Jane Porter - The Spaniard's Passion

Her eyes burned, her nose burned, her throat burned, but the burning was nothing like the fire raging inside her heart.

Clive had tried his best and yet his love hadn’t been enough. She’d still wanted more.

Still needed more.

Her disloyalty had killed Clive, and as much as she cared for Alonso, as much as she craved his warmth and his strength, as much as she needed him emotionally and physically, she couldn’t have him. It’d be like rewarding herself for her sins.

“I know you miss him,” Lon said quietly, “but you have to move forward, not back.”

Her throat ached with all the tears she wouldn’t let fall. She’d never forget the day she received the telegram from the British consulate in Brazil. Lady Wilkins, we regret to inform you…

Sophie looked up, shook her head. Clive had only been twenty-nine. Twenty-nine. Far too young to die. “How can I move forward if I don’t understand the past? I don’t understand how Clive died, or why he died…”

“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

She shuddered, imagining Clive’s final minutes. Apparently Clive had been shot at close range. “But why? Why would he be there? What would take him to that neighborhood at that time of night?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Lon answered, opening the door and stepping outside. He froze on the doorstep.

Beyond Alonso’s big shoulders Sophie saw huge white flakes slowly fall. The landscape shone white, the sky a curtain of swirling snow.

“It’s snowing.” She joined Lon at the door, quarrel momentarily forgotten. “It’s beautiful.”

“I haven’t seen snow in years.”

Sophie followed him outside, and the wind gusted, blowing white flakes in through the door. She reached up to catch the delicate flakes landing on her cheeks and in her hair. The night was so quiet, so perfectly still, and it made her heart ache.

For her, for Clive, for Lon. For all of them.

“How did we come to this, Lon?” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest and watching the snow flurries fall.

“We grew up.”

Her eyes felt hot and gritty. “We were supposed to always be friends. We were the Three Musketeers.”

The corner of Lon’s mouth lifted. “Tres amigos.”

The three buddies…the three friends. Clive, Lon, and Sophie. Her eyes felt raw. Her throat was sore. She’d been holding back the emotion all night, trying to contain the staggering hurt and need. “How do we fix this? How do we make it right?”

He glanced down at her, his expression curiously gentle. “We focus on the future. We make the rest of our lives as meaningful as possible.”

“But that would mean leaving Clive behind.”

Lon didn’t answer and hot tears filled her eyes. She wished she could move toward Lon, move into his arms and feel his warmth, his strength. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” Her voice sounded raspy. “I want to be friends with you again, and I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. I’m sorry that I said what I did about your mom. I don’t dislike her. I know she’s had a hard life.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s been an unconventional life. But it’s what she wanted, and she’s learned to be happy.”

Sophie looked out at the horizon where the powdery snow reflected the moonlight, and the gently rolling landscape glittered and shone as far as the eye could see.

Lon brushed a snowflake from her temple. “You can learn to be happy, too, Sophie. It’s just a matter of choosing happiness.”

His touch made her feel hot, tingly. She balled her fingers. How could Lon still make her feel this way? The snow was dusting his black leather coat, clinging to his hair, his lashes. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is.” Lon drew his car keys from his pocket. “So what are you wearing to the gala?” He asked, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.

She made a face. “My standard black.”

“Clive hated you in black.”

She grimaced again. Clive did hate her in black. Everything he ever gave her was saturated in color. Yellows, reds, blues, greens. “Black’s practical.”

“At least you didn’t say slimming.” Lon’s smile disappeared and he stared at her for a long, pensive moment. His inspection was intense, intimate and she grew warm all over. He looked at her with undisguised desire.

“I lost you once,” he said quietly. “Don’t think I’m going to lose you again.”

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