The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

knew she was here. She picked up the receiver.

      “Aló, India hablando.”

      “India?”

      Her stomach lurched. Immediately she recognized the deep American voice coming down the line.

      “It’s Jack Buchanan, how are you doing?”

      “Uh…fine.” She faltered nervously. It was uncanny. Only moments ago she’d been daydreaming about him.

      “I got your number from Hernan Carvajal, my partner. He seems to be related to your friend Gabriella. So, how are things?” There was a moment’s hesitation, neither knowing where to go next.

      “Fine, thanks. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” India replied, her heart racing. “How is your project going—the Palacio de Grès, wasn’t it?”

      “It’s going fine. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m calling you. Hernan and I are ready to plan the interior renovations, and the decor of the new building, and I was wondering if perhaps you might be interested in taking a look.” He sounded casual yet professional.

      India swallowed, disappointed. It was merely a job proposal, and one she might even consider. She hadn’t taken any projects on since her mother’s death, wanting to give herself some time, but the Palacio de Grès was tempting.

      “I wasn’t planning to take on anything new for a while, but it certainly sounds interesting.”

      “Why don’t you come into town and take a look? I think it’s right up your alley. I mentioned to Hernan that you’d been to the place as a little girl. He says it hasn’t changed much.”

      The idea was growing on India by the minute, but what about Jack? Was he staying or leaving?

      The answer came soon enough. “I’ll need you to come this week if you’re interested. I have to be back in Miami in a few days. I wondered, if you’re not too busy, if you might be able to come in, say, Friday? Would that suit you?” He sounded businesslike, as though he was flipping through his agenda.

      India decided it couldn’t do any harm to look at the place. After all, it was a fabulous opportunity, and she had time on her hands before heading to Rio for the opening of the La Perla hotel.

      “Is there somewhere I can call you back?”

      “Sure. I’m staying at the Alvear Palace. If you want I’ll give you the office number, too.”

      She grabbed a pen from the desk next to the phone. Her hand shook as she wrote down the numbers, and she chided herself for being absurd. “I’ll call you back tomorrow once I know what my plans are.”

      “Okay. I guess that’s it then. I’ll expect your call.” There was a moment of pregnant silence, as though he wanted to say more.

      “Fine. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, and thanks for calling.” She laid down the receiver, then leaned against the cold, whitewashed wall. What was it about the man that made her tingle from top to toe? The mere sound of his voice had a disturbing effect on her. She wandered back to the veranda, watching in the distance as the shorthorn cattle made their way slowly home, across the red and dusty darkening horizon.

      Her mind drifted back to Christian, her ex-husband. Had she felt anything like this for him? she asked herself. The answer came loud and clear. No. Everything between them had been so measured and well behaved. When they’d made love, he’d directed, and she’d followed obediently, accepting that he knew how it was supposed to be. At the time she’d believed it was love. That’s why it had hurt so much when he’d left. And what had she gotten for her pain, for trusting him?

      She sat down on the edge of the balustrade, remembering Chloë’s assertion that India would have been miserable if she’d continued being married to Christian, that she was damn lucky he’d backed out. And, India realized ruefully, Chloë was undoubtedly right.

      But she’d vowed to herself that never again would another man make her feel so vulnerable, or hurt and humiliate her again. The sudden awareness that Jack might have that power sent a streak of fear through her.

      Perhaps it would be better to refuse the offer and not court trouble. On the other hand, his tone had been professional and he had said he was leaving for Miami in a few days. Anyway, before she could even consider the job, she needed to take a good look at the state of the building.

      A flutter of ivory silk accompanied by a whiff of Shalimar interrupted her thoughts as Gabby’s grandmother, Dolores, wafted gracefully through the French doors out on to the terrace.

      “Ah, there you are, dear girl.” Dolores O’Halloran smiled brightly. “I was wondering where you and Gabby were.”

      “She’s out riding with Santiago. They went to take a look at the newborn foals.”

      “Ah, yes, and you?” Dolores asked, approaching India and lifting up India’s chin, her expression concerned. “What are these misty eyes I see? I hope you are not still mourning your dear mama too deeply, my love. I am certain Lady Elspeth is at rest,” she added quietly.

      “I know she is. It’s not that.”

      “Tell me.” Dolores glided to a large rattan armchair where she arrayed herself among the white cushions, a picture of serene elegance and breeding.

      India smiled, embarrassed, not quite knowing what to say. “It’s a chap I met in Scotland. A long story really. Well, actually it isn’t. What I mean is, I met him when Mummy died, and he almost shot me by mistake, then he came home for tea and—” She stopped, flushing, realizing she was making a complete hash of it. She looked up and met Dolores’s amused but understanding eyes.

      “Do go on, my dear, he sounds delightful.”

      “Well, to cut a long story short, he’s bought into a hotel in Buenos Aires—you know the old Palacio de Grès that belongs to one of your relations.”

      “Of course I know it. Hernan inherited it. He’s my great-nephew, a charming boy. I think I’ve already mentioned that you should meet him,” she added with a conspiratorial smile. “He’s single, handsome and very good company.”

      India laughed, “Don’t matchmake, Dolores.”

      “Well, darling—” Dolores made a moue with her well-defined lips “—there’s no harm in bringing two nice young people together is there? But tell me more about…?”

      “Jack Buchanan.”

      “British?” she asked casually.

      “No, American.”

      “Ah,” Dolores said, “American. Is he a handsome American? I’ve always had a faible for American men ever since I saw Gary Cooper in High Noon—there’s something so very masculine about them.” She lifted a perfect eyebrow and leaned forward. “You know what I mean, don’t you? That air of A man has to do what a man has to do, as though they’d conquer the world sans problème.” She waived an elegant bejeweled hand.

      “Well, there’s also something very annoying about this one.” India plucked a gardenia viciously from its stalk and twiddled it between her fingers. “He almost shot me in the glen, then made out it was my fault. He even made me faint,” she finished crossly, blocking out the image of Jack reaching for her hands at the cemetery gates.

      “Do go on, darling, he sounds fascinating.”

      Dolores curled up among the cushions, her eyes sparkling and expectant. India realized there would be no escape until Dolores had been fully regaled with all the details, so she summarized them briefly. “He’s seen the work I did on the Jeremy, in London, and now he wants me to take a look at the Palacio de Grès.”

      “It sounds an excellent idea to me, dear,” Dolores replied thoughtfully. “After all, you’re here, and it would do you good to get involved in something nice. I’m sure you’d enjoy working with Hernan, too. You did say this Jack is leaving