The Marriage Takeover. Lee Wilkinson

like to have a shower and get settled in before dinner?’ He lifted a hand.

      A Mexican houseboy in white baggy trousers and a tunic appeared as if by magic.

      ‘Manuel will show you both to your rooms.’

      ‘Thank you.’ With a feeling of reprieve, Cassandra turned and followed the short, slim youth up the steps and across the wide terrace, conscious that Lang Dalton stood quite still where he was and watched them.

      When they were well out of earshot, Alan remarked, ‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose… And presumably there’ll be other people present from now on. It won’t be just the two of us in the hot seat…’

      But it hadn’t been the two of them. After that first handshake, Lang Dalton had virtually ignored Alan’s presence and singled her out in a way that had totally unnerved her.

      ‘And, in spite of getting off to an unfortunate start, he seemed to like you.’

      No, Lang Dalton hadn’t liked her; Cassandra was certain of that. Something had made her of interest to him. Something, intuition told her, that would disturb her, if she knew what it was.

      Her sense of fear and foreboding had, if anything, increased rather than lessened. She felt like someone standing blindfold on a narrow ledge at the top of a precipice, only too aware of the danger, but without a clue how she got there or how to save herself.

      The houseboy led them through an impressive, creeper-hung doorway and into the cool interior of the villa.

      They were surprised to find themselves in a kind of large atrium, with a roof open to the rafters, and a series of wide archways that led off in various directions.

      To the left, on slightly different levels, was a spacious living and dining area. Plain white walls, terrazzo floors, green plants, and the minimum of furniture, made it pleasant and restful, while one or two dramatic, abstract paintings added life and colour.

      Clearly it was the home of a couple who liked their living to be stylish and uncluttered.

      ‘This way, señor, señorita…’ At the end of a wide corridor the houseboy opened a door to the left. ‘This is your room, señor.’ Then to Cassandra, ‘If you will follow me, señorita… Your room is along this way.’

      For some reason she had expected them to have adjoining rooms, and her heart sank. Giving Alan a rather uncertain smile, she turned and obediently followed the youth.

      By the time she had been shown to a room on the opposite side of the house, Cassandra had realized that she was about as far away from her fiancé as it was possible to be.

      Was that a deliberate policy? she wondered. Or was it simply that the closer rooms had already been allotted to other guests?

      There had been no sign of anyone else, apart from the servants and Lang Dalton himself, but perhaps they hadn’t arrived yet, or were taking a siesta?

      Her room, with its pastel-coloured walls, off-white carpet and draped muslin curtains, was delightfully cool and spacious. Her luggage had been placed on an old Spanish chest.

      The outer wall was a series of arches, each with sliding glass panels which opened on to the central patio and pool. With its blue water and palm trees, its colourful loungers and umbrella-shaded tables, it looked extremely enticing, but was totally deserted.

      For a moment she was tempted to find the swimsuit Alan had suggested she pack. But, as a guest, she could hardly use the pool without being invited to.

      Instead she would take a shower. There was a sumptuous en-suite bathroom, with a frosted-glass shower stall, lots of mirrors, and a large sunken tub with steps leading down.

      It was a far cry from the poky little bathroom she shared with Penny—once her room-mate at college, now her flatmate—where the bath was watermarked, the shower dripped, and one small, spotted mirror was hung a foot too low. Imagining her friend swooning at so much sensuous luxury made her smile.

      Hearing about the proposed trip to California, and shrewdly noting Cassandra’s reaction to it, Penny had exclaimed, ‘And this is so awful? I thought you’d always wanted to travel? Believe me, I’d give my eye-teeth to be in your shoes. I practically swoon at the thought of staying with a millionaire…’

      Then, with a snort of disgust, she’d said, ‘Some people—naming no names, but follow my eyes—just don’t appreciate how lucky they are!’

      Cheered by the thought of the other girl, Cassandra unpacked and put away her clothes, leaving out fresh undies and a simple silk sheath in subtle shades of turquoise, green and gold.

      Showered and dressed, she had just brushed her hair and was about to take it up into its usual coil, when there was a discreet tap at the door.

      So Alan had managed to track her down.

      A smile on her lips, she hurried to open it, and found the houseboy hovering.

      ‘Señor Dalton asks that you will join him for a pre-dinner drink.’

      Scarcely ready, she hesitated. ‘At once?’

      ‘Sí, señorita.’

      Knowing it would be unwise to keep him waiting, she braced herself and, leaving her hair curling loosely on her shoulders, closed her door and followed the slight figure.

      Through the open windows she could faintly hear what sounded like one of the gardeners at work with a lawn mower. Apart from that, and the splash of an unseen fountain, it was almost eerily quiet, and there was still no sign of a soul.

      When they reached the living area, the houseboy informed her, ‘Señor Dalton is on the terrace.’

      ‘Thank you, Manuel.’

      He gave her a shy smile and departed, soft-footed.

      The sliding glass opened on to a secluded terrace roofed with vines and screened from the pool and patio by a white, wrought-iron grille.

      There was some comfortable-looking outdoor furniture scattered about, and a small but well-stocked refrigerated bar at one end.

      Lang Dalton, who was lounging in a fan-backed wicker chair, rose to his feet at her approach and came to meet her.

      She had been praying that his wife would be there, that other guests would be present, but he was alone.

      Wearing a white evening shirt, a black bow-tie and a lightweight dinner-jacket, he looked both handsome and charismatic.

      Taking her hand in a formal gesture, he said, ‘I must apologize if I’ve rushed you?’

      ‘No, not at all,’ she murmured, hoping he hadn’t noticed her stiffen at his touch.

      Still holding her hand, he queried, ‘Are you happy with your room?’

      ‘Very happy, thank you… And Cleopatra herself would have approved of the bathing facilities.’

      His eyes amused, he said, ‘I doubt it. We’re fresh out of asses’ milk.’

      Made uncomfortable by his maleness, his undeniable and unexpected attraction, she withdrew her hand, and asked as lightly as possible, ‘Where is everyone?’

      ‘Everyone being…?’

      ‘Well…the rest of your guests.’

      She saw his firm lips twitch.

      The knowledge that her reference to other guests had appealed to his sense of humour made her add uneasily, ‘Alan said something about there being a small house party.’

      ‘In the event, I changed my mind,’ Lang Dalton told her smoothly. ‘There are no other guests.’

      Feeling as though the ground had been cut from under her feet, she said blankly, ‘Oh.’

      ‘I hope you’re not too disappointed?’

      The gleam in his