlikely he would believe her. In David’s world, people were exactly what they appeared to be; they said what they thought. They didn’t lie or cheat, or use any means in their power to destroy someone else. Why frighten him unnecessarily? He would learn soon enough that the de Montoyas would do anything to gain their own ends.
‘Anyway,
