Mediterranean Seduction. Кэрол Мортимер

was showing the effects of sand and seawater, too, and she draped David’s towel about her shoulders to protect her smarting shoulders as she reached the cliff path.

      The boys went up ahead of her, David the taller and therefore the quicker of the two. He was already a good-looking boy and she could imagine what a heartthrob he was going to be when he was older. So long as he didn’t do what his father had done, she mused sombrely. That was one problem she did not want to have to deal with again.

      The Pensión del Mar was situated near the top of the cliff path, a narrow-fronted building with a striped awning protecting its pristine white façade. Cassandra had been favourably impressed with its appearance and with the service offered which, considering what they were paying, was considerably cheaper than similar accommodation back home. The proprietor, Señor Movida, was a charming man, too, and he was doing everything he could to make their stay a happy one.

      To Cassandra’s relief, the small Fiat that the Kaufmans had hired was parked on the gravelled forecourt of the pensión, which meant that Horst’s parents were back. In fact, Herr Kaufman was standing in the doorway to the pensión, watching for his son, and Horst bounded ahead to greet his father.

      ‘Lucky dog,’ muttered David enviously, and Cassandra cast a startled look his way.

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘I said Horst is lucky having a father,’ declared David gruffly. Then, before his mother could make any response, ‘I wonder if there’s been any post for us.’

      ‘Post?’ Cassandra blinked. ‘Do you mean a letter? Who would be writing to us? We just spoke to your grandfather last night on the phone.’

      David shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, not altogether convincingly, and Cassandra knew a sudden chill. But then Herr Kaufman was coming towards them and she was forced to put her own doubts aside.

      ‘Thank you for looking after Horst, Mrs de Montoya,’ he said warmly, his eyes moving appreciatively over her slender figure so that she became intensely conscious of her damp skirt. ‘Has Horst been good?’

      ‘He’s been very good,’ Cassandra answered swiftly, wondering if she was only imagining the avidity of his gaze. ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’

      ‘It was most enlightening,’ replied the man, nodding. ‘We visited many of the palaces and museums. Not something my son would be particularly interested in, I think.’

      Cassandra forced a smile. ‘I think not,’ she agreed. ‘I can’t imagine David being interested in old buildings either.’

      ‘I might be,’ protested her son, but Herr Kaufman wasn’t listening to the boy.

      ‘Did you know that your name, de Montoya, is quite a famous one in Andalusia?’ he asked conversationally. ‘We have been reading some literature about this area, and it seems the de Montoya family is well-known both for the quality of the fortified wines they produce and for the magnificent bulls they breed on their estate just north of here. I do not suppose you are related to them, Mrs de Montoya?’

      ‘No,’ said Cassandra quickly, aware that David was now listening to Herr Kaufman with unusual interest. She gestured towards the pensión. ‘Is that likely?’ she asked, trying to make a joke of it, and then felt the fizzy soda she had consumed in the middle of the afternoon rise into her throat.

      A man had just emerged from the building behind Horst’s father and she felt the colour drain out of her face. Almost convulsively, she clamped a desperate hand on David’s shoulder. The boy objected, but for once she was unaware of him. Her eyes were riveted on the newcomer. It couldn’t be, she thought sickly. But it was. Enrique de Montoya had paused in the doorway of the pensión and was presently surveying the scene that greeted his cold dark eyes with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt.

      Dear God, how could this be? she fretted weakly. She’d told no one but her father that she was coming here, to this particular address. People knew she was holidaying in Spain, of course. Her boss at the bookshop where she worked knew, for example. She’d had to tell him what she was doing when she’d arranged for the time off. But he wouldn’t have told anyone. No one here, anyway. Certainly not the de Montoyas.

      Her mouth dried. He looked just the same, she thought painfully: just as proud, just as arrogant, just as condescending as before. And just as attractive, though her attraction to him had been as crazy as that of the rabbit to the snake. He’d used that attraction, too, ruthlessly, and then expected her to do exactly as he’d wanted.

      ‘Is something wrong?’

      Herr Kaufman had noticed her pale face and Cassandra hoped with a desperate longing that it was only a terrible coincidence that Enrique was here. He’d seen them, but perhaps he hadn’t recognised them. Well, her actually. He’d never seen David, didn’t even know of his existence.

      She had to get away. The urge to run was irresistible, and, without considering what David might think of her sudden change of plan, she tightened her hold on his shoulder.

      ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she told Herr Kaufman swiftly. ‘It must be the sun. David, come with me. I need some aspirin. We’ll just pop along to the farmacia—’

      ‘Oh, Mum!’ David was predictably awkward. ‘Do we have to? We’ve just got back from the beach. I want a shower.’

      ‘David!’

      ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance,’ broke in Herr Kaufman, possibly seeing a chance to compensate her for looking after his son. ‘I’d be happy to go to the farmacia for you.’

      ‘Oh, no. I—’

      But it was too late. Before she could formulate a convincing excuse, one which would allow her to escape before Enrique recognised them, a tall shadow fell across their little group. And a voice, one which she would have sworn she’d forgotten, cut into their exchange.

      ‘Cassandra?’ Even the way he said her name was horribly familiar. ‘It is Cassandra, is it not? I am not mistaken?’

      As if Enrique de Montoya would ever admit to being mistaken about anything, thought Cassandra wildly, forced to tip her head back to look up at him. He knew exactly who she was, and before she could do anything to protect her son Enrique’s dark eyes had moved almost dismissively to the boy at her side.

      ‘And this must be—David,’ he continued, only to suck in a strangled breath when he saw the boy.

      David! Cassandra blinked. How had he known her son’s name? But before she found an answer to this, she saw the devastation his identity had wrought in Enrique’s stunned expression. Yes, look at him, she wanted to scream accusingly. See what you did; see what you’ve lost!

      But of course she didn’t do anything of the kind. The de Montoyas were too polite for that. Besides, Herr Kaufman was still there, looking at Enrique with considering eyes, glancing from him to Cassandra and back again with obvious enquiry. He was probably wondering what someone who looked like Enrique de Montoya—who dressed like Enrique de Montoya—could have in common with a rather dishevelled English housewife. Enrique’s three-piece suit and grey silk shirt were obviously designer-made, whereas Cassandra’s clothes had never been particularly stylish, even when they were new.

      ‘You are a friend of Mrs de Montoya?’ It was the German who spoke, although David was close on his heels.

      ‘Do you know my grandfather?’ he demanded, and even as Cassandra was absorbing the shock of learning that her son knew something about this Enrique found his tongue.

      ‘I—yes,’ he said through clenched teeth, the look he cast at Cassandra full of emotions she couldn’t hope to identify. ‘I— I am your—’ His harsh voice was strained. ‘Your uncle,’ he got out tightly. ‘Enrique.’ He took a laboured breath. ‘I am—happy to meet you at last.’

      ‘You are Enrique de Montoya? The Enrique de Montoya?’

      Herr Kaufman was persistent, and although Cassandra