In Name Only. Diana Hamilton

sign of one.’ He picked up Cordy’s letters, folded them carefully, and tucked them away in his pocket, his probing eyes never leaving hers.

      That was a problem, she had to admit, but she’d get round it somehow.

      ‘There are plenty of parks I can take him to,’ she returned spiritedly. And so there were, and, if they weren’t exactly on the doorstep, well, they’d manage. There were such things as buses, even in this part of London! ‘And I look after him myself. I earn enough to keep us very adequately by my painting.’ Not exactly true. Since leaving the agency she’d managed to get some freelance illustrating work occasionally and she’d sold a few oils through a small gallery in a not quite fashionable mews in the Kensington area. Money was often tight, but one day her name would be known and her work would be in demand. She just had to believe it.

      ‘So?’ He raised one straight brow, turning to the canvas on the easel. She always worked on a small canvas; it suited the restrained elegance of her style. And this one was of a little-known area of one of the oldest parts of London, very atmospheric and her first actual commission. But, whatever his thoughts on the merit of her work, they were kept firmly to himself, and when he turned to face her his expression was blank, but she caught the faint undertone of sarcasm as he commented, ‘A woman of varied talents. But, if I am not mistaken, it can take many years for an artist to become known. And what happens in the meantime? You starve, or you return to your former, more lucrative career. Leaving Juan—where?’

      He was insufferable! How dared he imply that she would fail in her care for the child? Violet eyes narrowed to stormy purple slits as she growled, ‘I’ve had enough of this inquisition! I am perfectly capable of—’

      ‘Silencio!’ A flash of Spanish fire erupted deep in his eyes and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his superbly tailored trousers as if to prevent himself from strangling her on the spot.

      His straddle-legged stance was intimidating enough, but his hard-bitten words were terrifying, making her stomach churn sickeningly as he informed her, ‘Whether you like it or not, I intend to have a great deal of say in the way my nephew is brought up. I want him in Spain, with me. I want him at my home in Jerez where he will be given every advantage, every care, where he will learn how to shoulder the responsibilities of his inheritance, when the time comes. And don’t think I come unarmed, señorita. I do not.’

      He gave her a slow, terrible smile that turned her heart inside out with the awful knowledge that he meant every word he said. ‘If you do not agree I will apply through your courts for a contact order. And I will get it; be sure of that. It will give me the right to take the child regularly to Spain, to bring him up as his father would have done. And I might go further,’ he warned with icy control. ‘With the help of the best lawyers available I could prove that you are not a fit mother.’ His eyes derided her gasp of outrage. ‘A second-rate model who gets drunk at parties and goes to bed with the first man she fancies. Don’t forget, I saw you with Francisco. You could hardly stand. You were practically begging him to take you to bed; anyone with eyes could see that. There are countless witnesses I could call on to vouch for it, and I am quite sure—’ again that terrible mocking smile ‘—that, should I wish to delve into your former career, I could find many more instances of your promiscuity. Added to which, your sudden and vague idea of supporting yourself and your son by selling paintings smacks a little of instability, wouldn’t you say? And who is to predict when single-parenthood will begin to bore you? How long before you pine for the glamour, the spurious attention, the parties? Not long, I think. However—’ he reached for his coat, barely glancing at Cathy’s pale, anguished face ‘—I might be persuaded not to go so far. If you agree to accompany me and Juan to Spain—unfortunately, at his tender age, you will have to be part of the package—to meet his grandmother for a protracted visit, then I will not take the matter any further. But I do warn you that if you refuse I will then put the other matters in hand.’

      He gave her a thin smile, one that boded no good at all.

      ‘Adiós, señorita. I will call tomorrow at the same time to hear what you have decided. And then the arrangements can be put in hand. Either way. And think very carefully. If you try to go against me, you will lose him. This I promise.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘PERHAPS the warmth of the Andalusian sun will unfreeze your vocal cords,’ Campuzano tendered with a derisory narrowing of smoky grey eyes.

      Stepping out of the small airport building ahead of him, Cathy had to admit that his remark was justified. Her thoughts had been too clamorous, too spiced with anxiety, to allow her to do more than offer monosyllabic mutters in return for his conversational overtures, until he had given up, relaxing into his club-class seat, apparently falling asleep with total ease.

      His ability to switch off completely was something she envied. She had spent the entire two and a half hours of the flight in an excess of agitation, misgivings and self-recrimination. Thankfully, the baby had slept in her arms since take-off at Gatwick, but he was now beginning to stir. She lifted him gently against her shoulder and Campuzano offered, ‘Let me take him. He is heavy.’

      ‘No.’

      Unconsciously Cathy’s arms tightened around the small body, every fibre of her being on the defensive, and Campuzano said softly, his dark voice a confident near-whisper, ‘As you like. But I wouldn’t put money on how soon you will gladly hand over the burden of his care. I never bet on certainties.’

      A remark which was almost totally justified by the lies she had allowed him to believe, she thought sickly, although it hardly excused his lack of basic politeness, and she closed her eyes briefly against the glare of the midday sun, the deep and improbable blue of the sky. Spring in England this year had been unusually cold and wet, and the intense warmth of the Spanish sun, even in early May, sent a reactionary shudder through her, not relaxing her one little bit. And Campuzano said, his voice aloof now, ‘You are tired. Tomás should be here with the car at any moment.’ And, as if his words had the instant power of command, a large black Mercedes drew up in front of them and, at the flick of imperious fingers, the airport official who had rushed to take charge of the luggage—mostly Johnny’s—pushed the trolley forward with a self-important bustle.

      How arrogant he was, she thought wearily. A flick of his fingers was enough to have everyone around rushing to please. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, and if the occasion ever arose when he didn’t get instant gratification his initial reaction would be, she guessed, total amazement. Followed by swift and terrifying anger.

      Well, she was about to amaze him, wasn’t she? He wanted Johnny—or Juan, as he insisted on calling him. He wanted, and intended to get, total control where his nephew was concerned. And that he would never have, she vowed staunchly.

      Ever since Cordy had made it plain that she had no time for the child, she, Cathy, had taken the good-as-motherless scrap straight to her heart. She had done everything for him, and gladly, even giving up her job as an illustrator with the advertising agency she’d worked at since leaving college so that she could be with the baby day and night. So no, this time Javier Campuzano was not going to have things all his own way.

      That she had had no option, in the circumstances, other than to fall in with his commands that she bring the child to Jerez was something she wasn’t going to think too deeply about. She preferred to look on the few weeks she had agreed to spend here as an opportunity to demonstrate just what a caring, responsible mother she was. Javier Campuzano would probably remain stubbornly blinkered in that respect, but surely she would find an ally in the baby’s grandmother? A mother herself, she would understand that Johnny’s place was with her, in England, that devoted maternal love weighed more heavily than all the material advantages of the Campuzano dynasty.

      The airport official and the swarthy, stockily built uniformed chauffeur, Tomás, had finished stowing the luggage in the boot of the car and now held the rear door open. Cathy, her heart down in her shoes, stepped unwillingly forward. Every day since the Jerezano had appeared on her doorstep had seen the steady, inexorable erosion of her desired position, and getting into this car now