Witch's Harvest. Sara Craven

      She sat up sharply, pulling away from his gently exploring hands, dragging the loosened folds of her robe more securely round her.

      ‘There’s someone at the door!’

      Vasco restrained her, his hand stroking the nape of her neck. ‘They will go away,’ he whispered.

      ‘You didn’t,’ she said sharply, as she released herself with renewed determination.

      ‘No, but I had reason.’ He lifted one shoulder in a shrug of resignation. ‘Get rid of them quickly, querida, and come back to me.’

      That was the last thing she would do, Abby thought as she went to the door, almost tripping on her robe in her haste. The unknown caller was her salvation, a blunt reminder of the reality which lurked just outside her sensual dream world with Vasco.

      Marrying him, living with him on terms of intimacy, was impossible. And letting him make love to her was equally so, if she wanted to go on keeping the secret of her love for him. When all control was gone, self-betrayal was all too probable.

      If it was Keith on the doorstep, she thought as she struggled with the recalcitrant lock—or was it just that her hands were shaking?—she would have to use him somehow to get Vasco out of the flat, and out of her life.

      She was rehearsing a greeting as she opened the door, but it was never to be uttered. Her jaw dropped. ‘Della?’

      ‘Yes, Della,’ her cousin said impatiently. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

      Abby said numbly, ‘But you’re in Paris.’

      ‘I was.’ Della’s lip curled. ‘I’ve come back for an explanation. What did you do with my letter?’

      ‘I delivered it.’ Abby hung on to the door handle. ‘Dell, I can’t discuss it now. I’ll come tomorrow and …’

      ‘You’ll talk now,’ snapped Della, her lovely face mottled by an unbecoming flush. ‘And you won’t tell me any more lies. You never delivered that letter. I stayed by that bloody phone until midnight, waiting for him to call, so he can’t have received it. So what did you do with it, you scheming little bitch?’

      ‘Dell, go home, please!’ Della was trying to push past her, but Abby blocked her way determinedly. ‘Tomorrow everything will be all right again. I—I’ll fix it somehow and …’

      ‘You’ll fix it?’ echoed Della, rage mingling with astonishment. She took Abby by the shoulders, removing her from her path. ‘What the hell makes you think …’ Her voice froze into silence as she walked into the flat. When she turned back to look at her cousin, the expression of her face made Abby recoil.

      ‘You mealy-mouthed cow,’ Della said at last, her voice uneven. ‘So this is what’s been going on. You decided to make a grab for yourself. No wonder there was no answer when I called his apartment!’

      ‘Della.’ Abby’s mouth was dry. ‘This isn’t as it seems …’

      But Vasco’s drawl cut across her stumbling. ‘Why bother, carinha? After all, it is exactly as it seems.’ He had discarded his jacket and tie, she noticed dazedly, and undone the buttons of his shirt. He was on his feet, standing hands on hips, regarding Della, his expression enigmatic.

      ‘Vasco darling!’ Della’s voice throbbed dramatically. ‘How could you do this to me—to us? You knew I was waiting for you in Paris …’

      He shrugged. ‘That is not the impression your letter gave,’ he said coldly. ‘In any case, I found your terms unacceptable. You wished to marry a Rio businessman, not an Amazonian cocoa planter. I wish you better fortune in your next foray into matrimony.’

      A little muscle jerked in Della’s face. ‘But the wedding’s in two weeks!’

      ‘It was,’ he corrected with a chill that seemed to penetrate Abby’s bones. ‘I regret the inconvenience the cancellation will cause—unless Senhor Portman can be prevailed on to take my place.’

      ‘Darling,’ pleaded Della with a sob, ‘Jeremy means nothing to me. I was just saying that—to make you see how strongly I felt …’

      ‘Then you succeeded admirably,’ Vasco said tersely. His face looked as if it had been chiselled from granite. ‘You have convinced me that there are differences between us which could never be reconciled in marriage.’

      ‘But you’re being unreasonable,’ Della said rapidly. She was off balance now, really frightened, Abby realised with compassion. ‘I want you—you know that. Perhaps I went too far, but I’m prepared to forgive your little—romp with Goody-Two-Shoes here. Surely you can meet me half-way?’ She gave Abby a look of molten vindictiveness.

      Vasco looked at her too, and his voice gentled. ‘Get dressed, querida. I’ve booked a table at a restaurant for our celebration.’

      ‘What celebration?’ Della almost spat. ‘What the hell’s going on here? Darling,’ she swung back to Vasco, spreading her hands appealingly, ‘I’ve told you—I’ll overlook this. I’ve no doubt the little bitch threw herself at you, and …’

      ‘You will not speak of my future wife in those terms.’ Vasco’s quiet, even words hit the room like a thunderbolt. ‘Now, it would be better if you left.’

      ‘Wife?’ Della’s voice was so choked with rage, and other emotions, it was hardly recognisable. ‘My God, you mean you’re actually going to marry this ugly, flat-chested little tart, this bloody little snake in the grass …’

      Vasco walked forward and took her by the arm. ‘Allow me to escort you to the street,’ he said coldly. ‘Where your language belongs.’ He glanced back at Abigail. ‘Get dressed,’ he told her again. ‘There isn’t a great deal of time.’