That made Dev laugh. “I have a few things to attend to, Varo,” he called as his sister and his guest moved towards the grand staircase. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Hasta luego!” De Montalvo waved an elegant hand.
Ava had imagined that as she ascended the staircase she would marshal her defences. Now, only moments later, those defences were imploding around her. She had the sense that her life had speeded up, entered the fast lane. She had met many high-powered people in her life—none more so than her grandfather, who hadn’t possessed a shining aura. Neither did Montalvo. It was dark-sided, too complex. It wasn’t any comfort to realise she had been shocked out of her safe haven. Worse yet to think she might be shorn of protection.
How could any man do that in a split second? The impact had been as swift and precise as a bolt of lightning. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to exotic men? Nor the way he looked at her—as if he issued an outright challenge to her womanhood. Man, that great force of nature, totally irresistible if he so chose.
The thought angered her. Perhaps it was borne of her sexual timidity? Luke had early on in their marriage formed the habit of calling her frigid. She now had an acute fear that if she weren’t very careful she might rise to de Montalvo’s lure. He was no Luke. He was an entirely different species. Yet in some bizarre way he seemed familiar to her. Only he was a stranger—a stranger well aware of his own power.
As he walked beside her, with his tantalising lithe grace, glowing sparks might have been shooting off his powerful lean body. Certainly something was making her feel hot beneath her light clothing. She who had been told countless times she always appeared as cool as a lily. That wasn’t the case now. She felt almost wild, when she’d had no intention let alone any experience of being any such thing. To her extreme consternation her entire body had become a mass of leaping responses. If those responses broke the surface it would be the ultimate humiliation.
His guest suite was in the right wing. It had been made ready by the household staff. Up until their grandfather’s death the post of housekeeper had been held by Sarina Norton, Amelia’s mother. Sarina had been most handsomely rewarded by Gregory Langdon for “services rendered”. No one wanted to go there …
The door lay open. Varo waved a gallant arm, indicating she should enter first. Ava had the unsettling feeling she had to hold on to something. Maybe the back of a chair? The magnetic pull he had on her was so strong. How on earth was she going to cope when Dev flew off to Sydney? She was astonished at how challenging she found the prospect. What woman reared to a life of privilege couldn’t handle entertaining a guest? She was a woman who had not only been married but was in the process of divorce—she being the one who had initiated the action. Didn’t that qualify her as a woman of the world?
Or perhaps one could interpret it as the action of a woman who didn’t hesitate to inflict pain and injury? Perhaps de Montalvo had already decided against her? His family of Spanish origin was probably Roman Catholic, but divorce couldn’t be as big a no-no now as it had been in the time of Katherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s deposed, albeit lawfully wedded, wife. Not that taking Katherine’s place had done Anne Boleyn much good.
Ava put the tension that was coiling tighter and tighter inside her down to an attack of nerves. It was all so unreal.
The guest room that had been chosen for de Montalvo was a grand room—and not only in terms of space and the high scrolled ceilings that were a feature of Kooraki’s homestead. The headboard of the king-sized bed, the bed skirt and the big cushions were in a metallic grey silk, with pristine white bed-coverings and pillows. Above the bed hung a large gold-framed landscape by a renowned English-Australian colonial artist. Mahogany chests to each side of the bed held lamps covered in a parchment silk the same colour as the walls. A nineteenth century English secretary, cabinet and comfortable chair held pride of place in one corner of the room. The rest of the space was taken up by a gilded Louis XVI-style sofa covered in black velvet with a matching ottoman. All in all, a great place to stay, with the added plus of a deep walk-in wardrobe and an en suite bathroom.
He said something in Spanish that seemed to make sense to her even though she didn’t know the language. Quite obviously he was pleased. She did have passable French. She was better with Italian, and she even had some Japanese—although, she acknowledged ruefully, keeping up with languages made it necessary to speak them every day. She even knew a little Greek from a fairly long stint in Athens the year after leaving university.
De Montalvo turned back from surveying the landscaped garden. “I’ll be most happy and comfortable here, Ava,” he assured her. “I’m sure this will be a trip never to be forgotten.”
She almost burst out that she felt the same. Of course she did not. She meant to keep her feelings to herself. “I’ll leave you in peace, then, Varo,” she said. “Come downstairs whenever you like. Lunch will be served at one. Dev will be back by then.”
“Gracias,” he said.
Those brilliant dark eyes were looking at her again. Looking at her. Through her. She turned slowly for the door, saying over a graceful shoulder, “Nuestra casa es su casa.”
His laugh was low in his throat. “You make a fine attempt. Your accent is good. I hope to teach you many more Spanish phrases before I leave.”
Ava dared to face him. “Excellent,” she said, her tone a cool parry.
CHAPTER TWO
THEY set out after breakfast the next day, the horses picking their way through knee-high grasses with little indigo-blue wildflowers swimming across the waving green expanses. Dev had flown to Sydney at first light, leaving them alone except for the household staff. She would have de Montalvo’s company for a full day and a night and several hours of the following day before Dev, Amelia and co were due to fly back. So, all in all, around thirty hours for her to struggle against de Montalvo’s powerful sexual aura.
For someone of her age, marital status and background Ava was beginning to feel as though she had been wandering through life with her eyes closed. Now they were open and almost frighteningly perceptive. Everyone had the experience of meeting someone in life who raised the hackles or had an abrasive effect. Their Argentine visitor exerted a force of quite another order. He had roped her, in cattleman’s terms—or she had that illusion.
Dinner the previous evening had gone off very well. In fact it had been a beautiful little welcoming party. They’d eaten in the informal dining room, which was far more suitable and intimate than the grand formal dining room only used for special occasions. She’d had the table set with fine china, sterling silver flatware, and exquisite Bohemian crystal glasses taken from one the of numerous cabinets holding such treasures. From the garden she had picked a spray of exquisite yellow orchids, their blooms no bigger than paper daisies, and arranged them to take central pride of place. Two tall Georgian silver candlesticks had thrown a flattering light, finding their reflection in the crystal glasses.
The menu she’d chosen had been simple but delicious: white asparagus in hollandaise, a fish course, the superb barramundi instead of the usual beef, accompanied by the fine wines Dev had had brought up from the handsomely stocked cellar. Dessert had been a light and lovely passionfruit trifle. She hadn’t gone for overkill.
Both Dev and his guest were great raconteurs, very well travelled, very well read, and shared similar interests. Even dreams. She hadn’t sat back like a wallflower either. Contrary to her fluttery feelings as she had been dressing—she had gone to a surprising amount of trouble—she had found it remarkably easy to keep her end up, becoming more fluent by the moment. Her own stories had flowed, with Dev’s encouragement.
At best Luke had wanted her to sit quietly and look beautiful—his sole requirements of her outside the bedroom. He had never wanted her to shine. De Montalvo, stunning man that he was, with all his eloquent little foreign gestures, had sat back studying