Diana Hamilton - Hostage Of Passion

So she was feeling in control of the situation again as he manoeuvred the Ferrari out of the tiny colourful square, able to give grudging admiration as he negotiated the narrow streets in the shadow of the church of San Pedro, down to the lower reaches of the ancient town that straddled a towering rocky spur, finally parking in front of an imposing hotel, the potent scarlet car a shriek of affluence and power amid the humble waiting taxis.

She exited before he had time to come round to help her, pleased to note that her legs had stopped shaking, and her features were commendably serene as the Spaniard took her belongings in one hand and her elbow in the other and marched her up the broad, sweeping marble steps and into the foyer.

Her idea might not work, of course, for all kinds of reasons. But she would give it her best shot. And hopefully he would soon learn that he was not the only one who made things happen, took the prevailing circumstances and forced them to his will!

Inside, the foyer was all hushed, cool opulence, slow-moving brass-bladed fans overhead, marble slabs underfoot, intricate plasterwork and rich carved wood. And glass telephone booths, Sarah noted, filing the information tidily away, her stomach tightening with the excitement of knowing that her plan might possibly work.

‘You are hungry?’ her escort asked, apparently without a great deal of interest.

She shook her head without thinking. She was too wound up inside to think of eating now. But then she realised that if she had said she was ravenous it would have delayed his departure for a little longer, so she tacked on quickly, before he could walk away and leave her, ‘I’d love a long cold drink, though, if you’re having something,’ and added, ‘Might I freshen up first? Could you tell me where to go?’

‘But of course.’ He seemed bored now, and she tagged along as he approached the reception desk, but her spirits soared to fresh heights as he addressed the male clerk in English.

‘The señorita wishes to use the rest-room. I shall be waiting in the terrace restaurant; will you bring her to me?’

Sarah barely registered the man’s reply. It was all going better than she would ever have dared to hope. Veiling her aquamarine eyes in case they betrayed her mounting inner excitement, she extracted her shoulder-bag from the baggage he was still holding, said, ‘See you in around ten minutes,’ and headed smartly for the rest-room, ignoring his drawled ‘Take your time’, not caring an atom if he was regretting his decision to do her the courtesy of allowing her to refresh herself before he abandoned her to go off in murderous pursuit of her father.

He was going to regret his ‘honourable’ impulse far more before the day was out. She was about to make very sure of that.

THIS time round Sarah didn’t in the least object to being jolted about in the back of a taxi. And she kept her eyes wide open. If they hadn’t been screwed tightly shut for most of that earlier, stomachtwisting journey into Arcos then sooner or later she would have noticed the prowling Ferrari behind them. And been warned.

But, never one to take lingering backward looks at past mistakes, Sarah now kept her sparkling eyes firmly glued to the road ahead, on the unsuspecting speck of scarlet in the distance.

Little more than an hour ago, the gut-wrenching fear that Francisco Casals would roar off into the wild blue yonder, reclaim his erring sister then beat her father senseless, without her being around to stop it or temper the Spanish brute’s ferocity, had seemed a frightening certainty. He had made her feel utterly impotent for the first time in years, and she hadn’t liked the sensation one little bit.

But a few careless words of his had given her the idea of following him, as he had so obviously followed her all the way from London. And the rest had been amazingly, brilliantly easy. Even now, with her plan working out perfectly, she could hardly believe her good fortune, the way everything had neatly fallen into place without a single hitch.

A few seconds in the rest-room, just long enough to give him time to take himself off to the terrace restaurant, had been followed by a thoroughly satisfying whirlwind of activity.

The availability of public telephones had been a foregone conclusion and she’d been able to get through to her London office with hardly any delay, her tone brisk and concise as she’d told Jenny, ‘Look, something’s cropped up and I’m going to have to be away longer than I bargained for. Hold the fort for me, would you? I’ll get back just as soon as I can.’

‘Not to worry, boss. Take all the time you need.’ Jenny sounded emphatic. ‘It’s ages since you had a break—just make sure you have a great time, and relax for just once in your life.’

Ordeal by a vengeful, tricky Spaniard was hardly her idea of a holiday, Sarah thought wryly as she replaced the receiver. But two could be tricky—as the lordly Francisco Garcia Casals would soon discover—and as for relaxing, well, there would be no time for that until she’d outwitted that black Andalusian devil…

Her shoulders straight, she marched purposefully over to Reception and asked the man she now knew spoke English—which had been another stroke of sheer good luck, hadn’t it just?—‘Could you help me, please?’

‘Sure.’ He almost sprang to attention. ‘Señor Casals is waiting on the terrace. If you’ll follow me…’

His dark eyes showed no surprise at her obviously unrefreshed appearance but his brows did rise a fraction when she corrected him swiftly, ‘In a moment. First, though, I need to arrange for a taxi—I speak no Spanish, I’m afraid.’

She ignored his openly surprised, momentary stare and followed coolly as he led the way outside to where three or four drivers were waiting for a fare, boredom or a kind of resignation written all over them. He probably couldn’t understand why any woman would be thinking of transport when that suavely gorgeous hunk of Spanish manhood was waiting—especially a woman who must look as if she’d spent the last few hours fully dressed in a Turkish bath.

She didn’t care what chauvinistic thoughts were rattling around inside his brain but embarrassment reared its debilitating head when he turned to her, bland-eyed now, asking, ‘Tell me where you want to go, señorita, and I will translate.’

For one weak moment, Sarah was tempted to ask for the airport, to fly back to England and hide from the mess Piers had unwittingly got her into. But, she reminded herself, she had never run from anything yet, and wasn’t going to start acting like a moral coward now. And she could weather a little embarrassment, couldn’t she?

So she held her head high, looking down the length of her neat nose, toughing it out.

‘I want a driver who is prepared to wait until Señor Casals and I leave. The señor will be driving the red car. I will want my driver to follow, at a discreet distance, naturally, to—’ Her voice faltered, echoing the way she was cringing inside, but she overcame the slight problem and went on firmly, ‘To wherever he goes. I am prepared to pay well over the odds.’

She refused to look away, even when he smirked with unconcealed amusement, just tilted her chin that little bit higher. She knew just what he was thinking. The handsome señor, who drove the kind of car only the seriously wealthy could afford to run, had grown bored with his English bit on the side—who could blame him?—and had dumped her. But the unglamorous, sadly plain creature wasn’t prepared to be dumped, was determined to follow wherever he went, make a nuisance of herself. The conclusion was so obvious that she couldn’t blame him for reaching it.