In Name Only. Diana Hamilton

assessment that ranged from the top of her blonde head down to her comfortable old canvas shoes, an assessment that suddenly, and inexplicably, made her aware of her body in a way she had never been aware before, a way that seemed to blister her skin.

      ‘Yes, I recognise you,’ Campuzano stated with a cool decisiveness that took Cathy’s already ragged breath away and brought a puzzled frown to her smooth, wide brow. He took a step or two back, just avoiding the easel and canvas, as if to gain further perspective, the faint query in his smoky eyes—as if he doubted his own statement—melting away as he pronounced, ‘At that party in Seville you wore the glamour of your trade. I stayed only moments—as a duty, you understand. You were one of the team who had been working on publicity brochures for my hotels. But I was there long enough to see you draped over Francisco.’ For an infinitesimal moment his voice caught, then firmed, ‘And after seeing the child for myself—won’t you tell me his name?—I can only accept your claims.’

      So he believed she was Cordy! Cathy thought with an inner quiver of incipient hysteria. Cordy would be furious if she ever discovered that anyone could possibly get the two of them mixed up! But caution silenced her instinctive denial, and she told him coolly, ‘His name is John.’

      She had learned caution or, rather, had it thrust upon her when, after the death of their mother, she had become more or less responsible for her younger sister. Even then, Cordy had been a handful, self-willed, vain and already showing signs of the unscrupulousness that would lead to the abandonment of her child. Cathy had been dismayed, but not surprised, when she had learned of the pregnancy.

      ‘Juan.’ Javier Campuzano used the Spanish pronunciation and Cathy bit back the objection she might have made as being unworthy and said instead, her voice distinctly edgy,

      ‘You’ll have to excuse us.’ She hoisted the baby higher into her arms, cradling her cheek against the downy softness of his. Already he was beginning to look a bit square round the mouth. Any moment now he would show his displeasure at the lateness of his meal with bellows of rage which would rock the room. ‘I have to mix his feed.’ And one—she hoped—parting shot. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. We make no claims.’

      ‘We?’ He was not to be so easily banished, she realised, watching the black bars of his straight brows draw together as his eyes flicked down to her ringless fingers. ‘Who are “we”?’

      ‘Johnny and I, of course,’ she answered with a blitheness that was part bravado, part guilt. But Cordy had walked away from her baby, making it clear she didn’t need the encumbrance, and that, in her book, meant that her selfish sister had automatically forfeited any rights to make claims of any kind.

      ‘Ah.’ Something that looked remarkably like relief flickered across those memorable features, then, ‘But he is hardly old enough to make that sort of decision,’ Campuzano remarked drily, the sensual mouth turning down at the corners, the arrogance in the way he held his head making her want to slap him. ‘And you?’ Broad shoulders shrugged beneath expensive black cashmere, ingrained courtesy softening the insult as he added, ‘Are you prepared to convince me of some newly discovered sense of maturity and responsibility?’

      Swallowing the impulse to tell him that he was mistaken, that she wasn’t the woman who had been irresponsible enough to make love with a man she barely knew, unprotected against conception, who had been immature enough to go to bed with a man she had met for the first time a scant few hours before, Cathy was mortified to feel her face begin to flame. And he read the violent blush as an admission of something more serious than mere shortcomings—of course he did—and one black brow drifted upwards as he drawled, ‘I think not.’ He smiled, a humourless indenting of his lips, as if he was fully aware of how the sheer power of his presence robbed her of speech, of breath.

      His personality was too strong, smooth and deadly, and his presence in this room seemed to electrify the very air she breathed. She had been right to be cautious, she comforted herself, clutching the now squirming baby closer, and just how right her instincts had been was brought violently home when he told her, the suavity of his sexy voice serving only to emphasise the underlying brutality, ‘Claims are two-edged swords, señorita. You may wish to renounce yours—and that is your right. But I have no intention of renouncing mine. And that is my right. And my duty.’

      She understood the threat, felt it like a pain in her bones, tasted it on her tongue like the taste of fear. How could she have ever thought his eyes were warm? They were cold, cold as the deadliest Toledo steel. But her chin came up, the warmth of the wriggling child in her arms giving her all the courage she needed to fling witheringly, ‘Are you trying to tell me that after all this time Johnny’s father has decided he wants to claim his son?’ Her cheeks were growing hotter by the second, her voice shriller, and she didn’t care. She had to make it clear that any claims the reluctant father made would not be tolerated. Not now, not at this delicate stage of the adoption proceedings. But she couldn’t admit to that, of course, and so she resorted to sniping, ‘After ignoring Johnny’s existence for five months, and the fact of his conception for seven months before that, his belated attentions are not welcome now. Or needed. And why didn’t he come himself?’ Her eyes flashed purple fire. ‘Too cowardly? Did he send you to do his dirty work?’

      For a timeless moment he looked as if his body, his features, had been painfully hewn from a block of ice, and then he said, his lips barely moving, ‘Francisco está muerto.’

      She needed no translation. Her face was ashen, the word ‘dead’ ringing hollowly inside her skull. In the depth of his emotion he had instinctively reverted to his own language and, for her part, she could have bitten her tongue out. And, when she could, she said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

      ‘How could you?’ For a fragment of time violet eyes met smoky grey in an instant of sympathy and understanding and, inexplicably, Cathy felt bound to him, bonded with something that went deeper than compassion. And she knew precisely how mistaken she’d been in imagining anything of the sort when he told her, urbanity again sitting easily as a cloak on his wide shoulders, ‘As Juan’s mother, you have undoubted claim. But that doesn’t minimise my own. As Francisco is no longer here to legally recognise his son, then I take it upon myself to do so in the name of the Campuzanos. He is of our family, of our blood. And besides—’ his eyes narrowed, not above taunting ‘—he is my heir. And now—’ his tone gentled as he held out strong brown hands ‘—he is getting grumpy! Fix his feed. I will hold him. And don’t worry...’ He smiled tightly into her apprehensive eyes. ‘I won’t spirit him away. Leave doors open to keep an eye on me, if you don’t trust me.’

      It was a challenge she had to accept, but how could she trust him when she didn’t know what he wanted? To absorb Johnny into the Campuzano family? He’d made that much clear. But to what extent? Her hands shook as she got the water and mixed the formula, and her soft lips were compressed as she gave thanks for the instinct that had urged her to keep the truth from him.

      If he knew that his nephew’s mother had abandoned him... Cathy gritted her teeth; she couldn’t bear to think about that.

      ‘You take him, if you’re so concerned. Adopt him, or something, with my blessing,’ Cordy had said as soon as it had become obvious that Francisco Campuzano had no intention of acknowledging his son. Cordy had seen the baby as a pawn, a key to unlock the door that would lead to marriage into wealth and prestige, and when that obviously wasn’t going to happen she didn’t want to know.

      As it was, the Jerezano believed she had the greater claim to the baby, as his mother. And that was something he must go on believing—until the adoption order had safely gone through, at the very least.

      Squeals of delight were coming from the living-room as she carried the bottle through, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Javier Campuzano had discarded his coat, the expensive, beautifully tailored garment flung haphazardly over the back of a chair, and he was bouncing the crowing baby on his impeccably suited knees, strong hands supporting the sturdy little body, his own face lit with a smile that gave an entirely and heart-stopping new dimension to his lean and handsome features.

      Relaxed, he was a man she could find irresistibly