Kay Thorpe - The Spanish Connection

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

LOOKING back through the rear screen as they drove east along the coastal road, at the massive pile of grey rock framed against the cloudless sky, Lauren could see why it had been known to the ancient world as the Pillar of Hercules. It was difficult to believe that over thirty thousand people lived and worked in that small area. Seen from the air, the whole of Gibraltar occupied no more than two or three square miles.

César and Nicolás were fast asleep on the back seat of the luxurious limousine, dark heads close together, faces angelic in repose. More of Francisco than herself in those twin sets of well defined features, Lauren was bound to acknowledge.

If she had anything at all to do with it, those looks would be all that the two of them would inherit of their father. They were English by birth; their Spanish blood made no difference to that. Accepting Rafael’s invitation to visit the Javierre de Quiros estate in no way undermined her determination to retain their independence.

Rafael. A fancy name indeed for the kind of man Francisco had described. Not that the latter had turned out to be any paragon of virtue. Five years of marriage to a man who saw no reason to confine his sexual activities to one woman was enough to destroy every last vestige of love—if love it had ever really been.

Settling back into her seat, she stole a swift glance at the young man driving the car. Gabriel had those same devil-may-care good looks that had attracted her so wildly to Francisco, yet they did absolutely nothing to her heartstrings right now. ‘Call me Angel,’ he had said with a grin at the airport, ‘and I’ll call you little sister because I’m one year older than you.’ That made him twenty-five—ten years younger than Rafael, four between him and Francisco. His brother’s death didn’t appear to have affected him very badly. But then why should he mourn for a man he’d neither seen nor heard from in so long a time? Blood wasn’t necessarily thicker than water.

‘Rafael would have come to meet you himself,’ he said now, sensing her glance, ‘but he had business matters to attend. You know, of course, of the Quiros hotels?’

Lauren shook her head. ‘I know very little about family matters.’

It was Gabriel’s turn to cast a glance, lingering for a long moment on the pure oval of her face and heavy rope of honey-gold hair. ‘You’re a Quiros yourself now.’

Green eyes darkened a fraction. ‘Only by marriage. I’ve no intention of claiming any personal involvement.’

‘As Francisco’s widow, you’re one of the family. Rafael will insist on treating you as such.’

‘Even though he and Francisco were estranged for so many years?’

‘It was Francisco’s own choice to leave. He had no great love for anyone but himself.’

An accurate summary, Lauren reflected. Francisco hadn’t even loved the twins the way any normal father would. To him they had represented a responsibility he could well have lived without. If it hadn’t been for her pregnancy he would never have married her at all; she was only too well aware of that. She supposed she should be grateful for the fact that he had possessed at least a modicum of decency.

Meeting the handsome Spaniard at a party when she was nineteen, she had been totally bowled over by his rakish dark looks and confident manner. Francisco Javierre de Quiros—his very name had been a draw. The fact that he had appeared to be equally bowled over by her hadn’t helped her to keep a clear head. Within a week they had become lovers; three months later they were married: a register office affair, with only her closest friend in attendance. Francisco had refused to inform his brothers either of the marriage itself or the subsequent birth of their nephews. That had been left to her after the accident which had robbed her of a husband and the twins of a father—and only then after going through his papers to discover their whereabouts.

The invitation to visit had come by return of post, couched in terms she had found a little offputting at first in their formality. The costs would naturally be met, Rafael had advised. All the same, Lauren had left it several months before finally making up her mind to accept.

‘Do you really live in a castle?’ she asked now.

Gabriel smiled. ‘Only a part of one. The other part is run as a hotel. A very exclusive hotel, of course,’ he added. ‘No more than a dozen guests at a time, and those out of the top drawer, as you would say.’

Lauren laughed. ‘Your English is top-class too.’

‘I learn good,’ he said, momentarily destroying the illusion. ‘Rafael speaks French and German also.’

‘He must be very clever,’ Lauren commented, eliciting a shrug.

‘Some have the ear for other languages. I’m content with the English. Perhaps one day I’ll visit your country myself.’

‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘You could come and stay with us.’

There was an odd expression in the dark eyes turned fleetingly towards her, a certain evasiveness in his answer. ‘Perhaps.’

Thronged with traffic, the road took much of his attention over the following hour or so. He drove too fast for Lauren’s comfort, but she couldn’t bring herself to remonstrate with someone she had only just met, brother-in-law or not. She concentrated instead on the passing scenery, from fertile coastal plain to the rugged heights where lay their eventual destination. A castle in Spain. It had such a romantic sound to it.

Francisco had never told her just why he had felt moved to leave his home and country, but the family rift had obviously been a very bad one. He had hated Rafael. Perhaps the latter would be prepared to tell her why. She needed to understand.

Estepona came and went. Lauren had read of the beautiful harbour there, but could see no sign of it from the road, just a long stretch of beach fronted by hotels and shops. With the season not yet into its stride, the tourist element wasn’t too obtrusive, although the sun was already hot enough to make her grateful for the air-conditioned comfort of the car.

It would be cooler up in the sierras, of course, especially in the evenings. She had brought sweaters for the boys, and a couple of light jackets for herself, just in case. Not that she intended their stay to be a lengthy one. She was here only because Rafael had asked her to come, and because she thought it only right for Francisco’s brothers to at least see their nephews. Curiosity had played a part too, she was bound to admit.

Some short time later, they turned away from the coast to start the climb towards Ronda. The road was narrow and winding, the traffic sparse, the emerging scenery breathtaking. A low crash barrier was the only protection against the increasingly steep drops to the left. Coming down again would be worse, Lauren thought, with the passenger-seat closest to the edge. For anyone like herself, who found the top deck of a bus too high for comfort, the thought alone was daunting. Odd that she suffered no sense of vertigo on a plane.

Ronda lay sprawled across a gently sloping plateau, the golden stone of its walled old quarter offset by the sparkling white of the slightly more modern stretch. Lauren cowered down in her seat as they drove across the bridge spanning the fearful depths of the gorge which split the town in two, although she could actually glimpse little of the actual drop from the car.

Prisoners, Gabriel informed her, had at one time been held in cells contained within the central span. With a three-hundred-foot plunge right outside the windows, there could, Lauren conceded, have been few prisons more secure.