LITMIR.BIZ

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that. As the boy had said, he’d taken it upon himself to write to Julio de Montoya. The letter had been posted before he and his mother had left England.

      He groaned.

      Of course, it was tempting to shift all the blame onto Cassandra. She should have known what her son had done. He was only nine years old, por el amor de Dios. How difficult could it be to keep track of his movements?

      But he also knew that he was not speaking from personal experience. And just because the sons and daughters of his close friends were fairly biddable that was no reason to suppose all children were the same. Indeed, he thought wryly, it could be argued that David was already exhibiting facets of his de Montoya heritage.

      At the same time he felt a searing sense of injustice that Cassandra had kept the boy’s existence from them. And that, without David’s intervention, they might never have learned that Antonio had had a son.

      Yet could he wholly condemn her for it? After what had happened—after what he had tried to do—she probably thought she’d had every right, after Antonio was killed, to cut the de Montoyas out of her life.

      But, God, his father was going to get such a shock. If he’d known of the boy’s existence, Enrique knew he would have moved heaven and earth to gain custody of the boy. Whatever he’d thought of Cassandra, whatever he’d done to try and stop their marriage, David was his grandson. His only grandson to date. And, where Julio de Montoya was concerned, blood was everything.

      Which was probably one of the main reasons why Cassandra had kept the information from them, Enrique acknowledged shrewdly. She knew better than anyone how ruthless his father could be—how ruthless he had been in pursuit of his father’s wishes.

      But he didn’t want to think about that now. This was not the time to be feeling the twinges of conscience. He had to remember how Cassandra had seduced Antonio away from his family, his duty, and the girl he had been engaged to marry. She hadn’t shown any conscience, any remorse, not even when—

      He took a deep breath. No. He would not get into his own role in the affair. The fact that it had ended in tragedy was enough to warrant any sense of outrage he might feel. Cassandra had destroyed so much: Antonio’s honour, his loyalty, his future. Was it possible that his brother had found out what a faithless bitch his new wife was and that was why he’d crashed the car as they drove to the south of England on honeymoon?

      No! Once again, he couldn’t accept that. If he did, it would mean that Antonio had found out what Enrique and his father had tried to do. Surely, in those circumstances, Cassandra would have wanted him to know, would have wanted him to suffer as she was surely suffering now.

      His jaw compressed. Thankfully he had succeeded in hiding the extent of the devastation David’s appearance had had on him. As far as Cassandra was concerned his shock had been short-lived, swiftly superseded by the anger he’d felt at her deception. No doubt she believed him to be entirely without feeling, and perhaps it was better if it stayed that way. But how the hell was he going to tell his father?

      He shook his head. It would have been so much easier ten years ago. Then, Julio de Montoya had been a strong and dominant man, perfectly capable of handling any situation, with a merciless disregard for anyone who got in his way. He had ruled Tuarega with a rod of iron, and that was why he had found it so hard to accept when Antonio had defied him and insisted he wanted to marry the English girl he’d met while he was at college in London. Julio would have done almost anything to stop that marriage, even to the extent of sending his elder son to England with orders to use any means at his disposal to prevent it.

      Enrique’s nostrils flared with sudden self-derision. That he hadn’t succeeded had always been a source of bitterness between himself and his father. He doubted Julio had ever forgiven him entirely for his failure, but his father had never known what had really happened, why Enrique had returned home without achieving his objective.

      He could have stopped the wedding. If he’d told Antonio the truth, he was fairly sure his brother would have called it off. But he hadn’t said a thing. Because he’d been too ashamed of what he’d done; because he’d had only disgust for his part in it. He’d flown back to Spain knowing that Cassandra had won.

      But had she? Now he was not so sure, and he despised himself for his weakness where she was concerned.

      It was dark as he drove up through the valley where his family had lived for hundreds of years. Lights glinted from narrow windows in the village and the floodlit spire of San Tomás’s church was a reassuring sight. It was easy to believe that nothing changed here, that the ghosts of his ancestors would see and recognise the sights and sounds of other centuries in the immediacy of the twenty-first, but he knew better. There had been many changes, most particularly during General Franco’s years as president. But fortunately the political climate in this rural area had never mirrored that found in the cities, and as he accelerated past the fields and paddocks where his toros bravos, or fighting bulls, were grazing, he felt a sense of pride in his family’s achievements.

      But that was short-lived. Thinking of his family reminded him that he had promised to ring his mother this evening. She was staying at the apartamento in Seville while her husband was in the hospital there and Enrique had said he would ring no later than seven o’clock. It was long past that time now, and he was ashamed to admit that for the past few hours he had given little thought to his responsibilities.

      His mother would be sure to think that he’d forgotten, or that he simply didn’t care. Since Julio’s illness Elena de Montoya had become over-sensitive, looking for slights where none were intended, as if she was afraid that her husband’s incapacity somehow affected her authority. Perhaps she feared that if Julio died Enrique would no longer have respect for her, which was ridiculous.

      Still, it was true that since Antonio’s death she had come to depend on him more and more. Julio’s heart attack some months ago had only increased her demands on his time, and, although Enrique knew it was only to be expected in the circumstances, it wasn’t always easy to balance his own needs with those of his parents.

      Enrique brought the powerful car to a halt beside the arched colonnade that had once fronted a coach house and which now provided garaging for the estate’s many motor vehicles. Years ago, Enrique’s grandfather had kept a shining Hispano-Suiza here, and he remembered being allowed to ride in the front of the car on special occasions. He also remembered the punishment he’d received when the old man had found out he had taken the car out alone. He’d been afraid he’d never be allowed to have a car of his own.

      But now was not the time to be having memories about the past. He knew it was seeing Cassandra again, meeting the boy, remembering what had happened ten years ago, that was responsible for his reminiscing about happier times. But the past wasn’t going to help him now. Somehow he had to decide what he was going to do about the present, and, although he intended to ring his mother, there was no way on earth he could tell her where he had been.

      Or what had happened, he conceded, nodding to the man who had emerged from the building to take charge of the car. As he strode across the forecourt to the magnificent entrance of the palacio his mind was already busy finding excuses for his tardy behaviour.

      Hardly noticing the intricately carved doorway, with its wrought-iron façade, he strode through a high-ceilinged entry that was distinctly Moorish in design. With a carved ceiling and tiled walls, this was the oldest part of the palacio and displayed its heritage in a dozen different ways. Enrique had always believed that Tuarega owed its name to the wild tribe of the Sahara, whose influence had spread beyond the shores of North Africa. But, whatever its history, there was little doubt that it owed its origins to the Saracen invaders who had occupied this part of Spain at the time of the crusades.

      Generations of Spanish conquerors had followed them, of course, and much of the present building had been erected in more recent centuries. But the palacio had retained its atmosphere of light and coolness and space, successive craftsmen sustaining the delicacy of design that had characterised its Muslim architecture.

      The courtyard, where he had eaten breakfast that morning, was immediately ahead of him, but

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