The Spaniard's Passion. Jane Porter
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knew that just decorating the enormous tree would take her and two staff members all day. “It always is.”
He looked down at her, no smile anywhere in his hard blue gaze. “Will I know any of your guests?”
Blood surged to her cheeks. “I don’t think so.”
He studied her expression for a long, tense moment. “You make me nervous, Sophie.”
She forced a laugh. “You, nervous? Come on Lon. You’re Superman. Only thing you’re afraid of is kryptonite!” And she moved on, toward the front door, feeling as if she were walking a tightrope.
She couldn’t manage her feelings around Lon.
She couldn’t manage Lon.
And she couldn’t forget the past. Her life felt nearly impossible now. Ever since Clive died she’d struggled along, confused. Disoriented. It was grief, some said, but for Sophie it was more.
She reached the entry and faced the second floor landing where Wilkins family portraits covered the pale green walls.
Something terrible had happened to her husband in Sao Paulo and Sophie needed to know. She had to understand or she’d never get any peace, never mind closure.
“I miss him, Lon,” she said as she heard Lon’s footsteps sound behind her. “I miss Clive. I miss his optimism and most of all, I miss the way he laughed. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s only been two years since he died. It feels like ten.”
“He’d hate what he’s done to you, Sophie,” Lon said tightly. “He’d hate that he left you like this—”
“He made a mistake.”
“He made dozens.”
“Don’t.” She turned to face Lon, pain washing over her in waves. “Don’t criticize him. Not now, not with him gone. I can’t bear it.” And she couldn’t. As it was, Clive’s death weighed on her, torturing her.
It was her fault, she thought. Karma. Payback. Revenge.
Lon’s hand rested on the ornate doorknob. “He’d hate you trapped here at Melrose Court, he’d hate that you’ve been left with so little and have to struggle alone like this—”
“It’s not his fault,” she interrupted hoarsely, unable to let him continue, unable to see herself the way Lon saw her.
Lon didn’t know her. Lon didn’t know the truth.
She wasn’t a good virtuous woman. She wasn’t the loyal loving wife she’d pretended to be.
Karma, talk about karma. She’d filed for divorce only one day before the telegram arrived announcing Clive’s death.
One day before he died. Could punishment be any swifter? It was as if the gods had said, you want to be free, lady? Wish granted—be free! Want to go it alone? Do it!
She turned away again, moving up the stairwell once more to find Clive’s portrait on the landing. Clive’s portrait hung next to his father’s, and staring at Clive’s handsome features, with his shock of blond hair, she felt like a traitor.
Her eyes burned, her nose burned, her throat burned, but the burning was nothing like the fire raging inside her heart.
Clive had tried his best and yet his love hadn’t been enough. She’d still wanted more.
Still needed more.
Her disloyalty had killed Clive, and as much as she cared for Alonso, as much as she craved his warmth and his strength, as much as she needed him emotionally and physically, she couldn’t have him. It’d be like rewarding herself for her sins.
“I know you miss him,” Lon said quietly, “but you have to move forward, not back.”
Her throat ached with all the tears she wouldn’t let fall. She’d never forget the day she received the telegram from the British consulate in Brazil. Lady Wilkins, we regret to inform you…
Sophie looked up, shook her head. Clive had only been twenty-nine. Twenty-nine. Far too young to die. “How can I move forward if I don’t understand the past? I don’t understand how Clive died, or why he died…”
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She shuddered, imagining Clive’s final minutes. Apparently Clive had been shot at close range. “But why? Why would he be there? What would take him to that neighborhood at that time of night?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Lon answered, opening the door and stepping outside. He froze on the doorstep.
Beyond Alonso’s big shoulders Sophie saw huge white flakes slowly fall. The landscape shone white, the sky a curtain of swirling snow.
“It’s snowing.” She joined Lon at the door, quarrel momentarily forgotten. “It’s beautiful.”
“I haven’t seen snow in years.”
Sophie followed him outside, and the wind gusted, blowing white flakes in through the door. She reached up to catch the delicate flakes landing on her cheeks and in her hair. The night was so quiet, so perfectly still, and it made her heart ache.
For her, for Clive, for Lon. For all of them.
“How did we come to this, Lon?” she whispered, crossing her arms over her chest and watching the snow flurries fall.
“We grew up.”
Her eyes felt hot and gritty. “We were supposed to always be friends. We were the Three Musketeers.”
The corner of Lon’s mouth lifted. “Tres amigos.”
The three buddies…the three friends. Clive, Lon, and Sophie. Her eyes felt raw. Her throat was sore. She’d been holding back the emotion all night, trying to contain the staggering hurt and need. “How do we fix this? How do we make it right?”
He glanced down at her, his expression curiously gentle. “We focus on the future. We make the rest of our lives as meaningful as possible.”
“But that would mean leaving Clive behind.”
Lon didn’t answer and hot tears filled her eyes. She wished she could move toward Lon, move into his arms and feel his warmth, his strength. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” Her voice sounded raspy. “I want to be friends with you again, and I’m sorry for what I said to you earlier. I’m sorry that I said what I did about your mom. I don’t dislike her. I know she’s had a hard life.”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s been an unconventional life. But it’s what she wanted, and she’s learned to be happy.”
Sophie looked out at the horizon where the powdery snow reflected the moonlight, and the gently rolling landscape glittered and shone as far as the eye could see.
Lon brushed a snowflake from her temple. “You can learn to be happy, too, Sophie. It’s just a matter of choosing happiness.”
His touch made her feel hot, tingly. She balled her fingers. How could Lon still make her feel this way? The snow was dusting his black leather coat, clinging to his hair, his lashes. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is.” Lon drew his car keys from his pocket. “So what are you wearing to the gala?” He asked, smiling, trying to lighten the mood.
She made a face. “My standard black.”
“Clive hated you in black.”
She grimaced again. Clive did hate her in black. Everything he ever gave her was saturated in color. Yellows, reds, blues, greens. “Black’s practical.”
“At least you didn’t say slimming.” Lon’s smile disappeared and he stared at her for a long, pensive moment. His inspection was intense, intimate and she grew warm all over. He looked at her with undisguised desire.
“I