Love In Torment. Natalie Fox

tears last night, battled with them till her eyes ached so badly that she had been tempted to give in and let them flow. But she wouldn’t give him an inch, let alone her tears!

      The villa was still and Gemma hoped she was first up, hoped that no one would mind if she got her bearings in the old villa.

      She paused on the stone stairway to study the paintings. Nothing she recognised, like a Renoir, a Turner or a Picasso. Mostly old portraits of the family, handed down from generation to generation. She wondered if any were of Agustªn but saw none that had been painted in the last fifty years. There were no portraits of women, she noted, but wasn’t surprised. This was a macho country where the women didn’t count for much, she cynically supposed.

      The downstairs rooms were cool and airy. Huge rooms with high ceilings, heavily beamed, whitewashed stone walls and polished terracotta floor tiles throughout. The furnishings were in keeping with the villa, heavy antiques of dark carved wood. Tapestries of ancient hunting scenes decorated the walls and the sprawling sofas were upholstered in luxurious brocades. The Hereke rugs on the tiles were flat woven in shades of blue, red and ivory with flashes of gilded thread. Real gold? Gemma wondered.

      There were bowls of flowers everywhere, roses to scent the air, lilies and the exotic orchids that decorated her own bedroom. The house, though sombre, was very beautiful, and a peculiar thought struck Gemma—that no children had exploded with laughter within these walls. In fact it had the awesome feel of a museum where children were inhibited and silent.

      One room was locked and Gemma presumed that to be Agustªn’s private domain, his study possibly. Running out of rooms, she followed the corridor to the kitchen. She opened a door at the end, a heavy studded affair similar to all the doors in the house but this one somewhat newer.

      This was where the heart of the home pulsed. The kitchen was huge, bright and a century more modern than anything she had seen so far.

      Maria turned from the huge stainless steel range where she was frying crisp bacon and turning round flat pancakes in a pan. The smell was delicious and cheered Gemma, which made her reflect that though the rest of the house was beautiful it had slightly depressed her.

      ‘Gemma, you are well, si? Felipe is with the horses.’

      Gemma could see for herself. She saw him through the open door at the back of the kitchen. He was exercising a black stallion in the paddock in front of the stables. He wore a black T-shirt with white riding breeches and even from this distance she could see that the gauntness she had first noticed about him was confined to his face, not his body. He was still a muscular, powerful man, but the hunted look gave the impression of an overall weight loss.

      Her heart ached to think she might be the cause, but surely not? He hated her now, didn’t he? But the torment he had promised her was giving him no satisfaction. This revenge that was powering him was doing more harm than good.

      Gemma turned away from the door as Maria called her for breakfast, an informal affair round an oak refectory table, which reminded Gemma that she was here for a purpose, to work—she wasn’t a guest in the house.

      ‘Christina cleans the bedrooms and will be finished soon. You start the picture then?’ Maria asked eagerly as Gemma ate her breakfast.

      ‘Later, Maria,’ came a voice from the back door, and Gemma turned her head to look at Felipe. He stood framed in the doorway, the glaring light of the day behind him silhouetting him as if he were the devil himself taking a day out from hell.

      ‘I wish to spend the morning with Gemma. Christina can sit for her this afternoon.’ He sat across the table from her and laid his riding crop down on the bench seat next to him as if he might need it at any moment.