Page 14 of Stolen For My Spanish Scandal

The sun was shining on the lawns and the lake itself, turning the water a deep translucent green. On the foothills around the mountains purple heather bloomed, and the beauty of the little valley made me catch my breath.

No, it wasn’t anywhere bad. And I was still wearing my cheap black dress, although someone had taken off my shoes and put me into bed. Had that been Con? Had he laid me in that comfortable bed? Pulled the quilt up around me?

And where was I? It looked a little like Scotland, though I’d never been there. But if it was Scotland, why was I here?

I turned from the view, smoothing my dress—a pointless task, since I’d slept in it and it was now hopelessly creased. A shower would be nice, but I had nothing to change into, and finding out what was going on was more of a priority.

Going over to the door, I tried the handle, half expecting it to be locked, and was surprised to find that it wasn’t.

Outside was a long carpeted corridor with wood-panelled walls hung with landscapes and portraits. Windows at one end let the sunshine in, making it feel very light and airy.

It was very quiet.

Leaving the bedroom, I padded down the corridor in my bare feet until I came to a large, sweeping set of stairs that led downwards. The stairs were carpeted too, with more half-panelled walls, although this time the paintings on them were of a larger variety. A stag stood majestically before a green forest, his antlers glossy in the sunlight.

I went down the stairs and came to a large entrance hall. There were huge wooden double doors with glass panels to let the light in, as well as expensive silk rugs on the pale carpet. A few tables stood around, set with more flowers and a few sculptures, and—strangely for an entrance hall—there was also a big fireplace.

It was a gracious, luxurious space. A manor fit for an aristocrat.

Still not sure where to go, I went over to the first door I could see near the stairs and pushed it open.

Another large room opened out before me, a sitting room with windows on two sides, one giving a view of the rolling green lawns, the other looking out over the green water of the lake.

The room was full of light, its pale golden walls reflecting the sunshine and making the room seem warm and inviting. Comfortable couches upholstered in pale colours were scattered here and there, while a pair of worn leather armchairs faced each other near one of the windows.

It was a beautiful room, and I would have quite happily thrown myself down on one of the couches with a book, to settle in for a long morning of reading, if it hadn’t been for the man standing in the middle of it.

He faced the door and his arms were folded, as if he’d been waiting a long time for me to walk through it.

Constantine.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

He wore one of his exquisite handmade suits, this one in dark blue-black wool and, standing there in the middle of the warm, inviting room, he seemed like a black hole, sucking away all the warmth and light, giving nothing back but ice.

His obsidian gaze swept me from head to foot, assessing me as if I was a machine that needed to be fixed or a problem he had to solve. Looking at the icy man standing before me, I thought it difficult to believe that the warm, strong arms holding me the night before had been his.

‘I was wondering when you’d wake up.’ His deep voice was detached, the lilt of his Spanish accent not making it seem warmer in any way.

I struggled to get my breathing under control and pull myself together, feeling like crying all of a sudden.

I’d thought I’d said goodbye to him in Spain. I’d thought I wouldn’t have to see him again, or at least not for a long time.

I didn’t want him to be standing there giving me the same coldly impersonal look he gave everyone else. As if that night in the garden had never happened. As if I was a stranger and not his friend. I didn’t want him to be there at all.

I wanted to be over him—to give him that same look back, to feel nothing, the way he seemed to—and yet my heart ached and anger wound through me, and I couldn’t decide whether to burst into tears or slap him across the face.

Neither was ideal. I’d wept humiliated tears in front of him once before, and I’d rather die than cry like that again. And as for slapping him, while that would be satisfying, like weeping it would also be humiliating. It would betray how badly he’d hurt me, and I didn’t want to do that either.

I wanted him to think that I was over him, that I didn’t care about him in any way. That his four years of silence didn’t matter to me at all.

But it was difficult when he looked so immaculate in his suit, his short black hair glossy in the morning sunlight coming through the windows, that same sun outlining the perfect bone structure of his face.

His beauty had always made me catch my breath. And it wasn’t something I’d only gradually come to see over the years. I’d always known it. Even as a child.

He seemed like an icy prince, noble and beautiful and stern, but lonely. Always lonely. Always working like a dog for Domingo, spending long hours in his office whenever he was home. I’d tried to get him to do things with me, like play card games or swim in the pool, or take me to the Prado Museum. But he wouldn’t. He had no time, he’d said.

So instead I’d sat reading in his office, so he’d know that he wasn’t alone. And I’d liked being near him. I’d liked the way he never told me to shut up when I talked, or that no one was interested in what I had to say. He’d never told me I had to be seen and not heard, because if I wasn’t no one would want me for a stepdaughter and then Mummy and I would go hungry.

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