Mistress of La Rioja

There he went again—commanding her instead of asking her! What would he do if she insisted on staying in her room? Though wouldn’t that be stupid? She could hardly hide away the whole time she was here. Better get used to eating with him, no matter how much the idea managed to appall and yet excite her at the same time. And surely it was inappropriate to even be thinking such thoughts at a time like this?

She nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll get changed and come down again.’

‘I will be waiting.’

Sophie felt very slightly out of control as she followed the old woman upstairs, wondering how on earth you could get used to having your every wish catered for.

Although she earned a more than comfortable salary, she had always prided herself on her independence. Unlike most of her friends, she did not have anyone to clean her apartment for her, and she did not send her shirts out to be laundered. Her mother had always drummed into her that delegating life’s unpleasant tasks made you remote from life itself.

How different life appeared to be here, with gardeners and cooks and women who cared for your children.

Her shuttered room was cool and dominated by a large, plain bed, covered with snowy white linen. A vase of white flowers which she didn’t recognise had been placed on the dresser and a huge fan spun around from the ceiling to shift the warm and heavy air. She would have liked to just lie down and close her eyes, but she knew that her implacable host would be waiting.

‘The bathroom is through there,’ pointed Salvadora. ‘Is there anything you need, señorita?’

Peace would be close to the top of her list. But there would be no peace for Sophie, not in the foreseeable future—not with Luis present, looking like some dark and alluring angel. But she put him out of her mind because there was something far more important she needed to know.

‘How is Teodoro?’ she questioned falteringly, and just the mention of his name brought a little warmth creeping back into her heart. ‘Is he missing his mother very much?’

Salvadora did not answer for a moment, as if she did not understand, yet it was a simple enough question.

‘Of course,’ said Salvadora carefully. ‘He knows that something is wrong. He cries. But soon we will make him laugh again.’

Sophie felt sick. He knows something is wrong. Something wrong? The child had lost his mother, for heaven’s sake, and here was Salvadora making it sound as though he had thrown his rattle out of his pram! But Salvadora had power, too. Power over Teodoro, which came from being close to him. She needed to make the older woman realise that she cared about her nephew, and that was why she was here.

‘I hope to help make him laugh, too,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you, Salvadora. Please tell Luis that I shall be down shortly.’

‘Sì, señorita.’

Sophie carefully hung up her clothes, and it was a relief to strip off her travel-crushed things and to stand beneath the invigorating jets of the shower and wash away the grit of the journey.

She plaited her still damp hair and put on a fresh cotton dress. Drawstring trousers would have made her feel more relaxed, but she suspected that an evening meal in the de la Camara house would have a certain formality to it.

She was right.

When she entered the dining room it was to see Luis already seated at a long, polished dining table laid for two and that he, too, had changed—and there was absolutely nothing she could do about the sudden rapid beating of her heart.

Gone were the short-sleeved shirt and the lightweight trousers. In their place he had donned a snowy-white shirt, a filmy garment which tantalisingly hinted at the hard, muscular torso beneath. He had left the top two buttons of the shirt unbuttoned and on view was the soft, silken gleam of olive skin, and the sprinkling of dark hair. As he rose to his feet she could see stark black trousers which hugged the narrow jut of his hips and moulded themselves to the powerful shaft of his thighs. The overall effect was to make him look like someone who had just stepped out of one of the portraits of his ancestors which lined the walls, and Sophie’s mouth dried into dust.

‘Good evening,’ he said formally as he stood up. ‘I trust that you found everything to your satisfaction?’

For a moment the power to walk properly left her and she stood unsteadily in the doorway, her trembling fingers gripping the door handle for support as she realised that she was alone with this magnificent man she both desired and feared, and in such a magnificent setting.

He knitted his dark brows together, seeing the way that her face had paled to the colour of the whitest lily, making her skin look almost translucent in comparison. Afraid that she might suddenly faint, he swiftly moved towards her.

‘Something is wrong?’

Something was wrong! Everything was wrong! She was feeling everything she wasn’t supposed to feel, didn’t want to feel. Dark, illicit thoughts which enveloped her with tantalising fingers, locking her into forbidden fantasies. She found herself praying for some kind of merciful release. She should be concentrating on Teodoro, and on Miranda’s memory—not on the bone-melting effect of her host.

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Then please sit down.’ He pulled out a chair for her and then returned to his own seat. ‘For you do not look fine to me.’

Sophie sank down gratefully and, in an effort to distract herself, looked not into the inky glitter of his eyes but at the formality of the setting instead.

The table was set with the finest silver and fresh with flowers and gently glowing with candlelight. It was the kind of table that you would probably need a pool cue to propel the pepper and salt from one end to the other, it was so long. She could see that some cold soup had already been placed there, and never had a sandwich in her room seemed so attractive. Or so safe.

‘You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for me!’ She swallowed.

‘Trouble?’ A dark brow was arched in arrogant query. ‘I can assure you that dinner is exactly as usual.’

She supposed it was—he didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would eat his dinner on a tray in front of the television! ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, rather weakly.

Luis studied her. He had not been expecting her down yet, imagining her to be transforming her appearance in the privacy of her room. He noticed that her face was as untouched as it had been at the airport. She had not bothered to apply any make-up and her hair was still wet from the shower. The overall effect made her look fresh and clean and much younger than her years. Almost innocent. Luis’s mouth twisted into a cynical line.

He was used to women using every weapon in their armoury in order to impress him. Carefully applied make-up and gowns designed to show off magnificent cleavages, or the length of their legs. At a time like this he would not have expected finery—but he had been anticipating that a little extra effort would be made.

Clearly, Sophie Mills was not trying to impress him!

Her cotton dress was as unassuming as it was possible to be, and yet its simplicity made the curve of her high breasts all the more beguiling. She was an unnerving combination of innocence and experience, and Luis felt the slow and reluctant flicker of arousal. Perhaps the effect was deliberate, he thought. Perhaps she knew precisely how a man would react to such an innocent woman look, with her bare, pouting lips which cried out to be kissed.

‘Please,’ he said coolly, ‘drink your soup.’

She picked up her spoon and sipped at it, but in between sips her eyes were drawn irresistibly to her host.

How daunting he looked, and not just because he had seated himself at the far end of the table. No. There was something unapproachable in the cold magnificence and the warning light which gleamed in the unfathomable depths of his eyes.

‘Señor?’

Sophie looked round as a beautiful young Spanish girl appeared at the door.

‘You will have some wine, Sophie?’ He gestured to a dusty bottle.

She needed something to help her relax. ‘Please.’

He murmured in Spanish and the girl immediately poured red wine into Sophie’s crystal goblet and topped up Luis’s own.

Sophie drank some. ‘It’s…it’s lovely.’

‘It is a bottle from one of our finest cases.’

‘Then I am honoured,’ said Sophie.