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Adrenaline shot through him, swiftly followed by relief. It looked exactly like the book the thief had taken from Cerys’s bag that night. The one item she had been so determined to retrieve.
‘Well done, Pérez,’ he said.
‘This is the book you described to me?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’ He had only seen it fleetingly, but he was sure of it.
But as Pérez passed him the book, the detective frowned. ‘I’m afraid to say the man who sold it to me had already shown it to a journalist.’
‘I see… Why would a journalist be interested in it?’ he asked, annoyed. They had not released any details about Cerys, her amnesia—or their wedding—to the press yet, so that yesterday’s ceremony could remain private. Why had those damn vultures been snooping about?
‘Perhaps you should read it first,’ Pérez replied, which was hardly an answer. But then the man’s gaze became shadowed with something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy. Who the hell was that aimed at? ‘It appears to be her mother’s journal,’ he added. ‘It also explains why she may have been in the Plaça Reial that night… Because you were.’
What?
‘Okay. You are sure?’ he said.
The man nodded, still looking grave.
But then Santiago’s heart lifted, along with a large portion of the guilt which had been bothering him for weeks now, ever since he had taken her virginity.
Why did it matter why Cerys had been in the plaza? Perhaps she had heard of the family scandal which had made him a figure of public scrutiny for years. So what? If the journal belonged to her mother, it would surely hold the clues they sought to reveal her identity.
‘Regardless, this is good news,’ he said, taking the book from the detective.
This wasn’t just good news—it was excellent news. Finally, Cerys would have a way to unlock the rest of her memories. The doctors had all said her recovery had been delayed because she had been in an unfamiliar place ever since the assault. That if they could discover her real name, the details of her past, it would jog her memory loose, and speed the process up considerably. She had remembered so many fragments already, but verifiable details would help to create a much fuller picture.
But while he hated to see her struggle, he knew his motives were also selfish.
He wanted her to know everything. Wanted her to be fully herself again, so there would be no more nightmares.
After last night, and the impulsive decision to have the villa decorated, he suspected she was already developing deeper feelings for him. And while in some ways that served his purpose, he hated the thought that until she was fully healed she could not know her own mind completely. Nor did he want her to be so vulnerable. Because surely this was why he felt so driven to protect her.
Of course, he was also curious to discover more about her. Where she came from, who she was, why she seemed to expect so little of people, while at the same time giving so much of herself. Because her open and generous heart had begun to captivate him—which also could not be good.
Sitting down, Santiago opened the cover of the book. But then the name of the owner scribbled across the facing page leapt out at him and seemed to grab him around the throat. The anticipation curdled in his stomach, becoming sharp with shock… And then dread.
Angharad Jones.
The name which had been etched on Santiago’s consciousness for fifteen years. The name of the woman who had helped to plunge his family into scandal and grief and extinguished hundreds of years of honour. And for what? To satisfy his father’s indiscriminate libido and her own.
The dread spread, its tentacles wrapping around his ribs. Nausea rose up like venom, poisoning everything in its path—everything that had happened in the last three weeks, the last two months even. The way Cerys had captivated and excited him, the longing and hope in her eyes last night curdled, until all that was left was the bitter taste of irony. And all those cruel memories which he thought he had conquered a lifetime ago.
He swallowed to stop himself from gagging. Then flipped through the book blindly, until he reached the final entry.
Pérez murmured something that sounded like an apology, but Santiago could barely hear it over the discordant throbbing in his ears as he read what Cerys’s mother had written fifteen years ago—on the night she had run away with his father.
Fury and fear and hopelessness tangled in his gut like venomous snakes. It was a feeling he remembered far too vividly. From when he had looked into his own mother’s sightless eyes, registered the empty bottle of pills on her bedside table and known he had not done enough to save her. Or his baby brother or sister.
His hands shook, his breath sawing out, the control he had worked so hard to maintain threatening to shatter again and leave him even more alone.
The writing scribbled in bold black ink danced in front of his eyes. Sickening, disgusting, selfish words. This woman had destroyed his family. To satisfy her lust. To alleviate her boredom.
The horrifying truth dawned on him. Guilt solidified the brick in the pit of his stomach, freezing it into a block of ice-cold contempt.
The journal fell from his numb fingers onto the carpet.
He stood, shaking with anger and disbelief, even as his stomach twisted with shame.