The Latin Affair. Sophie Weston
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lightning decisions. ‘OK. You’d better wheel her in for a bit But not long.’
He reached for his jacket.
Esteban never received visitors in his shirt sleeves, Anne thought. Not even a lady he regularly spent the night with. Though she was not sure that Francesca Moran was in that category these days, in spite of the gossip or, indeed, the hints that Miss Moran herself let fall so heavily.
‘I’ll just clear a space,’ murmured Anne, again the perfect secretary, advancing on a tower of papers.
Esteban looked around his room in faint surprise. Apart from the papers that covered his desk, there were two large books open on the floor beside him and piles of more papers that needed his attention on every one of his comfortable chairs. He looked amused suddenly.
‘Don’t bother.’
‘But she’s got to have somewhere to sit.’
‘Why? It will only encourage her,’ said Esteban wickedly.
He flicked his lapels straight. Looking up, he gave her a conspiratorial grin.
‘Buzz me in five, max. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Anne.
Francesca Moran, she thought with satisfaction, would be back in the rainy garden a lot sooner than she expected. Anne did not like Francesca.
It would have been impossible to tell from Esteban’s manner whether he liked her or not. He kissed her on both exquisitely made up cheeks in welcome. But he adroitly avoided her move to deepen the embrace and retired behind the bulwark of his desk. Francesca accepted the rebuff as gracefully as if she had not recognised it. She took up a perch on the arm of an ancient leather chair and gave him a sweet smile.
‘We need to talk,’ she said caressingly.
Esteban raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’
Francesca’s myopic grey eyes made her look vague and fragile. It was misleading.
‘Yes. I was thinking all the time I was in Cornwall. It’s stupid for us to be like this. We ought to let bygones be bygones and pool our resources.’
Esteban’s poker face was famous. But for a moment he could not contain his astonishment. At once, he controlled his expression. But one corner of his mouth twitched.
‘Are you proposing to me, Francesca?’ he asked politely.
She was not disconcerted. She batted her eyelashes and gave him a smile of calculated charm.
‘Well, you’re not going to propose to me, are you?’
Esteban was surprised into laughing aloud. ‘You’re right there,’ he agreed, watching her with fascination.
Francesca shrugged. ‘So it’s up to me,’ she said with no sign of rancour. ‘You need a wife. It would be ideal.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t, you know,’ said Esteban. He was gentle but quite firm.
But Francesca, as he had learned in Gibraltar last year, did not recognise firmness when it meant someone not doing what she wanted.
‘It would be perfect,’ she said, unheeding. ‘The time is right for both of us.’
Esteban leaned back in his chair and surveyed her in disbelief. She smiled back, not discouraged. He decided to try another tack.
‘What makes you think I need a wife?’ he drawled.
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.