A Spanish Vengeance

She was doing the right thing. She was! She had to hang on to that belief or she would find herself turning round in the next pull-in she came to and heading straight back to Seville.

A detailed map of the area was spread out on the passenger seat but she’d only really needed it at the start of the journey from the airport. It was as if she had an internal homing device that was drawing her back towards the man she loved.

Easing the car round a particularly tight bend she recognised the glimpse of spectacular scenery—the mountainside dropping to a deep river valley, the huddle of white-washed houses far below enclosed by the verdant greenery of vines, citrus trees and olives.

As the road widened slightly it began to descend and the butterflies cranked up their annoying activities, her neck and shoulders ached with tension and, despite the car’s air-conditioning system, Lisa began to sweat. Another mile, maybe two, and she would reach the monastery. And Diego.

But she was doing the right thing!

Reaching the Claytons’ Holland Park home after visiting Ben yesterday evening, the words she’d said to him had echoed with startling, inescapable clarity inside her head.

‘Just follow your heart and do what it tells you.’

She had stood as still as a stone on the doorstep, listening. And her heart had told her to return to Spain, find Diego, and tell him how much she loved him. The voice was clear, insistent.

Her body had glowed—every vein, every nerve end, every muscle and sinew responding to the inescapable tug of him, as if he were calling to her from his remote mountain hideaway.

Now she was seeing the almost mystical experience of the evening before in a more grounded way. Diego might not be still at the old monastery. But Rosa and Manuel would be able to tell her where she could find him; they would give her the address of his home near Jerez and his place of business.

And she knew that when she eventually ran him to earth her admission of love might well leave him cold; he might simply tell her he wasn’t interested. That was something she would have to accept.

Even so, she was doing the right thing. There was a smooth, untroubled logic to it. Things left undone, important things, didn’t bring a peaceful mind. Ben had shown her that.

Soon after his accident, when he’d thought he might not make it, he’d said he needed to see her. He’d wanted to make sure she was all right, to tell her to come back home if things weren’t working out for her, that she’d be welcome, no hard feelings. He hadn’t wanted to leave the assurances unsaid.

And life was notoriously precarious. If something happened either to her or, heaven forbid, Diego, before she’d put the record straight there would be no peace, no closure.

Tears were wetting her face when she eventually switched off the ignition on the forecourt. Briefly closing her eyes, she gave herself a few moments to quieten her mind before mopping the dampness

away with a tissue, exiting and stretching her cramped muscles. She took a deep breath and walked steadily over the sun-baked slabs towards the main door.

Her mouth ran dry and her heart banged savagely against her ribs. Would he refuse to let her cross the threshold? Refuse to listen to what she had to say? Had she come on a fool’s errand?

Don’t even think about it—don’t accept defeat until it’s inevitable. Think of something else, or don’t think at all!

The late afternoon sun burned through the thin cotton of her blouse. But at this time of year the evenings in the mountains would be decidedly chilly. Had she packed a sweater? Did it matter?

‘Señorita!’ The great door swung open and Rosa’s pretty face was wreathed in a beaming smile. Lisa gulped and did her best to return it.

‘I heard the car. So it is you—you stay?’

Lisa tucked a heavy strand of hair behind her ear, took a steadying breath. ‘I’m not sure.’ And wasn’t that the truth—she could be thrown out in two seconds flat. ‘But I’d like to speak to the señor. If you’d tell him I’m here, please.’

‘Come—’ Rosa ushered her into the cool vastness of the great hall. ‘I fetch Manuel. He has the good English. I have not so good.’

Not a bad idea at that, Lisa thought as she lowered herself into a heavily carved chair beneath the tall window flanking the door, wishing the flutter of internal nerves wasn’t making her feel quite so nauseous. There had been too many misunderstandings in the past; they could all do without any more. Though she’d have thought that a simple request to tell Diego she was here would have been easy enough to understand.

By the time Manuel put in an appearance Lisa was pacing the floor, mentally climbing walls, about to go in search of Diego herself because this waiting, this not knowing what her reception would be was killing her.

Twirling on her heels she faced him, nerves pattering. Soon now she would see her love—

‘Rosa tells me you have come back from England to meet with the señor.’ His swarthy features were sympathetic. ‘But he is not here. He left very early this morning before it was light.’

‘I see.’ The tension drained out of her, quickly replaced by a dull sense of frustration. Nothing to get in a panic about, though. She had half-expected it, mentally prepared herself for this eventuality, hadn’t she?

She’d missed him by a whisker.

‘Then perhaps you could give me addresses of where I might find him?’