Mediterranean Seduction

Contrary to what Enrique had said earlier, the bartender knew exactly who he was, and it was obvious from the man’s manner that he welcomed his customer. Cassandra guessed, nonetheless, that he was curious about who she was and why Enrique should choose to bring her here, but he knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he escorted them personally to a table on the deck that was shaded by a canvas canopy, and enquired politely what he could get them to drink.

‘Wine?’ suggested Enrique, looking at Cassandra, and at her indifferent nod he ordered two glasses of Rioja. ‘It is served from a barrel here,’ he explained as the man walked away, and Cassandra guessed he was only behaving courteously for the other man’s benefit.

‘What is this place?’ she asked, taking her cue from him, and Enrique glanced towards the jetty before looking at her.

‘San Augustin,’ he said in the same civil tone. ‘I used to come here a lot when I was younger. While I was a student, I worked behind the bar for a while until my father found out.’

‘And stopped you?’ suggested Cassandra unthinkingly, and he nodded.

‘My father said a de Montoya should not—well, it is not important what he said,’ he appended shortly. ‘It is many years now.’

‘Yet the bartender remembers you.’

‘I did not mean it is so many years since I was here,’ he explained. ‘José and I, we know one another quite well.’

Cassandra began to smile and then pulled her lips into a straight line again. She was starting to relax with him and that was not good. She had no doubt it would suit him very well, but she had to remember why he had brought her here and it wasn’t to exchange anecdotes about the past. Well, not that past anyway, she amended, with a sudden spurt of hysteria.

The bartender returned with their wine and a large plate of what she realised were tapas. But not the mass-produced tapas that were available in the bars in Punta del Lobo. Something told her that this was the real thing, the fat juicy olives, spiced with herbs, the batter-dipped prawns, the bite-sized pieces of crisply fried fish bearing little resemblance to what she’d seen so far. They smelled wholesome, too, and in other circumstances the cheese that was oozing out of the paper-thin rolls of ham would have made her mouth water.

‘Is good, señor?’ the man enquired, obviously having heard them speaking in English, and Enrique inclined his head.

‘Muy bien, José,’ he responded in his own language. Very good. ‘Gracias.’

The bartender smiled and went away, and Enrique indicated the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Hardly,’ said Cassandra, reluctantly taking a sip of her wine. She hoped it wasn’t too intoxicating. She’d had nothing to eat that day and her stomach was already bubbling with apprehension. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

Enrique hesitated. She noticed he wasn’t interested in the food either and, like her, he seemed quite content to concentrate on his wine. His hands, brown and long-fingered, played with the stem of his glass, and she was mesmerised by their sensitive caress. It reminded her far too acutely of how those fingers had felt gripping her wrist, grasping her arm, stroking her naked flesh…

She took a laboured breath as somewhere nearby a guitar began to play. Its music, poignant at times, at others vibrantly sensual, tugged at her emotions, fanning the flames of memories she desperately wanted to forget. She should not have come here, she thought unsteadily. She was still far too vulnerable where he was concerned.

‘I think you know why we have to talk,’ Enrique said at last, his eyes intent. ‘David is a de Montoya. You had no right to keep that from us.’

Cassandra pursed her lips. ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

‘What? That he is Antonio’s son? Of course.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

Enrique lay back in his chair, giving her a sardonic look. ‘Cassandra, do not play games with me. We both know that he is the image of his father at that age.’

‘Is he?’

‘Do you wish me to produce a photograph as proof? No, I did not think so. The boy shows his Spanish blood in every way. His eyes, his colouring, his mannerisms. His honesty.’

Cassandra stiffened. ‘His honesty?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Oh, right. You’d know a lot about that.’

A muscle in Enrique’s jaw jerked angrily. ‘Do not bait me, Cassandra. What is it they say about glass houses? It is not wise to throw stones, no?’

Cassandra rested her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders and curling her fingers behind her ears. It would be so easy to burst his bubble, she mused, so easy to explode the myth that David was Antonio’s son, but it was seldom wise to give in to temptation, as she knew only too well. Much better to wait to allow the situation to develop, to keep that particular revelation up her sleeve. She had reason to believe that she might need it.

