Книга - Passionate Protection

Passionate Protection
PENNY JORDAN









Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author

PENNY JORDAN

Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!

Penny Jordan’s novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.

This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan’s fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.




About the Author


PENNY JORDAN is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan’s characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.

Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.

Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women’s fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.




Passionate Protection

Penny Jordan

















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE


‘HONESTLY, JESS, I don’t know what that family of yours would do without you,’ Colin Weaver told his assistant with a wry smile. ‘Well, what is it this time? Has your aunt locked herself out again, or your uncle forgotten to collect his new cheque book?’

‘Neither,’ Jessica Forbes told him, hiding her own smile. It was true that her aunt and uncle did tend to ring her at work for assistance every time there was a family crisis, but they weren’t really used to the hectic pace of the modern-day commercial world—Uncle Frank, for instance, still lived in a pre-war daydream fostered by the leisurely pace of life in the small market town legal practice he had inherited from his father, and Aunt Alice wasn’t much better; nervous, dithery, she was given to complaining in bewilderment that life had changed so much, she barely recognised it anymore, and as for Isabel! Jessica sighed; the problems dumped on her by her eighteen-year-old cousin made those of her aunt and uncle seem mere nothings.

‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry for criticising your beloved family,’ Colin apologised with a wry smile. ‘I suppose I’m just jealous really,’ he admitted plaintively. ‘Would you drop everything and come running for me if I locked myself out?’

‘It wouldn’t do any good if I did,’ Jessica pointed out with a grin. ‘You live in a penthouse apartment, my aunt and uncle live in a rambling old vicarage with a pantry window that simply won’t close, but which neither of them can fit through, whereas yours truly …’

‘Umm, I’m beginning to get the point,’ Colin agreed, glancing appreciatively over her slender five-foot-eight frame, ‘but that doesn’t stop me from wishing they would stop depriving me of your valuable assistance.’

‘I have to go this time—it’s Isabel.’ Jessica frowned, chewing the soft fullness of her bottom lip, dark eyebrows drawn together in a worried frown. The problem was that her aunt and uncle had been slipping gently into middle age when Isabel had arrived unexpectedly on the scene and neither of them had ever totally recovered from the shock.

‘Oh, Isabel,’ Colin said grimly. ‘That girl’s lethal,’ he added with a grimace. ‘I remember when you brought her here …’

‘Here’ was his exclusive London salon where he showed the alluring ranges of separates that bore his name. Jessica had worked for him ever since she left art school. She loved her job as his assistant, and if he needed mollycoddling occasionally, he more than made up for his lapses when they were over. In Jessica’s view there was no one to match him in the design of separates. His secret, he had told her on more than one occasion, lay as much in the careful choice of fabric as the style the materials were eventually made up in. ‘Couture Classics’ were how Vogue described them, and Jessica reckoned there could be few wealthy women in Britain aspiring to the well-dressed lists who didn’t have something of his in their wardrobe. For some clients he designed individual ranges, but it was, as Jessica knew, his great dream to take his designs and elegance into the high streets at prices every woman could afford.

‘She is a little immature,’ Jessica agreed, repressing a sigh at the thought of her cousin—pretty, headstrong Isabel, who reminded her of a frisky lamb, throwing herself headlong into whatever came her way on a momentary whim.

‘She’s exactly two years younger than you were when you first came to work for me,’ Colin reminded her a little grimly. ‘You all keep that girl wrapped up in too much cotton wool, Jess, you spoil her, and she laps it up. What were you doing at eighteen? I bet you weren’t still living at home, financed by Mummy and Daddy?’

‘No,’ Jessica agreed sombrely. Her parents had died three months before her eighteenth birthday. They had been killed in a car crash on their way home from visiting friends. She could still remember Uncle Frank trying to break the news; Aunt Alice’s white face. They had offered her a home, of course, but by then she had her career planned, first art school and then, she hoped, a job in fashion design, and so instead she had used some of the money left to her by her parents and had bought herself a small flat in London, but she had stayed in close contact with her aunt and uncle; after all, they were the only family she had left, and as she grew older the ties between them had strengthened. Family came to mean a lot when there was so little of it left.

