The Playboy of Puerto Banús. Carol Marinelli

      ‘God forbid.’ He let out a small sigh. ‘I will try to explain.’

      He was very patient.

      He took the salt and pepper she had so nervously passed to him and, heads together, they sat at the table while he made her a small family tree.

      ‘What is your surname?’

      ‘Connolly.’

      ‘Okay, we have a baby and call her Jane…’

      How he made her burn. Not at the baby part, but at the thought of the part to get to that.

      ‘Her name would be Jane Sanchez Connolly.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘And when Jane marries…’ he lifted a hand and grabbed a fork as he plucked a name from the ether ‘…Harry Potter, her daughter…’ he added a spoon ‘…who shall also be called Jane, would be Jane Sanchez Potter. Connolly would be gone!’ He looked at her as she worked it out. ‘It is simple. At least the name part is simple. It is the fifty years of marriage that might prove hard.’ He glanced over to today’s happy couple. ‘I can’t imagine being tied down to another, and I certainly don’t believe in love.’

      He always made that clear up-front.

      ‘How can you sit at a wedding and say that?’ Estelle challenged. ‘Did you not see the smile on Donald’s face when he saw his bride?’

      ‘Of course I did,’ Raúl said. ‘I recognised it well—it was the same smile he gave at the last wedding of his I attended.’

      She laughed. There was no choice but to. ‘Are you serious?’

      ‘Completely,’ Raúl said.

      Yet he was smiling, and when he did that she felt as if she should scrabble in her bag for sunglasses, because the force of his smile blinded her to all faults—and she was quite positive a man like Raúl had many.

      ‘You’re wrong, Raúl.’ She refused to play his cynical game. ‘My brother got married last year and he and his wife are deeply in love.’

      ‘A year.’ He gave a light shrug. ‘It is still the honeymoon phase.’

      ‘They’ve been through more in this year than most have been through in a lifetime.’ And she’d never meant to but she found herself opening up to him. ‘Andrew, my brother, was in an accident on their honeymoon—a jet ski…’

      ‘Serious?’

      Estelle nodded. ‘He’s now in a wheelchair.’

      ‘That must take a lot of getting used to.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Is that the family emergency you had to fly home from your own holiday for?’

      Estelle nodded. She didn’t tell him it had been a trip around churches. No doubt he assumed she’d been hauled out of a club to hear the news. ‘I raced home, and, really, since then things have been tough on them. Amanda was already pregnant when they got married…’

      She didn’t know why she was telling him. Perhaps it was safer to talk than to dance. Maybe it was easier to talk about her brother and the truth than make up stories about Dario’s and seedy clubs in Soho. Or perhaps it was the black liquid eyes that invited conversation, the way he moved his chair a little closer so that he could hear.

      ‘Their daughter was born four months ago. The prospect of being a dad was the main thing that kept Andrew motivated during his rehabilitation. Just when we thought things were turning around…’

      Raúl watched her green eyes fill with tears, saw her rapid blink as she tried to stem them.

      ‘She has a heart condition. They’re waiting till she’s a little bit bigger so they can operate.’

      He watched pale hands go to her bag and Estelle took out a photo. He looked at her brother, Andrew, and his wife, and a small frail baby with a slight blue tinge to her skin, and he realised that they hadn’t been crocodile tears he had witnessed during the wedding ceremony. He looked back to Estelle.

      ‘What’s her name?’

      ‘Cecelia.’

      Raúl looked at her as she gazed at the photo and he knew then the reason she was here with Gordon. ‘Your brother?’ Raúl asked, just to confirm things in his mind. ‘Does he work?’

      ‘No.’ Estelle shook her head. ‘He was self-employed. He…’ She put away the photo, dragged in a breath, could not stand to think of all the problems her brother faced.

      Exactly at that moment Raúl lightened things.

      ‘My legs are cold.’

      Estelle laughed, and as she did she blinked as a photographer’s camera flashed in her face.

      ‘Nice natural shot,’ the photographer said.

      ‘We’re not…’ Oh, what did it matter?

      ‘I need to move.’ He stood. ‘And Gordon asked that I take care of you.’ Raúl held out his hand to her. This dance was more important than she could ever know. This dance must ensure that tonight she was thinking only of him—that by the time he approached her with his suggestion it would not seem so unthinkable. But first he had to set the tone. First he had to make her aware that he knew the sort of business she was in. ‘Would you like to dance?’

      Estelle didn’t really have a choice. Walking towards the dance floor, she had the futile hope that the band would break into something more frivolous than sensuous, but all hope was gone as his arms wrapped loosely around her.

      ‘You are nervous?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I would have thought you would enjoy dancing, given that you two met at Dario’s.’

      ‘I do love to dance.’ Estelle forced a bright smile, remembered who she was supposed to be. ‘It’s just a bit early for me.’

      ‘And me,’ Raul said as he took her in his arms. ‘About now I would only just be getting ready to go out.’

      She couldn’t read this man. Not in the least. He held her, he was skilled and graceful, but the eyes that looked down at her were not smiling.

      ‘Relax.’

      She tried to—except he’d said it into her ear, causing the sensitive skin there to tingle.

      ‘Can I ask something?’

      ‘Of course,’ Estelle said, though she would rather he didn’t. She just wanted this duty dance to end.

      ‘What are you doing with Gordon?’

      ‘Excuse me?’ She could not believe he would ask that—could not think of anyone else who would be so direct. It was as if all pretence had gone—all tiny implications, all conversation left behind—and the truth was being revealed in his arms.

      ‘There is a huge age difference…’

      ‘That’s none of your business.’ She felt as if she was being attacked in broad daylight and everyone else was just carrying on, oblivious.

      ‘You are twenty, yes?’

      ‘Twenty-five.’

      ‘He was ten years older than I am now when you were born.’

      ‘They’re just numbers.’

      ‘We both work in numbers.’

      Estelle went to walk off mid-dance, but his grip merely tightened. ‘Of course…’ He held her so she could feel the lean outline of his body, inhale the terribly masculine scent of him. ‘You want him only for his money.’

      ‘You’re incredibly rude.’

      ‘I’m incredibly honest,’ Raúl corrected. ‘I am not criticizing—there