The Spaniard's Seduction. Anne Mather

plate of what she realised were tapas. But not the mass-produced tapas that were available in the bars in Punta del Lobo. Something told her that this was the real thing, the fat juicy olives, spiced with herbs, the batter-dipped prawns, the bite-sized pieces of crisply fried fish bearing little resemblance to what she’d seen so far. They smelled wholesome, too, and in other circumstances the cheese that was oozing out of the paper-thin rolls of ham would have made her mouth water.

      ‘Is good, señor?’ the man enquired, obviously having heard them speaking in English, and Enrique inclined his head.

      ‘Muy bien, José,’ he responded in his own language. Very good. ‘Gracias.’

      The bartender smiled and went away, and Enrique indicated the food. ‘Are you hungry?’

      ‘Hardly,’ said Cassandra, reluctantly taking a sip of her wine. She hoped it wasn’t too intoxicating. She’d had nothing to eat that day and her stomach was already bubbling with apprehension. ‘Why did you want to speak to me?’

      Enrique hesitated. She noticed he wasn’t interested in the food either and, like her, he seemed quite content to concentrate on his wine. His hands, brown and long-fingered, played with the stem of his glass, and she was mesmerised by their sensitive caress. It reminded her far too acutely of how those fingers had felt gripping her wrist, grasping her arm, stroking her naked flesh…

      She took a laboured breath as somewhere nearby a guitar began to play. Its music, poignant at times, at others vibrantly sensual, tugged at her emotions, fanning the flames of memories she desperately wanted to forget. She should not have come here, she thought unsteadily. She was still far too vulnerable where he was concerned.

      ‘I think you know why we have to talk,’ Enrique said at last, his eyes intent. ‘David is a de Montoya. You had no right to keep that from us.’

      Cassandra pursed her lips. ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

      ‘What? That he is Antonio’s son? Of course.’

      ‘What makes you so certain?’

      Enrique lay back in his chair, giving her a sardonic look. ‘Cassandra, do not play games with me. We both know that he is the image of his father at that age.’

      ‘Is he?’

      ‘Do you wish me to produce a photograph as proof? No, I did not think so. The boy shows his Spanish blood in every way. His eyes, his colouring, his mannerisms. His honesty.’

      Cassandra stiffened. ‘His honesty?’ she demanded caustically. ‘Oh, right. You’d know a lot about that.’

      A muscle in Enrique’s jaw jerked angrily. ‘Do not bait me, Cassandra. What is it they say about glass houses? It is not wise to throw stones, no?’

      Cassandra rested her elbows on the table, hunching her shoulders and curling her fingers behind her ears. It would be so easy to burst his bubble, she mused, so easy to explode the myth that David was Antonio’s son, but it was seldom wise to give in to temptation, as she knew only too well. Much better to wait to allow the situation to develop, to keep that particular revelation up her sleeve. She had reason to believe that she might need it.

      ‘All right,’ she said, allowing him to make what he liked of that, ‘perhaps I should have informed your father when David was born. But I had every reason to believe that he—that all of you—wanted nothing more to do with me.’

      Enrique’s nostrils flared. ‘So you decided to take your revenge by keeping the boy’s existence a secret from us?’