Sophie Weston - The Latin Affair

She gestured round the untidy room. ‘You’re in a complete mess. You need someone to run the practical side of your life so that you can get on with your career.’

‘That’s what Anne does,’ he objected.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

‘Then explain,’ he said blandly.

Francesca refused to be annoyed. ‘You’re being silly,’ she said in an indulgent tone. ‘What about your private life? Where would you have been if I hadn’t gone down to Hallam Hall and sorted out those workmen?’

‘Ah. I wondered when that would come up,’ said Esteban with satisfaction.

Francesca frowned. ‘You would have been lost without me’, she said, her tone sharpening. ‘You were out of the country and those cowboys were getting away with murder.’

‘And I was grateful for your help but—’

Francesca regained her good humour. ‘I bet you haven’t even talked to the kitchen people yet.’

Esteban looked at the telephone. His expression darkened. He was not going to admit to Francesca that the woman had hung up on him. Why did women always have to play games?

‘I’ve got it in hand,’ he said brusquely.

Francesca got up and came over to him. A faint hint of expensive scent wafted as she settled herself on the corner of the desk beside him. She crossed one leg over the other and smiled down into his eyes.

‘Don’t you see, darling? Marry me and you would never have to deal with kitchen designers again.’

Her high-heeled shoe tapped at his thigh to emphasise her point

‘An alluring prospect,’ said Esteban drily.

He pushed his chair back, removing his immaculate suit out of range.

‘And you need a hostess,’ Francesca went on, her smile unwavering. ‘Someone to organise the dinner parties, make sure you meet the right people.’

He almost shuddered.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Of course you do.’

She would have gone on but Esteban put an end to it. He stood up and looked down at her, all vestige of amusement gone.

‘I thought I had been clear, Francesca. If you misunderstood me, I’m sorry. But the truth is that my stepfather needs a housekeeper. You said you wanted a job. A job is all that’s on offer.’

‘But—’

‘If you remember,’ Esteban said drily, ‘I said at the time I thought you would find Hallam very isolated. But you wanted to give it a shot’.

Francesca’s mouth thinned. For a moment the pretty face looked almost ugly.

‘Are you saying you used me?’

Esteban stiffened imperceptibly. ‘Excuse me?’

There were people—witnesses for the prosecution, say, or opposing counsel—who would have run a mile when he spoke in that soft tone. Francesca did not read the danger signals. She tossed her head.

‘Of course I adore Patrick,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘I was very willing to help —’

Esteban said quietly, ‘You wanted a job.’

Francesca did not like that. ‘You know quite well what I wanted,’ she said sharply.

It was a moment of total self-betrayal. There was a nasty silence. Francesca bit her lip.

Esteban said heavily, ‘I seem to have been very stupid. I thought you knew that all that was over. I told you so last year.’

‘Darling, just because of a silly article in a magazine—’

He stopped her with an upraised hand. ‘It was not about the article. I don’t care what some tinpot journalist writes about me.’

‘Well, then—’

‘But I care that someone I trusted talked to a tinpot journalist,’ Esteban went on softly. ‘About stuff I told you in confidence.’

There was another nasty silence. Francesca watched him, frunstrated.

At last she burst out, ‘It’s such a stupid waste. I could really help your career. Daddy’s contacts—a bit of networking—’

‘And what about love?’ he said wryly.

‘Love?’ Francesca sounded as blank as if he had broken into a foreign language. ‘Grow up, darling.’

‘You think love’s an irrelevance?’

“Oh, come on. We’re talking real life here.’

Esteban gave an unexpected laugh. ‘We are indeed. And we seem to have different views on it.’

‘Are you saying you’re looking for love?’ Francesca sounded disbelieving. ‘You?’

‘I don’t think you need to look for it,’ Esteban said coolly. ‘In my experience it tends to sock you in the eye.’

Francesca snorted. ‘Your experience? So now you’re the last of the great romantics?’

Esteban gave that his measured consideration. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I wouldn’t call myself a romantic.’

‘Thank God for that, at least,’ Francesca muttered.

‘On the other hand, I’m not fool enough to marry anyone I’m not in love with.’

Francesca pulled herself together. She moved close to him, though she did not quite dare to touch him again. She gave him a winning smile.

‘But if both parties agree—’

He bent towards her so fast she took a step backwards in simple shock. At once she could have kicked herself. He had not come so close to her voluntarily for over a year.

But it was too late. Esteban had seen her alarm. He gave her a mocking smile.

‘Agree to change my nature? How?’

Francesca recovered fast. ‘But you’ve just said you aren’t romantic,’ she reminded him.

‘No, but I am passionate and possessive and I have a nasty temper,’ Esteban told her evenly. ‘Believe me, you wouldn’t like being married to me.’

‘No woman would,’ snapped Francesca, unexpectedly shaken.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m glad we agree on the matter.’ He sounded amused.

The telephone rang. He reached behind him, not looking, and swept it up to his ear. ‘Hi, Annie. Now? Yes, of course.’ He put the phone down. ‘Sorry, Francesca. Busy morning. Goodbye.’

Francesca was looking poleaxed. His court opponents would have recognised the feeling. Esteban gave her an enigmatic smile and held the door open for her. She did not move.

‘You’re not going to treat me like this. I’m no little boat chick,’ she jeered.

Esteban went very still. Francesca knew she had made a bad mistake. That was one of the few confidences she had not spilled out to the handsome young journalist in the quayside café last year.

She nervously touched her hair but said defiantly, ‘It just slipped out. You told me about it yourself, after all. I couldn’t help it. You upset me so much I forgot I wasn’t supposed to mention it.’ A thought occurred to her. She lowered her lashes. ‘If you go on being nasty to me, it might happen again—and who knows who could be listening?’

Esteban’s watchfulness dissolved into unholy appreciation.

‘Threats?’ he said, his eyebrows flying up. ‘Very attractive. Just the stuff to get me to marry you. You’re really one on your own, Francesca.’

There was nothing she could say. Once again Esteban Tremain had taken her well thought out strategy and turned it on its head. Francesca was determined but she was not an idiot. She recognised defeat, at least for the moment.

“I’ll go.’ She gathered up her handbag and elegant serape but was not leaving without the last word. ‘Call me when you’ve got your head together. You need me.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Esteban said quietly.

‘Oh, but you do.’ She had gone back to her caressing manner. She gave him a sweet smile. ‘You just don’t know how much yet. But you will.’

She left.

Immediately Esteban banished her from his mind. He flung himself back into his chair and reached for the Hallam file again. He picked up the telephone, his voice coming alive with the anticipation of battle.

‘Annie, get me that kitchen place again, will you? And this time I want to talk to de Vries in person.’