Jane Porter - The Spaniard's Passion

“Yes.” Her throat seemed to be squeezing closed. “Thank you.” The jeweler moved across the shop and chilled, Sophie began to button her long wool coat.

“You’re selling your wedding ring?” Lon asked, black lashes lowered, concealing his expression.

“It’s a reputable jeweler,” she answered, hating the defensive note that had crept into her voice.

“You’re short on cash?”

“I’m fine.” There was no way she’d ever tell Lon the truth. She didn’t want pity, and she didn’t want sympathy from him, either. She’d chosen Clive. End of story. “I didn’t realize you were back in the country.”

“I have a house in Knightsbridge.”

“You live here in London?”

“Part of the year.”

“I had no idea.”

Lon heard the pang in her voice, and he felt a shaft of hot emotion. He’d known from the start that her marriage had been rocky, maybe even downright unhappy, but she’d never said a word against Clive. “I travel back and forth between South America quite a bit. Depends on business.”

He hadn’t seen her in years and yet she was still beautiful. More beautiful. If anything, grief had etched her features finer, darkening her eyebrows, softening her mouth, creating deeper hollows beneath her cheekbones. Few women could achieve with plastic surgery what nature had given Sophie so freely.

The jeweler returned with a check which Sophie silently pocketed. Transaction completed, she murmured her thanks and Lon escorted Sophie outside. “What about your business?” she protested.

“The stone’s not ready. I’ll come back later.”

It was cold outside. The late afternoon temperatures dipped low. Sophie took a quick breath, trying to clear her head. Lon here. Impossible. Incredible. She’d never once bumped into him in all the years since they’d left Colombia.

She drew her coat closer as throngs of pedestrians pushed past them, and her gaze took in Harrod’s festive windows across the street. The ornate building’s majestic turrets were illuminated with countless white lights and windows were decked with wreaths.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Lon said, breaking the uneasy silence between them.

Which meant it’d been almost two years without Clive. Sophie bit her lower lip, fighting tears and the confusing emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

God, she’d missed Lon. He’d been her friend for years and then he’d just disappeared from her life. She struggled to think when she’d last seen him but she couldn’t even figure out how long it’d been.

“You still look like a savage,” she said huskily.

“And you don’t like savages.”

“I liked you.”

“Past tense?”

Sophie’s eyes stung all over again and the wind tugged at her coat, nipping at her skin. What lies they’d told themselves to make her decision all right.

“I have to go home,” she said, voice thickening. “The Countess is waiting.”

The first raindrop fell from the heavy dark clouds. “I’ll take you.”

“It’s too far. An hour and a half—”

“I’ll take you,” he repeated, and he practically tucked her beneath his arm, her head against his shoulder, her body pressed to his side.

He was still hard, solid, imposing and she shivered all through her feeling as if she’d been washed overboard and was close to drowning.

He’d only been back in her life twenty minutes and already nothing was the same. But that’s how Lon had always been. Huge. Imposing.

In his car, Sophie felt the strangest emotion—crazy emotion—longing, regret, desperation. She thought she’d do just about anything to go back in time and find the teenagers they’d all once been.

“I’ve missed you, Sophie,” he said quietly.

Her heart lurched. You’re far too lonely, she chided herself even as her heart lurched again. It was a painful jump, much like the painful jumps she’d felt as a teenager when she knew he wanted her and she didn’t know what to think, or what to feel.

Hot tears started to her eyes and she blinked. It was embarrassing, being so emotional. She hadn’t felt this way in ages. Ever since Clive died she’d been very controlled, very contained, but here she was about to leap out of her skin.

She wanted to blame her nerves on fatigue, stress, holiday jitters, but it was Lon. He’d always done this to her. Tied her up in knots. Made her feel so many things.

He was still magnetic. Compelling. His unusual coloring—very black hair and very light blue eyes—drew attention. He certainly wasn’t your typical Englishman, and maybe that’s what fascinated the women. He looked foreign. Dangerous.

But then, he was dangerous.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, shifting and accelerating.

“You.” She tried to disguise the intensity of her feelings, but wasn’t succeeding. She shouldn’t be here alone with him. She couldn’t let herself get close to him. They weren’t teenagers anymore, and she knew Lon didn’t play games. No, Lon played for keeps.

And she didn’t do keeps. At least, not with Alonso. He was still too unpredictable, still too intimidating.

Her gaze traveled his broad forehead, the wide jaw, the strong nose before settling on the thin scar running along the edge of Lon’s right cheekbone. The scar hadn’t been there five years ago. “How did you get that scar?”

“Nicked myself shaving.” He leaned back in his deep leather seat. It was a deep scar, an ugly scar. It wasn’t a shaving mishap.

“Must have been a big razor.”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “Huge.”

She couldn’t look away from the scar. It should have ruined his hard face. Instead it added strength. Character. With the creases at his eyes and the scar high on his cheek, he looked like a man that knew his way around the world. Like a man who’d come to terms with life. “Did it hurt?”

“Losing you hurt more.”

She sucked in a breath and glanced down at her bare hands. Her left hand felt so empty without her heavy ring.

“So you’ve never married?” she asked, swiftly changing subjects, trying to find safer ground. Clive had told her once that Lon maintained homes and offices in Bogota and Buenos Aires but it seemed like a universe away from her life in England.

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Live-in girlfriend?”

“You’re quite curious, muñeca. Are you interested in applying for the job?”

His slow, mocking smile set her heart racing and her limbs felt like lead. Oh, he was still dangerous. He still turned her inside out, made her feel shaky and jittery. “Sorry. Not interested.” She should have never gotten into his car, should never have agreed to this. “Living-in is less exciting than fairy tales would lead us to believe.”

“The disillusioned princess.”

“Hardly a princess.”

“No, just an impoverished lady forced to sell her house, her car, and now her wedding ring.”

Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. He could hurt her in ways no one else could. “They’re just things,” she whispered.

“And what are things when you’re surrounded by warmth and tenderness and love?”

She almost hated him right now. He was so cold, so cynical. He had to know she was living alone with the Countess, Clive’s mother. He knew the Countess, too. He knew she wasn’t warm, and he had to know Sophie was virtually trapped at Melrose Court with no personal space, or freedom, anymore.

But she didn’t say that, didn’t say a word. If he wanted to be cruel, fine, let him. He’d be gone soon. He’d drop her at Melrose Court and drive off into the night and she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

“I would have paid you twice as much for your ring, Sophie.” Lon’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come to me?”