‘I don’t understand,’ she grated at last, her eyes warily searching his for some answer. There was such menace in the dark depths of them that she shook her head to try and dispel the terror of it. Why? Why was he here?
‘I don’t suppose for a minute you do,’ he said slowly, bringing his hand up to tilt her chin. He laughed softly at the fear in her eyes. ‘I’ve brought you here for one purpose, sweet one: to torment you the way you tormented me. No woman does that to me, no woman twists my emotions till they are left wrung dry like a discarded rag…’
‘Felipe,’ Gemma cried, her eyes misted and wide. She couldn’t think, didn’t understand what was happening. He was the last person she expected to see here at her father’s home.
‘Did…did you arrange all this?’ was her first coherent question. He had to have done; coincidence didn’t stretch to these limits. The commission had been arranged through her agent, direct from the wealthy Venezuelan himself, so she had supposed.
‘Naturally. It was the only way I could get you here. You wouldn’t have come otherwise, would you? Or maybe you would. You came to me easily enough once before,’ he breathed cruelly.
The pain of those words cut deep into Gemma. What was powering this cruelty?
Running her tongue over her dry lips, she forced words to her mouth. ‘I still don’t understand. You talk of revenge, betrayal. What did I do to deserve such treatment?’
Somehow it seemed doubly painful to Gemma. She had thought she had been asked here to paint a portrait of the man she now knew to be her father. It was obvious now she wasn’t. It had been a trick, a ruse to get her here…but…but Mike had known her purpose, and surely he wasn’t in on this cruel deception?
‘You obviously do not know our ways. Women here do not treat South American men the way you treated me. Women know their place, and you will know your place in time, querida.’ His hand snaked up behind her neck and pulled her towards him in a swift movement that gave Gemma no chance to protest.
His mouth crushed hers and it was as if a stranger was the perpetrator. This wasn’t the man she had loved so desperately. There was no tenderness, no passion, merely harsh pain that grazed her lips brutally. She tore herself away from him, her lips burning, her mind buzzing dully. She had loved this man once, truly loved him, and now he struck fear and confusion inside her.
‘Don’t you ever touch me like that again,’ she cried, desperately controlling the tremor in her voice. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to you——’
His eyes narrowed warningly. ‘Well, you will, Gemma. I will show you, in words and deeds. I will drive you to the limits of your desire and then I will discard you as you discarded me. Torment—you will know the true meaning of the word by the time I have finished with you.’ He smiled cynically. ‘You will learn, and it won’t be a pleasant lesson, I assure you.’ With that he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving Gemma mortally afraid for her sanity and her life.
GEMMA couldn’t move with shock, though her mind suddenly put a spurt on as if it had a sudden tail-wind behind it. She had never seen this side of Felipe before and she didn’t like it. He terrified her. He had loved her once but Bianca had come between them, so why was he suddenly making such wicked threats to hurt her?
Slowly the life came back to her numbed body and she moved, hesitantly, though. He had shaken her and the shock waves thrummed through her nerves, stretching them crazily till her whole body seemed to ache with fear. She crossed to her suitcase and stared at it blankly, her eyes wide. For once in her life she was terribly unsure of herself, even unsure what to do. Should she unpack? There was no commission, no portrait to be painted. She was here on a fool’s errand, manipulated by her former lover who seemed hell-bent on some sort of revenge.
Clenching her fists tightly, she braced herself. She had to find out what was going on and there was no time like the present. She didn’t bother to change but flew out of the room in the clothes she had travelled from Caracas in, thin white cotton jeans, crumpled in the heat of the day, and a loose, wispy black top that flapped around her midriff as she ran.
She didn’t know where to find him but find him she must. Damn this place, it was like a maze. She ran down the stone stairs and out into bright sunlight, blinking her eyes against the fierce sun.
Not a human soul to be seen. Gemma bit her lip and walked to the end of the villa, calmer now but still uncertain. Maria had said something about a terrace which must be at the back of the house.
She rounded the villa and saw wrought-iron tables and chairs, shady umbrellas—and Felipe.
Determinedly she walked towards him, mouthing questions in her mind, trying to find answers before she spoke them.
He was standing looking over a low stone wall that enclosed the terrace, hands plunged deep into the pockets of white linen trousers. There was a slight breeze which ruffled his short-sleeved shirt, otherwise he might have been as stiff as one of the stone statues that decorated the patio.
‘Felipe, we must talk,’ she murmured behind him.
‘Must we?’ he drawled, not turning to face her. ‘From what I remember we didn’t do much of that before. We spent our time in bed, locked in each other’s arms.’
There was a step behind them and Gemma whirled, startled by the sudden intrusion into the bitter-sweet memories Felipe had evoked. Locked in each other’s arms. She had wanted to die there, wrapped around his body, his around hers. Drifting in and out of sleep and passion. Days and days of love and laughter and more love. Had she dreamed it all? Now, standing here on this tropical terrace, a million miles away from home, her lover’s implacable shoulders turned away from her, she imagined she had. She shivered with trepidation and watched Maria place a silver tray of food and drink down on one of the tables.
‘Felipe, you eat with Se?orita Soames?’
‘No, thank you, Maria. I’ll eat later. Bring me a brandy, though.’
Gemma’s mouth dropped open at the familiar exchange between the two. She waited till Maria laid out cutlery, salad and cold meats for her and when she stepped back into the villa Gemma spoke.
‘She called you Felipe…’
‘Why shouldn’t she? She’s known me most of my life.’ He turned to her then, coolly motioning her to sit and eat. ‘Starvation isn’t one of the punishments I have in mind for you——’
‘Will you stop this absurdity,’ Gemma burst out, ‘and will you tell me what all this is about? I came here to paint a portrait but so far I’ve received nothing but abuse.’ Her outburst did nothing to ease the scowl on his face. ‘You live here, don’t you?’ she breathed when he said nothing.
‘Some of the time, yes.’
Shocked, Gemma slumped into the nearest chair. The familiarity between him and Maria had spurred the question but actually hearing it verified didn’t make it any easier to accept, in fact it made it worse. She recalled he had an apartment in New York and another home in South America but because of his Colombian ancestry she had presumed his home was there, not here in Venezuela.
‘This…this isn’t the home of Agustªn Delgado de Navas?’ she husked. What cruelty! She’d had such expectations and now this rapier-like thrust to add more sorrow to what she had already suffered.
The smile he gave her did nothing to warm his harsh features and chilled Gemma to the marrow.
‘He lives here, of course. And you do have his portrait to paint, which no doubt answers your next question.