The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

a pleasure,” he answered, returning the smile, relieved. Then he followed her out of the library into the large and drafty stucco hall.

      He was agreeably surprised when an hour later it seemed as though only moments had passed. He was more than a little enchanted by India’s company, intrigued by her knowledge and what appeared to be her complete unawareness of the effect she had on a man. They’d wandered through endless rooms, turning lamps on as they went, while she told him stories, some amusing, others sad, about the ancestors who stared down at them from the Raeburn and Gainsborough portraits on the walls. With each tale her expression changed and watching her had become a fascinating diversion in and of itself.

      They talked of hotels they knew, places they enjoyed and books they’d both read, and by the time they returned to the library, Jack was perplexed. He could not recall having established such an easy intimacy, in such a short time, with anyone.

      “Gosh, it’s seven already,” India exclaimed as the hall clock chimed in the distance. “Would you like a drink before you go?”

      “Sounds great,” Jack replied, old MacFee and the taxi forgotten.

      “Go ahead,” she said, pointing to a silver tray laden with decanters that stood on an eighteenth-century Boule desk in the far corner of the room.

      “Beautiful desk,” he remarked, pouring himself a whiskey. “What can I get you?”

      “It is lovely, isn’t it? It’s said to have been bought at auction during the French Revolution. I’ll have a glass of sherry, please.”

      Jack brought the drinks over to the fire and handed her a glass. “What are you working on now?” he asked.

      “I have to be in Rio for the opening of La Perla, a hotel I finished a couple of months ago. There are still some last-minute touches to go over before the grand opening.” She leaned forward and stroked Angus’s head between the ears.

      “That’s the Cardoso Group’s new place in Ipanema, isn’t it? Nelson Cardoso’s a friend of mine. That’s a big job,” he added, impressed.

      “Yes, it was. I’m glad it’s over, though I enjoyed it. Nelson’s easy to work for, but the going back and forth got a bit trying by the end.”

      “How long will you be in Rio?”

      “Actually, I’m going to Argentina first. I promised Gabby O’Halloran—she’s an old friend from boarding school—that I’d redecorate the casco on her family’s estancia. It’s about an hour and a half out of Buenos Aires. I’ll probably stay there for Christmas.”

      “You be careful in Rio. Last time I was there all the safes in the hotel were burgled. It’s incredible the things that happen in that city. They have to be seen to be believed. Funny you should mention Buenos Aires. Astra’s just bought into a partnership in a hotel down there.”

      India sat up and looked at him. “Astra?”

      “Yeah, my company.”

      “You own the Astra Group?”

      “Uh…yes. Is that good or bad?”

      “Neither, it was just a comment.” She seemed embarrassed at having shown surprise.

      “We’ve gone into partnership with the owners of the Palacio de Grès. Are you familiar with it? It was a private residence that had already been partially restored. They’d begun building the hotel behind it. Then the funding went dry and they realized they’d need experienced management as well, so they came to us. We liked the deal, and what do you know? Off on another venture.” He laughed, hoping to distract her.

      “As a matter of fact, I visited the house once as a little girl,” India remarked. “The owners, Señor and Señora Carvajal y Queiroz, were friends of my parents. They must be very old now if they’re even still alive. I remember being fascinated by its beauty. It’s a unique example of its kind in South America.”

      “Hernan Carvajal is the present owner. He told me he was left the property by his grandparents. I guess they must have been your parent’s friends.”

      “What a treat to have the opportunity of working with such a wonderful setting. Are you going to preserve the house as the common area?”

      “Exactly.”

      “But tell me, how has the new hotel been conceived?” She leaned forward, eyes alive with sudden interest.

      “As I said, we’re building vertically behind the house.” He put down his glass and leaned forward, pushing the tea tray aside. Then he began drawing with his forefinger on the velvet surface of the ottoman. “Let’s say this is the main house, okay?” She nodded. “When you go in, you have the black-and-white marble hall—”

      “Which will be your perfect reception area!” she exclaimed, finishing the sentence for him. “You know, the old salon overlooking the gardens would make a perfect setting for tea. Even a bar,” she added thoughtfully. “Something in the style of what they have at the Alvear but—”

      Her sentence remained in midair as the library door flew open, followed by a draft of cold air. Jack watched in astonishment as Lady Serena Hamilton marched into the room. What on earth would she of all people be doing here? he wondered, watching as she threw her suede jacket carelessly over a chair and walked toward the fire.

      “I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands. “The weather’s simply foul and that wretched man at the funeral home is utterly incompetent. Ah, tea. Just what I need.” Jack saw India stiffen. Then, glancing at Serena, who’d turned abruptly toward him, he rose reluctantly from the sofa.

      “Jack!” she exclaimed, smiling archly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

      “Hello, Serena,” he countered. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

      Her arrival couldn’t have been more unfortunate. As had been their one-night stand, he reflected grimly, wondering how she was going to play out the scene.

      India watched, intrigued, as Jack and her half sister sized each other up, like two opponents, waiting to see who would strike first. She noticed that under the urbane surface Jack’s eyes had turned hard and unyielding. Like chips of blue ice, she realized with a shock. The relaxed individual of moments before had become a formidable adversary.

      “You two know each other?” she asked, looking from one to the other, disconcerted by the underlying tension.

      “In a manner of speaking.” Jack glanced at her. “I made Lady Serena’s acquaintance at a cocktail party the Kinnairds gave a while back.”

      “Acquaintance?” Serena lifted a shapely eyebrow and threw him an arch smile before flopping onto the sofa next to where Jack had been seated. He remained standing and moved close to the fire. “You still haven’t told me what brought you here today.” She made a moue with her well-defined crimson lips.

      “He brought me home from the glen,” India interjected, wishing at once that she hadn’t.

      “The glen? What were you doing there?”

      “I went for a walk,” she answered curtly, annoyed that she had to explain. She watched Serena stretch out her long legs, encased in black leather pants and boots, toward the fire. Angus stirred and turned over before the hearth.

      “I took a potshot at her.” Jack smiled ruefully and glanced at India. “Since I nearly killed her, the least I could do was walk her home.” He leaned back against the mantelpiece and assessed Serena as he might a potentially dangerous situation. “Now you tell me. What are you doing here?”

      “I live here,” she answered smugly.

      This, India reflected, wasn’t strictly true. Serena lived—or was supposed to be living—at her flat in Edinburgh, though, according to their mother, she and her dreadful boyfriend, Maxi von Lowendorf, had been frequent visitors of late. It was strange, for Serena and her mother