Mistress of La Rioja. Sharon Kendrick
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the hacienda with Salvadora, his wife. She is Teodoro’s ninera—as she was mine before, when I was a child.’
‘Since…when?’ asked Sophie, thinking that Salvadora must be getting on a bit if she used to look after Luis. ‘Since before Miranda died?’
‘Oh, long before that,’ he murmured evasively. ‘My son is devoted to her. You will see that for yourself.’
A wave of indignation washed over her, and something far more primitive followed on its heels. Had Miranda effectively been elbowed out of the way? she wondered. The Englishwoman pushed aside for the mummy-substitute—a fellow Spaniard who could teach Teodoro the language and traditions of his father?
Well, not for much longer, vowed Sophie. Somehow she would teach him something of his mother’s heritage. She scrabbled around again in her handbag, this time for a hairbrush.
His mouth curved. ‘There is no one here to impress with your beauty, mia querida,’ he drawled. Apart from him. Because when she lifted her head like that he could see the long, pure line of her neck and the perfect curve of her breasts.
‘That was not my intention.’ She carefully brushed out the fine, honey-coloured hair, which felt all sticky through the many hours of travelling. ‘I merely wanted to make myself presentable on my arrival.’ She could see distant lights. ‘Are we almost there?’
‘Yes, we are just about to pass through the vineyards.’
She looked out of the window again. The famous La Camara vineyards. The largest and most impressive in the region, with grapes yielding a rich harvest which was turned into exquisite wines exported the world over.
She had once drunk La Camara Rioja herself, at a very smart dinner party in London where the host had brought the fine wine out with a reverent air and everyone had sipped it with avid and awed appreciation.
All except for Sophie. She had managed no more than a couple of mouthfuls, feeling that the stuff might choke her as she remembered the proud, arrogant face and the mocking black eyes.
‘You aren’t drinking, Sophie?’ the host had commented.
It would have been a real party-stopper if she had explained that she was related by marriage to the owner of the vineyard, a man who made her blood sing and her temper flare in equal measure whenever she thought about him.
And she didn’t want to think about him.
Muffling a little gulp, she sat back in the seat and closed her eyes.
Luis glanced over at her, frowning a little as he saw the tension which tightened her shoulders, wondering if she was about to cry, and instinctively his voice gentled. ‘Did you eat on the plane?’
‘No. It was horrible little bits of unrecognisable food in plastic trays. And I wasn’t hungry.’
‘We will have dinner when we arrive.’
‘Surely it’s too late for dinner?’
‘But we eat very late in Spain, Sophie, did you not know that? Did you not know that the Spanish are more awake than anyone in Europe—and not only because they regard going to bed before three a.m. as a kind of personal dishonour?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve only ever been to Spain once, and that was for the weekend when Teodoro was baptised.’
‘Then you have missed very much.’ His voice had deepened now, was made almost kind with something which sounded like compassion. ‘I wish this time it could be under happier circumstances, querida. It is a pity that you will see little of my country before you return home.’
There was an expectant silence and Sophie ignored it.
But Luis did not. ‘By the way, you didn’t tell me how long you were going to be staying?’
‘No. No, I didn’t.’
‘And?’
She was glad of the darkness because the way he framed that single syllable was nothing short of intimidating.
‘I’m not sure.’ Until she had reached a position of trust which ensured that she would be able to fly Teo back to England for a short holiday to see his great-grandmother. But now was definitely not the time to tell him that.
And then she reminded herself that as his guest he was owed certain courtesies. ‘That is, I would like to stay for at least a few days, maybe longer, if that’s OK with you. I’d like to see a bit of Teo.’
Unseen, his eyes narrowed. No, it was not ‘OK with him.’ He did not want this woman in his home for a minute longer than necessary—for reasons which were both simple and highly complex. He wanted her, but he could never have her. Not now. Not ever.
‘Spaniards are famous for their hospitality, Sophie,’ he said softly. ‘And therefore my home is yours for as long as you wish it.’
Sophie nodded. Unless he made it impossible for her to remain, of course. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.
‘De nada,’ he answered.
The car swept up a gravelled drive, and through the broad canopy of strange trees Sophie saw the welcoming lights of the large hacienda.
He opened the door of the car and she thought that she caught the drift of oranges and lemons, the soft night air thick with the scent of exotic blooms. She gazed at the imposing building which looked as if it had been there for ever. There was a sense of beauty, and of history, which she found impossible to ignore, despite the heartbreaking circumstances which had brought her here.
And then she was caught in the ebony glitter of those beautiful, mocking eyes.
‘Welcome to my home, Sophie,’ he said softly.
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