The Spaniard's Pleasure. Margaret Mayo
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be like to effortlessly dominate any room you were in with mere physical presence.
‘It was quite a performance,’ Antonio admitted, looking out at the cityscape. ‘Finch made a very convincing heartbroken father. The law is apparently on my side—’
‘That’s debatable.’
‘And it seems I woke up one morning and decided to snatch the child, who apparently I rejected as a baby, away from her loving home.’
And Antonio had been forced to stand there and listen, unable to deny the barrage of lies without revealing the man his daughter had called Father for the past thirteen years was discarding her like a worn-out toy.
He was no psychologist, but Antonio couldn’t think this would make any kid, let alone one who had recently lost her mother, feel particularly secure!
‘That’s what the girl thinks? No wonder she’s telling people you’ve kidnapped her! The man’s a—’
‘Suffice it to say that Finch does not have a warm loving personality. I think he must have been one of those children who got their kicks pulling the wings off flies.’
‘Sociopathic tendencies,’ Huw inserted knowledgeably.
‘If you say so.’ Antonio was not really interested in labels. ‘He does like to see people squirm.’
Huw frowned, unable to believe his friend was as calm as he appeared. Just imagining how such a shocking revelation would rock his own comfortable world brought him out in a cold sweat.
‘Antonio, if this guy is out for revenge and he doesn’t care about hurting the girl, isn’t his next port of call going to be the tabloids? I know you don’t give a damn what they write about you, though I still think that if you were more litigious they’d think twice, but—’
‘Now there,’ mocked Antonio, ‘speaks a lawyer. Don’t worry, there will be no story.’
Huw studied his friend’s face with a frown. ‘You’re sure about that?’
Antonio nodded. The smile that lifted the corners of his expressive mouth did not touch his eyes. They were arctic-cold. ‘Absolutely sure. Charles Finch is in no position to throw stones.’
Huw’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. ‘You’ve got some dirt on him, haven’t you?’ He should have known that Antonio would already have that base covered. The other man did not leave things to chance.
‘Let’s just say that our Mr Finch has sailed a little close to the wind, legally speaking, on several occasions. I have often observed it is often the way with greedy men,’ he remarked contemptuously.
‘And he—Finch—knows you know about these indiscretions?’ Huw suggested.
‘I might have mentioned it,’ he admitted casually.
Huw gave a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s something. Antonio, I hope you’re not taking this guy’s word…just because you knew his wife…?’ Huw touched on the subject cautiously. Antonio was notoriously tightlipped when it came to his personal life.
Sometimes he thought that was why the tabloids’ pursuit of the wealthy Spaniard was so relentless. They simply couldn’t deal with his total and, as far as Huw could tell, genuine indifference to them.
‘It was before she was his wife.’ Antonio, his expression unreadable, dextrously twirled a pen between his long fingers. ‘Apparently she kept a diary for years, a detailed diary, which is how Finch came to discover Tamara wasn’t his.’
‘Being in a diary doesn’t make something the truth. I kept a diary when I was a kid, it was a work of total fiction. And if you were going to invent a fictional father for your kid the rich and powerful Antonio Rochas would be a pretty good choice, don’t you think?’
‘This was nearly fourteen years ago. The rich and powerful Antonio Rochas did not exist. I was a college student pleasing my father by learning the business from the bottom up. I was working as a waiter in one of our hotels.’
‘She didn’t know you were the boss’s son?’
‘Nobody but the manager knew who I was. Besides, I just knew the moment I saw the girl that she was mine.’
Huw was appalled by the harsh admission. ‘God, you can’t rely on gut instincts, Antonio!’
‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a total leap of faith. Finch was considerate enough to supply Tamara’s DNA. I had the required tests done.’
‘So there’s no doubt…?’
Antonio shook his head.
‘Hell I don’t know what I’d do if it happened to me. What are you going to do?’
‘Go back to the Grange.’
‘She’s there?’
Antonio nodded. ‘It seemed less traumatic than dragging her back to Spain with me.’ The home where his English mother had been brought up and where he had spent happy vacations as a child had passed to him on his grandfather’s death. Going there had seemed a good alternative to returning home.
‘Your mother’s there?’
‘My mother is on her world cruise,’ Antonio reminded him. ‘She offered to come home, but I thought it might be better if we had some time alone.’ That had been eight days ago. If asked again today, Antonio was not sure his response to the maternal offer would be the same!
‘Is there anything I can do…?’ Huw tried not to look too obviously relieved when Antonio assured him there wasn’t.
The door slammed. Antonio was beginning to suspect that his immediate future held a lot of door slamming.
There had to be a solution to this problem, he told himself. Experience had taught him there was always a solution.
He just didn’t know what it was yet.
‘You don’t want me any more than I want you,’ his new daughter had yelled before her dramatic exit from the room. ‘You wish I don’t even exist! Do you wish I hadn’t been born? Stupid question—of course you do. You’re not even English. And,’ she added, glaring up into his lean dark face, ‘it’s your fault I’m so horribly tall! I got your genes!’
‘I am your father.’
The gentle reminder precipitated her flight.
Hand on the door handle, she turned back, tears sparkling in her eyes.
‘Biological father!’ she sneered, making it sound like the worst insult in the world. ‘And why are your eyes so blue? They’re spooky…like a wolf or something with those dark rings around the iris. This place isn’t my home and if anyone here calls me Miss Rochas again I’ll scream. My name is Finch. I can’t even pronounce Rochas. I hate it and I hate you! I wish you were dead!’
At intervals he heard the slamming of several more doors.
Well, that went well.
As he looked out through the full-length Georgian windows to the green sweep of manicured lawn beyond, Tamara, her hair flying out behind her, was running as though the devil himself were on her heels.
Antonio knew that this role had been assigned to him in her eyes.
It would be dark in another hour and, though the evening was one of his favourite times to walk the woods, he was pretty sure a town-bred girl would not enjoy the experience.
On his way out, he shrugged on a jacket and shoved a torch in his pocket.
He was in luck—well, it had to happen some time—the gardener had seen her heading in the direction of the west wood. By the time he had vaulted over a stile and entered the wood the shadows were deepening and so was his concern.
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