A Spanish Vengeance

Some women—herself probably first among them—were their own worst enemies! She wished she could turn love off, like a tap, but knew she couldn’t.

She could have married dear, safe, trustworthy Ben and spent her life on an even keel, avoiding the shattering peaks and troughs of being madly in love with a man she couldn’t trust as far as she could throw him. She desperately wanted to trust him but how could she?

Pausing on the first floor landing to allow her racing heartbeat to decelerate, she leant against the cool stone window mullion. She was going to be sensible and calm about this, not rush in hurling accusations which might be unfounded.

She was no longer a naive eighteen-year-old, fresh from a convent schoolroom, she reminded herself snippily. They were both, as Diego had stated, older and wiser. She would have to try harder to believe in him, in spite of the haunting memories of what had happened all those years ago.

She knew she’d been a darn sight longer than the half an hour Diego had given her. Nevertheless she lingered for a further few moments, her attention drawn now by a bright yellow low-slung sports car parked at a skewed angle on the gravelled approach at the front of the building.

Diego had a visitor, she deduced on a flash of irritation. What a time to pick! The planned confrontation would have to be put on hold. Which might not be such a bad thing, she reflected on consideration, beginning the final descent to the ground floor. It would give her more time to cool off and recover from the shock of finding that woman’s framed photograph in Diego’s bedroom.

She had no appetite for breakfast, usually taken in the courtyard, but if there was any of Rosa’s excellent coffee left and still drinkable she could certainly do with a cup.

Suddenly the idea of sitting in the peaceful seclusion of the courtyard strongly appealed. Breathing in the warm scented air and listening to the melodic sound of the doves, the fountain playing into its stone basin, the rustle of the soft breeze in the leaves of the old fig tree while she waited for Diego to deal with his visitor was exactly what she needed.

Such tranquillity would surely help her to come at the situation from an adult direction?

The quickest way to her objective was through the outer door in the library, rather than the french doors leading out of the small salon she normally used. Funny how she was finally learning her way around this maze of a building at precisely the time she might have to leave nursing a badly broken heart.

But she wouldn’t think about that. Not yet anyway. It was far too negative, she informed herself tartly as she pushed open the heavy oak door. First she had to hear what Diego had to say. She might have got entirely the wrong end of the stick, which begged the question that she might have badly overreacted five years ago.

And that was the last sensible thought she had because what Diego had to say on the subject of the silver-framed photograph became academic when she saw that the subject herself was sitting at the table beneath the fig tree with floods of tears running down her beautiful face. Diego was seated opposite, leaning forward, holding her hands in both of his, talking to her, his actual words indecipherable from this distance, but the tone of his voice soothing and quite definitely placatory.

Something he said must have angered the beautiful young brunette. It happened so quickly that Lisa, rigid with the shock of what she was witnessing, could only flinch with disbelief as the other woman sprang to her feet, bristling with anger, her voice hysterically shrill. The only word she was able to pick out of the tirade of Spanish was Perfidia!—and wasn’t perfidious one of the words she’d used herself to describe the man who’d betrayed her with this very woman five years ago?

Lisa’s eyes frosted over, her stomach tying itself in knots, as she watched Diego immediately get to his feet and capture the other woman’s gesticulating hands. Then, with a few murmured words—silver-tongued, lying excuses?—he pulled her into his arms and held her there, tenderly pressing her glossy dark head against his wide shoulder, rocking her gently back and forth until gradually moving her towards the door to the house.

As they disappeared inside Lisa pressed her knuckles against her mouth to stop herself from crying out. She had no idea what was going on but from where she was standing those two were very far from being casual acquaintances! The suspicion that the other woman was either his fiancée or his wife returned with a force that made her feel ill.

The only way to discover the truth was to confront them and ask. And the only way to get her leaden legs to move was to try to assure herself that this was just some misunderstanding, something that looked definitely iffy on the surface, hiding a perfectly innocent explanation. After last night it just had to be that. She wasn’t going to go on torturing herself by thinking anything else. Well, was she?

Shaking inside, Lisa found herself in the great hall. The ancient stone walls seemed to freeze her right through to her bones instead of creating the usual welcome cool ambience. The silence lay like a heavy weight on her shoulders. Now she was about to begin her search for Diego and the other woman she didn’t think she had the courage.

If what she couldn’t help suspecting turned out to be the truth she didn’t think she could bear it. Not after last night when his love-making had made her feel like the most beautiful, desired and loved woman in the world.

Adrenalin pumping, she almost leapt out of her skin when Rosa, soft-footed in her comfy old plimsolls, appeared at her shoulder. Her pretty features had concern and condemnation written all over them. Her normal smile was notably absent. Disconcerted, Lisa told herself not to be a coward; she had to get this sorted out, of course she did. She stated, ‘I’m looking for the señor. Do you know where he is?’

A quick frown clouded the big brown eyes. ‘I am to take to them coffee and cognac and leave—solo—’ She struggled with her rudimentary English. ‘You leave also. Is bad thing when the beautiful Isabella find husband have other woman. Much explosions! The señor needs to be—privado. So you leave also?’

Leave. It was the only option, Lisa decided hollowly as Rosa disappeared to meet Diego’s request for coffee and brandy. Barely able to move for the feverish pain that invaded every inch of her body, she dragged herself upstairs to the rooms she’d been given.

To allow herself to be conned by Diego once had been a dreadful mistake. To allow it to happen twice should be a capital offence!

That she hadn’t known he was married was no excuse, she castigated herself wildly as she closed the door to her bedroom behind her and sagged weakly back against it, nausea a coiled knot in her stomach. She should have damned well asked.

She should have known. A man so gorgeous, sinfully sexy and rotten rich would have been snapped up years ago.

Isabella—as Rosa had named her—had obviously discovered that he had a woman holed up here with him in his self-admitted private hideout, the place the family rarely visited, where his sins, for sins they were, could be hidden.

But someone must have blown the whistle—Rosa, through a sense of family loyalty?—and the wronged wife had appeared to confront him. Demanding explanations was out of the question; she saw that now, she thought on a wave of draining exhaustion. His poor wife had enough to contend with without coming face to face with Diego’s latest bit on the side.

Feeling dreadful for her part in this sordid shambles, Lisa walked unsteadily to the hanging cupboard to drag her clothes out. Just the things she’d brought with her—she never wanted to set eyes on the expensive gear he’d bought her again.

In a minute she’d change out of the pretty skirt and sexy top she was wearing. But first she had to make sure she had everything she needed. Her head was in a dreadful daze, her brain consumed by her awful discovery. If she didn’t take herself firmly in hand she could well land up at the airport without the essentials, hysterical and not knowing what the hell she thought she was doing!

Tipping the contents of her handbag out on to the bed beside her s

uitcase and the untidy heap of clothing she’d tossed there, she sifted through what the average male would classify as junk—combs, lipstick, tissues, sundry keys, a battered appointments diary, a clutch of old letters and postcards from friends—and located her passport and her wallet. She would use her credit card to take care of the flight home but, unfortunately, she would need to beg a lift to the airport.