Isabel had been a little girl of ten at the time of the accident, too young to remember very much about Jessica’s parents, and somehow Jessica had found that as the years went by she was called upon to mediate between impatient youth and dismayed late middle age in the storms that swept the household as Isabel grew into her teens, Isabel urging her to support her on the one hand, while her parents were pleading with Jessica to ‘make Isabel realise’ on the other.

The plan was that Isabel would go on to university after leaving school, but in the sixth form she had suddenly decided that she was tired of studying, that she didn’t want a career at all, and so at eighteen she was working in her father’s office, and complaining bitterly to Jessica about it whenever they met.

‘I wanted to talk to you about our visit to Spain as well,’ Colin said sulkily, interrupting her train of thought. Jessica gave him a teasing smile. At forty-eight he could sometimes display all the very worst characteristics of a little boy in the middle of a tantrum, and he was not above doing so to make her feel guilty or get her attention when he felt the need arise. Jessica excused him on the grounds that he was a first-rate designer and an excellent employer, flexible and with sufficient faith in her ability to make her job interesting. The Fabric Fair was something he had been dangling in front of her for several months. Initially he had planned to go alone, and then he had suggested that she should go with him. He heard by word of mouth about a Spanish firm who had discovered a series of new dyes for natural fibres, and that the results were stunningly spectacular. Their fabrics were sold only to the most exclusive firms, and Jessica knew that Colin was angling for an introduction to their Managing Director.

‘I don’t know whether I’ll be able to go,’ Jessica frowned, hiding a sudden shaft of amusement as his manner changed from smug satisfaction to anxious concern.

‘Not that damn family of yours again!’ he protested. ‘This time you’ll have to tell them to do without you. I need you, Jess,’ he told her plaintively.

‘Very well, but no more unkind comments about Isabel,’ she reprimanded him severely. ‘I know she’s a little headstrong …’

‘Headstrong! Stubborn as a mule would be a better description, but I can see nothing I have to say is going to have any effect on you, so you may as well finish early tonight.’

COLIN REALLY was a love, Jessica reflected fondly an hour later, opening the door to her flat. They had an excellent working relationship, and if she sometimes chafed against his avuncular manner it was a small price to pay for working with such a talented and experienced man. There was no one to follow him in the business, and he had already mentioned that he might be prepared to offer her a partnership if things went well. They would make a good team, he had told her, and Jessica agreed. In spite of his experience, he would always listen to her suggestions, and often adopted them.

She grimaced at her reflection as she caught sight of it in the mirror. She had hurried away from the office without combing her hair or renewing her lipstick, and both looked untidy; her lipstick because she constantly nibbled on her lower lip, and her hair from running impatient fingers through its sable length.

Without doubt her hair was her greatest asset, in her eyes; long, thick and glossy, it fell smoothly past her shoulders in a gentle bell. Sometimes she twisted it into an elegant chignon, on those days when Colin wanted her to meet clients and she wanted to create the right impression. One of the bonuses of working for a well-known designer was the fact that she got most of her clothes at cost; another was that her lissom shape and long legs were ideally suited to the subtle tweeds, silks and linens Colin preferred to use.

‘I do love seeing my clothes on a real woman,’ he had told her once, appreciatively. ‘Models are caricatures of the female species, clothes-horses, the complete antitheses of the heavy county types who buy from me, but you … You might have been made for them,’ he had told her.

Isabel laughed about her cousin’s employer. ‘An old woman’ was how she referred to him, and while it had traces of truth, Jessica chided her. Colin was shrewd and extremely talented, and while he might not be as charismatic as many of the men Jessica came into contact with, he was genuine, with a genuine love for his chosen career.

Another thing Isabel derided was Jessica’s own fastidious reluctance to indulge in what she was pleased to term ‘fun’.

‘Fun’ to Isabel encompassed a wholly idealistic impression of what it was like living alone in London. In Jessica’s place there was no end to the ‘fun’ she might have, but unlike Jessica, who was footloose and fancy-free, she was tied to the boring old parents, and dull Merton with its farmers and relaxed pace of life.

