Page 6

Chicas?
Cerys frowned, her head screaming. She didn’t know what that meant, but from the girl’s expression she could guess.
‘I’m not your brother’schica,’ she said, because that was one thing she was certain of. She’d never heard of this guy. And she wasn’t sure she had ever been anyone’schica.
The girl’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, because I’ve never met him,’ she said. Although… Something was pushing at the edges of her memory—dark eyes like the girl’s, but so serious and intense they made her stomach muscles quiver.
The girl’s eyebrows rose, but as she opened her mouth to question Cerys further, an older woman Cerys vaguely recognised appeared, carrying a silver tray. Stern but polite, she spoke in rapid Spanish to the girl, while placing the tray over Cerys’s lap and lifting a silver dome to reveal a lavish cooked breakfast which had Cerys’s stomach realising how empty it was. All the time the older woman continued to argue calmly with the girl, who protested, then begged, then pouted, all in Spanish, but was finally ushered out of the room. The girl swung round at the door to wink at Cerys.
‘My name’s Ana, I amel Duque’s sister. Do not fear, I will be back to investigate later,’ she said, then was shooed through the closing door by the woman who Cerys had guessed must be María.
Investigate what, exactly?
The housekeeper smiled at Cerys, while speaking in a soothing voice, but all in Spanish. Then tucked a napkin in the neck of the cotton nightdress Cerys was wearing—which she didn’t recognise either.
A lump caught in Cerys’s throat, the motherly gesture calling to a vague memory from long ago which made sadness squeeze her ribs. She swallowed down the inexplicable swell of tears.
As she struggled to eat the fluffy tortilla accompanied by toasted bread and a delicately spiced tomato salad, the housekeeper continued to question her gently in Spanish.
After a few mouthfuls, Cerys had to put the fork down. She was exhausted and it hurt her jaw to chew, plus her stomach was rebelling against the thoughts racing around her sore head.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,’ she said to the housekeeper, who seemed surprised. ‘And the breakfast is delicious, but I can’t eat any more.’
The woman nodded, unoffended, and lifted the tray. She said something which included the name Montoya.
‘Thank you so much for looking after me,’ Cerys said as the housekeeper left the room. The woman only smiled.
Cerys was still staring out of the large bay window ten minutes later, studying the acres of vines interspersed with woodland which covered the surrounding hills, trying to make sense of all the questions in her head…
Why was she here? Who were these people? And why was her mind so blank? She didn’t even know how she had acquired the bruises on her face and her backside. Or where the simple oversized nightdress she was wearing came from.
She jumped when a sharp knock sounded on the door.
‘Come in…’ she said.
Heat scorched her sore face when a tall man walked into the room—making the palatial bedroom suddenly feel poky. She didn’t recognise him, but he seemed to have a physical effect on her—making her belly jiggle and heat spread across her collarbone and down into her…
She crossed her arms over her chest, far too aware of the loose-fitting nightie, and her nipples pebbling into stiff peaks beneath the thin cotton.
He stepped closer and the light from the window illuminated his face. The square jaw, the patrician nose, the serious expression and those eyes… A deep, dark brown, with flecks of gold in the irises. Why did she recognise his eyes? They were like the girl’s but also not—because they had none of her amusement or excitement… Or transparent emotion.
In a fitted shirt and expertly creased suit trousers, he was magnetic. In fact, she couldn’t stop staring at him as he crossed the room and sat in the chair the girl had vacated.
‘Buen dia.’ His clipped Spanish accent did nothing to reduce the scalding heat rising up Cerys’s neck like a mushroom cloud. ‘I am Santiago Álvaro De Montoya Lopez.El Duque de Cantada.Do you remember me?’
So, this was the brother Ana had mentioned.
Cerys wanted to say yes, because shedefinitelyremembered his eyes—so disturbing and compelling—but nothing else about him was familiar. Not even the discolouration on his brow beneath the tanned skin. How had he become bruised, too?
While he studied her intently, waiting for her answer, she decided she couldn’t possibly have met him before, because she would not have forgotten anyone this overwhelming—and frankly, hot. She managed to shake her head, his presence so intimidating it had robbed her of the power of speech.
His eyes narrowed, his gaze becoming even more piercing, if that were possible—the sceptical expression made Cerys feel guilty, but she had no idea what for.
‘We met in Barcelona, two nights ago,’ he said in perfect English. ‘You were injured, during a street robbery. Do you remember this?’
She shook her head again, then cleared her throat.