Temptation Island. Victoria Fox

moving here,’ she said at last, the only honest comment she could think to make.

      Bibi and Linus were dating? How had that happened?

      ‘Tell me about it!’ crowed Bibi. ‘We’re gonna have the best time. I’ve really missed us living together.’

      Will opened the door to the en suite and padded naked across the bedroom.

      ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Listen, B, I’ve got to run. Call you later?’

      ‘Sure.’

      Stevie put down the phone. Despite the blast of warm steam that had accompanied Will’s emergence, she shivered.

       18 Lori

      Lori changed while she was in Spain. As the weeks passed, the quiet seeped into her, the stillness and solitude bringing a peace long forgotten to her heart. For hours she would walk in olive groves, read books in her mother tongue, wander the narrow streets of the nearest village or play with the dog. She realised how beneficial loneliness could be.

      Though she tried to resist, Rico Marquez was in her thoughts. One minute she worried for him and wondered if he was OK; the next she was consumed with anger at the risk he had brought, quite literally, to her door. Had Rico known about Diego’s visit? Had he requested it? At night, in her dreams, she was terrorised by images of the gang, the hunger in their eyes and the rasp of their threats, of what might have happened if her stranger hadn’t arrived …

      Gratitude towards the man whose name she did not know flourished by the day. Time, rather than diminishing her obsession, only heightened it. The thought she would never see him again was unbearable. Once back in LA, she would seek him out. She had no idea how, where she would even begin, but if she did not try she would never forgive herself.

      Corazón was old, but she was sharp as a pin. Often they would sit on the veranda, sipping lemonade and playing cards, speaking about the past, or when Tony was a boy, or not speaking at all, just listening to the crickets or the low chatter of her radio. They would prepare meals together. Lori learned recipes she recalled her mother making in happier times: she, too, had been taught them here. In so many ways she felt that she was treading the same stones. It was clear Corazón had cared for her mother like her own daughter.

      ‘You know that Tony loves you very much, don’t you?’ she asked one night. They were preparing a feast: salted bread and chillis and peppers dark as cherries. Lori was chopping red onion and its sting caught her in the eye, but if Corazón thought it was tears she didn’t say so.

      ‘It has been difficult for him,’ her grandmother went on.

      ‘I know.’

      ‘He remarried quickly because he believed it was best. He wanted you to feel secure.’

      Lori couldn’t help herself. ‘He thought he’d better replace Mama, you mean?’

      Corazón stopped what she was doing. ‘Oh, Loriana, that is not true. Tony struggled. He did not know how to be both a mother and a father to you.’

      ‘So he stopped being either?’ Lori wished she could let go of her bitterness. It was ugly, it ate her up, but she couldn’t help it.

      ‘When Maria got sick, it tore his heart out, right from his chest. I saw it, querida, spooling to the floor like a ribbon and gathering at his feet, and I knew I could never fold it back in. You cannot judge a man’s behaviour because of his grief.’

      A long silence followed. Lori returned to the board but there was nothing else to do, she’d cut everything, so she drove the point of her knife into the wood and twisted.

      ‘He had to keep you safe,’ Corazón said.

      ‘Safe from what? My own decisions?’

      Corazón put her head to one side. ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘But I don’t want to be safe!’ Lori found her hands were shaking. She thought about how reckless she had felt that afternoon at Tres Hermanas. How until that moment she had lived her safe, miserable life and no one had been there to show her there was more; a different way of feeling. Until him. ‘That’s the point! I want to be more than just the poor kid whose mama died.’

      Corazón shook her head with infinite sadness. ‘No, querida. That is not how it is.’

      ‘I hate Angélica.’ She threw the vegetables into a waiting pan. Blue heat licked up the sides. ‘And I hate her daughters. If it weren’t for them—’

      ‘The blame cannot rest with Angélica. Tony changed after your mother died, and he did that all by himself … Maria was the love of his life.’

      Lori nodded, biting her lip to stop the tears.

      ‘I cannot know what has been in his mind,’ continued Corazón, ‘the places he has gone to. But I can understand his decision to be with Angélica. She is strong, she takes control—’

      ‘She is unkind, she is hurtful … she has spent all our money—’

      ‘She is your father’s wife.’ Corazón watched her. ‘Whether you like it or not.’

      Eventually her grandmother put a brittle arm round her shoulders. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I promise good things would happen to you here? You don’t get to my age without learning to trust your instincts.’ She kissed Lori’s head. ‘Wait and see, Loriana. Wait and see.’

      Lori took the bus into Murcia twice a week. She hadn’t seen it after dark before, so, the following evening, Corazón encouraged her to venture into the city.

      ‘Are you sure?’ Lori had asked. She was nearing the end of her stay. ‘What about you?’

      Her grandmother had smiled. ‘Go, have fun,’ she said, settling into her favourite chair with the radio by her side. Her eyes closed. ‘Watch the river for me.’

      There was a fiesta happening in Murcia, a vibrant band of colour pouring through the streets. Locals in costume sang and blew fire into the night, the air was alive and the atmosphere infectious. Lori had worn her hair loose, an abundance of thick curls tumbling past her shoulders, and a simple yellow dress. The tan she had acquired in Spain was rich and deep, a burned amber—the sun was different here, more intense. Two small hoops glinted at her ears. She crossed the Puente de los Peligros, stopping to look out at the black and gold rush of the Segura. Beyond the rooftops and the spire of the gothic cathedral, mountain ranges soared into the sky. Lori imagined he was standing next to her. He would feel for her hand and hold it, his touch on her pulse, the engine of her blood.

      She settled in a café in the Glorieta, the city square, and did not notice the woman staring at her from the bar, checking a small leatherbound book and then making her way over. Lori ordered a glass of red wine that was so sticky and viscous it clung to the sides like syrup.

      ‘Excuse me?’ a voice asked in Spanish.

      Lori glanced up to see a striking woman, older than her, with a long sheet of glimmering dark hair. She had an unusual face with fine, high cheekbones and a large beauty spot in the middle of her cheek. ‘Could I use your ashtray?’

      Lori didn’t smoke. She offered it to the woman. ‘Sure.’

      Uninvited, the woman pulled out a chair. ‘I’m Desideria Gomez,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I caught sight of you earlier, from the bar. I hope you don’t mind me joining you.’

      Tentatively, Lori shook it.

      ‘Que linda.’ She lit her cigarette with a flourish. ‘You are very beautiful.’ With a questioning expression, she slid the pack across the table.

      Lori smiled uncertainly. ‘No, thanks.’

      ‘Do you live here?’

      ‘I live in America. Los Angeles.’

      The