After one or two attempts to correct her misapprehensions Jessica had acknowledged that her cousin had no intention of letting herself be disillusioned, and besides Jessica’s ‘freedom’ was a useful tool to wield against her parents when rebellion stirred. It had struck Jessica more than once lately that her aunt and uncle were beginning to look tired. Uncle Frank was talking about retiring, and Jessica sensed that in some ways it would be a relief to them when Isabel eventually married and someone else took on the responsibility of their rebellious daughter. But so far Isabel had shown no signs of wanting to marry, and why should she? Jessica reflected. In her opinion eighteen was far too young—or perhaps that was just one of the penalties of still being single at twenty-six; one became super-cautious of marriage, of the risks and dangers involved in making such an enormous commitment to another human being, and demanding so much from them in return.

Jessica was aware that Isabel had a far lighter approach to life than she did herself and would consequently probably have a much easier ride through life. She sighed, and chided herself for getting old and cynical as she showered quickly, barely sparing the briefest glance at the slender length of her body before draping it in a towel and padding into her bedroom.

Jeans and a T-shirt would suffice for the drive down to her aunt and uncle’s, and she pulled them on quickly, zipping up the jeans before brushing her hair with a swift economy of movement. Her skin was good, thank goodness, and she rarely used much make-up; less when she was ‘off duty’. Her eyes were a tawny gold—an unusual combination with the satin sable hair, oval and faintly Oriental, even if she did lack Isabel’s pretty pouting beauty.

It was just after eight-thirty when she turned her small car into the familiar road leading to the Vicarage. She frowned as she remembered her aunt’s tearful telephone call. What on earth had Isabel done this time?

Silence greeted her as she stopped the car and climbed out. Nine o’clock was normally supper time, so she walked round to the back of the house, knowing she would find her aunt in the kitchen.

Alice James gave a small start, followed by a relieved smile as she saw her niece, enveloping her in a warm hug.

‘Jess! You made it—oh, I hoped you would! We’ve been so worried!’

‘Is Belle here?’ Jessica asked her, pulling a stool out from under the kitchen table and perching comfortably on it. She knew from old how long it took to drag a story out of her aunt.

‘No. She’s out, with … with John Wellington, he’s the young partner your uncle’s taken on. Belle seems pretty keen on him.’

‘And that’s a problem?’ Jessica enquired humorously, correctly reading the note of doubt in her aunt’s voice. ‘I thought this was what you’d been praying for for the last couple of years—that she’d find someone safe and steady and settle down.’ She was still at a loss to understand the reason for her aunt’s concern. ‘Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted for her? A nice safe marriage?’ she prompted again.

‘Everything we wanted for her,’ her aunt confirmed. ‘And now it’s all going to be spoiled, because of that wretched holiday!’

‘Holiday? What holiday?’ Jessica asked, a frown creasing her forehead.

‘Oh, it was several weeks ago. She wanted to go to Spain with a girlfriend. John didn’t want her to go—he’s quite jealous—but you know what she’s like. The very fact that he didn’t only seemed to make her keener. Anyway, she went, and it was while she was there that it happened.’

‘What happened?’ Jessica asked patiently, quelling her rising dismay, her mind alive to all the fates that could befall a girl like her cousin, bent only on ‘having a good time’.

‘She got herself engaged—well, almost,’ her aunt amended. ‘To some Spanish boy she met over there. They’ve been writing to one another—none of us knew a thing about it, until she showed me his last letter. Jessica, what on earth are we going to do? She’s as good as promised to marry John, and if he finds out about this …’

‘Why should he?’ Jessica asked practically, mentally cursing Isabel. Trust her to have two men dangling; she was all for the competitive spirit, Jessica acknowledged wryly. ‘All she has to do is to write to this Spanish boy and simply tell him that it’s over.’ Privately she was surprised that Isabel’s Spaniard had bothered to write; most of them made a hobby out of ‘falling in love’ with pretty tourists.

‘She daren’t. She’s terrified that he’ll come over here to find out what’s happening, and then what on earth will she tell John?’

If Isabel didn’t feel able to tell John the plain truth now, it didn’t bode well for their marriage, was Jessica’s private opinion, but she refrained from voicing it, practically deciding that her aunt’s obvious distress was what needed her attention right now.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she soothed her. ‘It will all be all right.’