‘All right,’ she said, allowing him to make what he liked of that, ‘perhaps I should have informed your father when David was born. But I had every reason to believe that he—that all of you—wanted nothing more to do with me.’

Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘So you decided to take your revenge by keeping the boy’s existence a secret from us?’

‘It wasn’t revenge,’ exclaimed Cassandra fiercely, her voice rising. And then, aware that she was attracting the attention of other patrons in the bar, she lowered her tone. ‘I mean it. I—I wanted nothing more to do with the de Montoyas.’

‘Even though my father was Antonio’s father, too? That he is David’s grandfather? That David is his only grandson?’

‘I didn’t know that, did I?’ muttered Cassandra, taking a reckless gulp of her wine and almost choking herself. She coughed painfully and her eyes watered and it was several minutes before she could continue. ‘I assumed that you’d have married and had children of your own,’ she got out at last.

‘Did you really?’ He was sceptical.

‘If I ever thought about it,’ she declared defensively. ‘I—have to admit, it’s not something that’s given me sleepless nights.’

Which wasn’t entirely true, but Enrique didn’t need to know that.

‘No,’ he said now, his lips twisting. ‘Why should you waste your time on something that meant so little to you?’

Cassandra arched brows that were several shades darker than her hair. ‘Do you blame me?’

Enrique shrugged, and with sudden urgency she added, ‘I’ve always wondered, what did you tell Antonio?’

Enrique shook his head. ‘Why should I tell you? He obviously did not believe me.’

‘No.’ She looked doubtful. ‘He never said anything about it to me.’

‘Why would he?’ Enrique was harsh. ‘My brother, too, was an honourable man.’

‘Too?’ she mocked him. ‘I hope you’re not including yourself in that statement.’

‘I meant my father,’ he retorted coldly. ‘And my nephew David, at least understands that family means something.’

‘David has a family.’ Cassandra quivered in remembrance of why they were here. ‘An English family. Who love him.’

‘He also has a Spanish family who would love him just as much,’ replied Enrique inflexibly. ‘Oh, this is getting us nowhere.’ He raised his hand and summoned the bartender, but although Cassandra knew a moment’s panic that he had decided not to continue their conversation, he merely ordered two more glasses of wine.

The bartender, who brought his order, looked a little dismayed to see that they hadn’t touched the tapas, but he held his tongue. Cassandra guessed he had taken one look at Enrique’s dark face and decided now was not the time to make comments. Instead, he sauntered away with a decidedly defiant swagger.

‘Now,’ said Enrique, when they were alone again, ‘I suggest we try to find some common ground here.’ He took a breath. ‘We are agreed, are we not, that David is Antonio’s son, yes?’ And, getting no argument from Cassandra, he continued, ‘Very well. It is therefore a question of deciding how and when I am going to break this news to my father.’

Cassandra’s throat closed up. ‘And then what?’ She had the sensation of things moving too fast for her here, of them getting out of control. And she wasn’t altogether sure what she could do to stop them. ‘We have to go back to England in a couple of days.’

‘No.’ Enrique was very definite about that. ‘You will not be going back to England until this affair is settled. And, just to put the matter straight, I have to tell you that before you and the boy appeared yesterday I spoke with Señor Movida at the pensión. He was kind enough to tell me that your booking is for two weeks. Do we understand one another?’

Cassandra’s mouth quivered. ‘You think you’ve got it all worked out, don’t you?’ She rubbed the end of her nose with a trembling finger. ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

‘Oh, Cassandra.’ Now he sounded weary. ‘You must have known how it would be. David wants to know his family—all his family. Do you honestly think you have the right to deny him that?’

Cassandra didn’t know what to think any more. Her attempt to get away from Punta del Lobo, to return to England without Enrique’s knowledge, seemed pointless now. The de Montoyas knew of David’s existence. A few hundred miles would not prove any obstacle if they wanted to see him. Besides, it was David’s life, David’s decision. His letter had proved that. So did she have the right to prevent him from meeting his grandfather if that was what he wanted?

‘Will you take me back to the pensión?’ she asked tightly, her doubts weighing heavily on her conscience. ‘David will be back soon.’

‘And what will you tell him?’

Cassandra gave him a bitter look. ‘Anything but the truth,’ she said coldly. ‘Can we go?’

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