Diana Hamilton - Hostage Of Passion

‘Are you sure of your facts, Señor Casals?’ She did her best to keep her voice perfectly level and incisive and heard the edge of anxiety creep in with alarm. One of them had to stay calm, and by the sizzling fury that came her way it wasn’t going to be him.

He disdained to answer, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and slapping it down on the desk, glaring at her from hooded eyes as if daring her to argue.

Straightening her spine, she took the paper in cool white fingers. Its crumpled state told her it had been read and reread many times, but nothing more, although her father’s name leapt from the page.

She didn’t look at him. ‘I don’t read Spanish, señor , she said, and watched strongly lean olivetoned fingers snatch it back.

‘Por Dios !’ he growled, as if her lack had snapped what little patience he had. ‘It says, and I quote, “Do not try to find me. I have met someone who really cares about me. Where he is, I will go. His name is Piers Bouverie-Scott and that alone will tell you all you need to know.”’ He thrust the note back into his pocket, his skin tight with disgust. ‘As your father’s name is synonymous with wild orgies, reckless philandering and mistresses by the cartload, I am in no doubt as to what has happened to Encarnación. This note spells it out, if any further proof was needed.’ His sensual mouth thinned ominously. ‘When I find him, I will kill him!’

‘Don’t you think that’s rather extreme?’ Sarah said frigidly. She felt cold all over, through and through, but she recognised an uncontrolled temperament when she came up against it. She had had enough experience of handling Piers’ volatile, creative personality in the past to know that the cold voice of reason was the only weapon. ‘I’d like to help you,’ she went on firmly, not letting him know how sick and cold she felt inside. ‘But I truly don’t know where he is.’ She pulled the telephone towards her. ‘However, his agent might.’ Distasteful circumstances called for some sort of action.

‘Miles Hunter? Do you think I haven’t already contacted him—do you think I am loco ?’ He sent her a look of such heated derision that the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She wriggled uncomfortably in her chair as he pushed his extravagantly handsome face close to hers, his throaty voice bubbling over with scorn as he uttered, ‘I don’t sit around waiting for things to happen, I make them happen, señorita. I have made it my business to track down anyone who might know where el diablo is—his agent, the owner of the gallery where he habitually shows his new work, the people who supply his materials, all to no avail. Like the devil, he has disappeared in a puff of purple smoke…

‘So finally I have come to you. You, the last slender hope. Few daughters would knowingly deliver a father into the hands of a man who was out for his blood. But one look at you, with your big icy eyes, gave me the hope that you were cold enough not to care! So by all means phone,’ He pushed the receiver into her hands. ‘Ask Hunter. He might tell you, where he wouldn’t tell a stranger. Do it!’ he ordered as she stared at him with shocked blue eyes.

Biting her lip, she dialled Miles Hunter’s number, her fingers disgracefully unsteady. It was generally understood that first impressions were often the truest. Did this big, vital man really believe she was icy, cold enough to betray her nearest relative because she didn’t have it in her to care?

It didn’t matter what he thought, she told herself as she waited for her call to be answered, drumming the fingers of her right hand on the top of the desk. Her decision to call the agent, to try, in a small way, to help the Spaniard, had been instinctive. She was sure there had been a mistake, a crossing of wires. Reprobate though he was, Piers wouldn’t set out to seduce an innocent young girl, and she could sympathise with Señor Casals’ concern, his need to locate his run-away sister.

But that letter had been damning… Her arched brows knotted then eased again as Miles Hunter answered, and after a few pleasantries she asked, as coolly as she could, ‘Do you know where I could contact Piers? I haven’t heard from him since Christmas. Four months is a long time, even for him.’ In her state of heightened awareness, she felt the Spaniard’s black eyes boring into the back of her head, monitoring every word she said, and instinctively held the receiver closer to her ear. If, by a stroke of good fortune, Miles knew and divulged her father’s whereabouts, she had no intention of allowing the looming, murderous brute to overhear it, get to him before she could.

‘You’re the second person to ask today,’ Miles confessed, and she could hear the grin in his voice as he told her, ‘This arrogant Spanish Don practically threatened me with the Inquisition. Obviously, I acted dumb. I don’t know what your dear daddy’s been up to this time—and don’t really want to—but from the prolonged silence I’d hazard a guess that he’s got his head down, working hard. In Spain, more than likely,’

‘Well, I’m so sorry to have bothered you,’ Sarah said, her voice coolly apologetic. ‘If he does get in touch, let me know, would you, please?’ Then she changed the subject, asking about his wife and family, allowing herself time to grab back her control.

She really should have made the connection herself. Encarnación was Spanish, her removal from her family home—wherever—obviously sudden. So it was highly unlikely that Piers would have met her in any other country but Spain. And therefore she knew exactly where to look!

When the spurt of elation had died down sufficiently she said her farewells and replaced the receiver, turning in her chair, her cool eyes fixed on a point beyond those intimidating shoulders, her voice clipped but not antagonistically so as she stated, ‘As you’ve probably gathered, Miles doesn’t have a clue either,’ and mentally crossed her fingers, hoping he hadn’t picked anything out from the agent’s conversation. Expecting a renewed outburst of ferocity, she risked a direct look, but he was leaning against the filing cabinet, his arms crossed over his chest, and, far from snapping, the black eyes were almost slumbrous, their expression hidden by lowered olivetoned lids and sweepingly thick, lustrous black lashes.

Then, almost lazily, he levered himself upright and, with an almost imperceptible shrug, gave her, ‘Then there is nothing left but to thank you for your time, señorita ,’ and sketched a bow of such courteous gravity that she was left speechless, staring at the space he had occupied for several long seconds after he had walked out of the office.

Somehow, strangely, she felt incomplete, as if his going had left something dangling, unresolved, oddly regretted. Which was, of course, she rebuked herself, utter nonsense. She had fully expected him to continue to harass and harangue her, had psyched herself up to deal with it—only to watch him capitulate gracefully, accept that she could tell him nothing, do no more. Which left all that adrenalin with nowhere to go.

And prodded her into immediate action.

She hadn’t expected Francisco Garcia Casals to give up quite so easily. But as he had she took advantage of it thankfully, ignoring the irrational sense of disappointment. Checking that he had indeed left the premises, she sat at her desk, opened her personal directory and pulled the phone towards her.

Half an hour later she had booked her flight and cancelled her date with Nigel, who had, to her astonishment, turned quite nasty.

Their relationship of six months’ standing was purely platonic as yet, although she had wondered, in her off-moments, if it could progress to something more, and permanent, because he was sober enough, conscientious enough to be that rare animal—a male she could possibly be persuaded to entrust her future contentment to.