‘Oh, Jess, I knew you’d be able to sort it all out,’ her aunt confided, promptly bursting into tears. ‘I told Isabel you’d help.’

Jessica spread her hands ruefully. ‘Of course, but I don’t see what I can do …’

‘Why, go to Spain, of course,’ her aunt announced as though she were talking about a trip to the nearest town. ‘You must go and see him, Jess, and explain that Isabel can’t marry him.’

‘Go to Spain?’ Jessica stared at her. ‘But, Aunt …’

‘You were going anyway,’ her aunt said hurriedly, avoiding her eyes, ‘and you can speak Spanish, Jessica, you can explain to him in his own tongue, soften the blow a little. Think what it would do to Isabel if he were to come here. She genuinely cares for John, and I think he has the strength she needs.’ She sighed. ‘I sometimes think your uncle and I should have been stricter with her, but …’ she broke off as the kitchen door suddenly burst open and a small, fair-haired girl hurried in. She stopped dead as she reached the table.

‘Jess!’ she exclaimed joyfully. ‘Oh, you’ve come—thank goodness! Has Mum told you …’

‘That you’re being pursued by an ardent suitor? Yes,’ Jessica told her cousin dryly. ‘Honestly, Belle …’

‘I really thought I loved him,’ Isabel began defensively. ‘He was so different from John, and it was all so romantic … Oh, there’s no need to look like that!’ She stamped her foot as Jessica raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘It’s different for you, Jess, you’d never get involved in anything like that, you’re so sensible, so unromantic, but me …’

Jessica winced a little as her cousin’s unthinking comment found its mark. How often had she heard that comment ‘You’re so unromantic’? Every time she refused to go to bed with her escort? Every time she refused to get involved? And yet she had always thought secretly that she was too romantic; that her ideals were too high.

‘You’re really sure then about John?’ Jessica questioned her cousin later in the evening when they were both preparing for bed.

‘As sure as I’m ever likely to be,’ Isabel told her with a rare flash of honesty. ‘But it will spoil everything if Jorge decides to come over here to find out why I’ve stopped writing to him. You will go and see him, won’t you, Jess?’ she appealed. ‘I don’t think I could bear it if I lost John!’

There were tears in her eyes, and unwillingly Jessica felt herself giving way. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to try and see this boy while she was in Spain; even perhaps add a few days to the trip to make sure she did see him, although she was quite convinced that it was highly unlikely that he would turn up in England.

‘But you don’t understand,’ Isabel wailed when she pointed this out to her. ‘We were practically engaged. He will come over, Jess, I know he will!’ She practically wrung her hands together in her fear, and Jessica, feeling immeasurably more than only eight years her senior, sighed.

‘Well, I’ll go and see him then, but honestly, Belle, I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily.’

‘YOU MEAN to tell me you actually agreed to go and see this impetuous Romeo on your cousin’s behalf?’ Colin expostulated three days later when she explained to him that she would like to add a couple of extra days’ holiday to their trip to Spain. ‘Can’t she do her own dirty work?’

‘Not in this case,’ Jessica assured him, quickly outlining the facts. ‘And of course, I do speak Spanish.’

In actual fact she spoke several foreign languages. They were her hobby and she seemed to have a flair for them.

‘Well, I can see that nothing I can say is going to cure you of this protective attitude towards your family,’ Colin admitted. ‘All I can say is—thank goodness I don’t have one!’

‘And my extra days’ holiday?’

‘They’re yours,’ he agreed. ‘Although I’d much rather see you spend them on yourself than squander them on young Isabel. She’s a leech, Jess, and she’ll suck you dry if you let her. You must see that, so why?’

‘She’s family,’ Jessica said simply. ‘She and my aunt and uncle are all I have left.’

Often she had wondered after her parents’ shocking deaths if the accident had somehow not only robbed her of her mother and father, but her ability to love as well, because ever since then she had held the world at a distance, almost as though she was afraid of letting people get too close to her; afraid that she might come to depend on them and that she would ultimately lose them.

