In Name Only. Diana Hamilton

he were purring as he placed the curved, slender glass beside a silver bowl of plump olives on the low table at her side.

      ‘Try the fino. If it is too dry for your palate we can substitute an oloroso. The British used to be our biggest market for the sweeter, heavier sherries—the drink for elderly maiden ladies, we consider it here— but now their tastes appear to have changed; we now export far more fino to your country—’

      ‘Don’t knock it!’ Cathy advised in a cold little voice. ‘Maybe all those elderly ladies have acquired more sophisticated tastes. Or drink gin.’

      Did he have to act so superior all the time? Or couldn’t he help it because it was an integral part of his nature? The latter, she suspected, and was thrown off balance when he smiled—really smiled this time—as he assured her,

      ‘I don’t knock it, believe me. When Drake singed the beard of the King of Spain he also carried home around three thousand casks of sherry and so founded our highly profitable trade links with England. So no, I wouldn’t dream of knocking one of our best markets!’ He seated himself almost directly opposite her with an indolent grace that only served to remind her of his powerful masculine virility, his grey eyes appearing almost seductively drowsy as he questioned, ‘Is the drink to your taste?’

      Pulling herself away from the mesmeric spell of his hooded gaze, Cathy took a hasty sip and then another. The pale wine was crisp and delicious, slightly aromatic, the chilled liquid sliding down her throat, tasting like sunlight gently touched by frost.

      ‘Very much so.’ Her eyes smiled into his, her heart warmed by this rare moment of something she could almost believe to be closeness. ‘I confess, I could become addicted.’ Idly she traced a line in the condensation on the curved surface of the glass and heard herself asking with an interest she had never expected to feel, ‘If the market for the sweet sherries is declining, why don’t you produce more dry?’

      ‘It is not so simple. It all depends on the development of the flor... However—’ he spread his strong, finely made hands at her look of incomprehension and rose to refill her glass ‘—when we visit Jerez I will take you to the bodega where I shall attempt to explain. If you are interested.’

      She was, almost in spite of herself, in spite of those feelings of mutual mistrust which flowed so strongly between them, the deceit on her part and the dictatorial arrogance on his. But he had given her an opening she couldn’t pass and, taking another fortifying sip, she leant back in her chair, making an effort to relax, crossed her legs above the knee, and asked, ‘When, exactly, shall I get to visit Jerez and your mother?’

      ‘Why the hurry?’ There was a touch of contempt in the steady grey gaze, a flick of something that made her shudder as his eyes deliberately assessed the long, exposed elegance of her crossed legs. ‘Is the finca too quiet, too rustic for your tastes? Lo siento—I’m sorry you have become so quickly bored.’

      Horrible, horrible man! Cathy’s face turned an uncomfortable red as she hastily set her feet side by side and tugged down her skirt. He’d been looking at her unthinkingly exposed legs as if they were goods on offer—shoddy, second-hand goods—and instantly rejected them. Cordy—or her reputation—had a lot to answer for!

      ‘My main reason for agreeing to come to Spain was to allow your mother to see her grandson,’ she told him with a cool dignity she was proud of. ‘If you won’t take us to her, then I must find some means of going on my own. I’m sure Tomás—’

      ‘My mother will receive you when she is ready,’ he injected suavely. ‘It is not so long since Francisco’s death; she needs time to adjust to the idea that he left a child. And Tomás will take you nowhere; I forbid it.’

      Forbid? Yes, he was perfectly capable of doing so. As far as he was concerned, his word was law and Tomás and every other subject in his kingdom would obey it right down to the very last letter. Something sharp and hot rose in her throat to choke her and her voice was hoarse with anger as she flung at him, “Then what the hell am I doing here? Couldn’t you have waited until she was ready to see him? Why waste my time?’

      Anger turned back on her in waves of frustration as it met the unbreachable wall of his apparent disregard. There was not a flicker of emotion on those dark, impressive features, merely the schooled control of a man who had witnessed the demeaning antics of a fishwife but was too polite to comment. And she sagged back in her seat, suddenly drained, as he rose with inherent grace and pressed a discreetly concealed button near the wide cedarwood door.

      ‘Come, it is time to eat.’

      Just like that. Just as if her angry questions had never been asked, Cathy fumed, rising in a jerky movement, following him, wanting to get the meal over and done with and get back to her room, shut herself in with the sleeping baby, and try to work out what to do.

      Facing him across the oval table, Cathy spread her linen napkin over her lap with a fierce twist of her wrist and waited for Paquita to serve her with, as she proudly announced, ‘Sopa de mariscos al vino de Jerez,’ which, for her benefit, Campuzano translated more prosaically as sherry and shellfish soup.

      Whatever, it was delicious and welcome. Cathy ate quickly and appreciatively, fully aware that she wouldn’t have agreed to share his table at all if she hadn’t been ravenously hungry.

      The warm crusty bread served with the tangy, ocean-flavoured soup was irresistible, and Cathy, her mouth full, saw the lean brown hand slide a glass over the linen cloth, found her eyes held by the dusting of dark hair between the white of his cuff and the soft leather strap of his wafer-thin watch, and felt her throat close up for no reason at all.

      ‘Manzanilla makes the perfect accompaniment. Part of the pleasure of savouring a meal,’ he said softly, coolly, and she replaced the spoon in her bowl and swallowed her mouthful with immense difficulty. He was letting her know that her table manners were no better than a greedy child’s. He never lost an opportunity to put her down. Her appetite disappeared very suddenly.

      ‘This comes from the Campuzano vineyards in the area of Sanlúcar de Barrameda. It is believed that the breeze from the Atlantic gives it its unique and slightly salty flavour.’ He took a reflective sip from his own glass, his lightly veiled eyes challenging her fulminating violet stare and, more as a reflex action than anything else, she took an apprehensive sip. Salty sherry?

      But it was crisp and cold and intriguingly tangy, paler in colour than the chilled fino he had given her as an aperitif, and if he noted the surprise, followed by the pleasure in her eyes, he made no comment other than, ‘Finish your soup. Paquita will be devastated if you don’t clear your plate.’

      ‘I am not a child,’ Cathy returned stiffly.

      She felt his eyes slide over the lush curves of her breasts, heard him agree, ‘Obviously not,’ and decided to maintain a dignified silence, and managed to do exactly that, right through the Sevillana salad, the chicken with garlic and one glass too many of a light Rioja wine.

      ‘You will take a little caramel flan?’ Paquita had withdrawn, and the silver cake knife was poised in long, lean fingers. Cathy shook her head. She couldn’t eat another crumb, and the wine, on top of all that sherry, had gone straight to her head. She wasn’t used to alcohol in such profligate quantity.

      The silver serving knife was gently placed back on the linen-covered table and Campuzano leaned elegantly back in his chair, his attractively accented voice much too smooth as he remarked, ‘I hear you have made Rosa redundant.’ A smile curled at one corner of his wide, sensual mouth, but his eyes were cold. ‘If it was done in an attempt to persuade me of your sterling qualities as a mother, it was misguided.’ Again the unmistakable challenge in those deep grey eyes, and Cathy bit back the heated words of rebuttal. She couldn’t trust herself to speak without getting her tongue in a tangle and could have boiled herself in oil for drinking all that sherry—not to mention the wine.

      Hoping he would put her silence down to a refusal to dignify his snide remark with any comment at all, she rose from her seat, wobbled alarmingly as her head began to spin, and sat straight down again, only to hear his dry,