SEVILLE WAS a city that appealed strongly to the senses. Jessica fell in love with it almost from the moment she stepped off the plane into the benevolent spring sunshine. Madrid was more properly the home of Spanish commerce, and Jessica had been there on several previous occasions, but Seville was new territory to her.

Initially she had been surprised when Isabel told her that Jorge lived in Seville; she had expected to find him somewhere on the Costa Brava, but Isabel had told her that Jorge had been holidaying like herself at the time they met.

Colin, running true to form, had insisted on her staying at the hotel the extra few days at his expense, and although Jessica had demurred, he had insisted, and in the end she had given way. Knowing Colin, the hotel he would have chosen would be far more luxurious than anything she could have afforded, and this supposition was proved correct when her taxi drew up outside an impressive Baroque building.

Her fluent Spanish brought a swift smile to the face of the girl behind the reception desk, and in no time at all she was stepping out of the lift behind the porter carrying her case and waiting while he unlocked the door to her room.

The hotel had obviously once been a huge private house, and had been converted tastefully and carefully. Jessica’s room had views over the city; the furniture, although reproduction, was beautifully made and totally in keeping with the age and character of the room. There was a bathroom off it, rather more opulent than she would have expected in the hotel’s British equivalent, a swift reminder that this part of the world had once been ruled by the Moors, who had left behind them a love of luxury and a sensuality that had been passed down through the generations.

Once she had unpacked Jessica went down to the foyer, where she had seen some guidebooks and maps on sale. The evening meal, as she was already aware, was the all-important meal in the Spanish home, and she wanted to make sure that her visit to Jorge did not clash with this.

As she had suspected, the receptionist was able to confirm that in Seville it was the general rule to eat later in the evening—normally about ten o’clock—which gave her the remainder of the afternoon and the early evening to make her visit, Jessica decided.

She had already formulated a plan of action. First she intended to discover if Jorge’s family were listed in the telephone directory. If they were she would telephone and ask when she might call, if not she would simply have to call unannounced.

She lunched lightly in the hotel’s restaurant—soup, followed by prawn salad, and then went up to her room to study the telephone directory. There were several Calvadores listed in the book, but none under Jorge’s address, and Jessica was forced to the reluctant conclusion that she would simply have to call unannounced.

A call to the reception desk organised a taxi to take her to her destination. She showered and changed into soft jade green silk separates, from Colin’s new range; a pleated skirt that swirled softly round her legs and a blouson top with full sleeves caught up in tight cuffs. The colour suited her, Jessica knew, and to complement it she brushed toning jade eye shadow over her lids, thickening and darkening her lashes discreetly with mascara.

Soft kid sandals of jade, blue and cerise completed her outfit. It was warm enough for her to be able to dispense with a jacket, and she was just flicking a comb through the silken length of her hair when her phone buzzed and the receptionist announced that her taxi had arrived.

Because she spoke Spanish so well, Jessica had no qualms about giving the driver instructions herself, but she began to wonder if, after all, she had made some mistake, when they drove into what was obviously a very luxurious and exclusive part of the city. Imposing buildings lined the streets, here and there an iron grille giving a tantalising view of the gardens beyond. Fretworked balconies and shutters lured the eye, but Jessica was left with an overall impression of solitude and privacy strictly guarded, so that it was almost as though the buildings themselves seemed to resent her intrusion.

At last the taxi stopped, and rather hesitantly she asked him if he could return for her in half an hour. That surely would give her sufficient time to explain the situation to Jorge? She only prayed that he was in!

Quickly checking the address Isabel had written down on the scrap of paper she had given her, she climbed unsteadily out of the car and glanced hesitantly at the imposing frontage of the building. There was no need for her to feel nervous, she reassured herself; the building, impressive though its outward appearance was, probably housed dozens of small apartments. However, when she reached the top of the small flight of stone steps there was simply one bell. She pressed it and heard the faint ringing somewhere deep in the recesses of the building. An aeon seemed to pass before she heard sounds of movement behind the large studded door.

Honestly, it was almost like something out of a horror movie! she reflected as the door swung back, creaking on its hinges.

The man who stood there had ‘upper-class servant’ stamped all over his impassive countenance. He looked disapprovingly at Jessica for several seconds and appeared to be on the point of closing the door in her face when she babbled quickly, ‘My name is Jessica James and I’ve come to see Señor Calvadores. Is he at home?’

The man seemed to consider her for an age before grudgingly opening the door wide enough for her to step into a hallway large enough to hold her entire flat. The floor was tiled with the famous azulejo tiles, so beautiful that she almost caught her breath in pleasure. If only Colin could see these! The colours were fantastic, shading from softest blue to a rich deep azure.

‘If the señorita will please wait,’ the manservant murmured, opening another door and indicating that Jessica was to precede him into the room. Like the hall, it was enormous, furnished in what she felt sure must be priceless antiques. Whoever Jorge was, he quite obviously was not a poor man, she reflected, gazing in awe at her surroundings.

‘Señorita James?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I will see if el Señor Conde can see you.’

‘El Señor Conde!’ Jessica stared after his departing back. Isabel had said nothing to her about a title. What was the matter with her? she asked herself sardonically several seconds later; surely she wasn’t impressed by something as outmoded as an inherited title? She, who had always despised those who fawned on the county and titled set, because of who they were rather than what they were!

She was lost in a deep study of a portrait above the fireplace—a Spanish don of the seventeenth century if she was any judge, formidable and with a magnetism that refused to be confined to the canvas—when she heard footsteps outside the door, firmer and far more decisive than the manservant’s. She felt herself tense. Now that the moment was almost upon her she felt ridiculously nervous. What on earth was she going to say? How could she simply say baldly that Isabel no longer wanted him; and that in fact he was an embarrassment to her, now that she was on the verge of becoming engaged to another man.

The door opened and the man who stood there took her breath away. Her first impression was that he was impossibly arrogant, standing there staring down the length of his aristocratic nose at her, his lean jaw tensing, as though he was controlling a fierce anger. Ice-cold grey eyes flicked disparagingly over her, the aquiline profile inclining slightly in an acknowledgement of her presence, which was more of an insult than a courtesy.

He was tall, far taller than she had expected, his hair dark, sleek as ravens’ feathers, and worn slightly long, curling over the pure silk collar of a shirt she was sure had been handmade especially for him.

Everything about this man whispered discreetly of wealth and prestige, and never in a million years could Jessica imagine him holidaying on the Costa Brava and indulging in a holiday romance with her cousin.

For one thing, he must be almost twice Isabel’s age—certainly in his early thirties—and nothing about him suggested the type of man who needed the admiration of a very young girl to boost his ego. This man did not need any woman; his very stance suggested an arrogant pride which would never admit to any need of any kind. He was the result of centuries of wealth and breeding of a type found almost exclusively in the great Spanish families, and Jessica felt her blood run cold at the thought of telling him that her cousin had decided she preferred someone else.

‘Señorita James?’

He spoke perfect accentless English, his voice clipped and cool, and yet despite his outward control, Jessica sensed that beneath the ice-cold surface raged a molten torrent of barely held in rage. But why? Or had he guessed her purpose in coming? This man was no fool, surely he must have realised from the recent tone of Isabel’s letters how the land lay?

‘Señor Calvadores?’

Her voice was no way as controlled as his, and she had the dismal conviction that he knew he had unnerved her and that he deliberately intended to.

It was obvious that he didn’t intend to make things easy for her. So much for Spanish hospitality! Jessica thought indignantly. He hadn’t even offered her so much as a cup of coffee. Well, there was nothing for it but to plunge in; there was no easy way to say what had to be said, and all she wanted to do now was to say her piece and make her escape. His attitude and hauteur had killed all the sympathy she had initially felt towards him. Never in a thousand years could she imagine her flighty young cousin holding her own against this man whose very stance exuded an arrogant contempt that filled the air around them.

‘I’ve come to see you about …’

‘I know what you’ve come to see me about, Miss James,’ he cut in brutally, not allowing her to finish, ‘and no doubt you want me to make things easy for you. No doubt you hoped to sway me with your large, worried eyes, no doubt you’ve been led to believe that I can be persuaded to give way. Unfortunately—for you—that is not to be. To put it in its simplest form, Miss James, and having seen you for myself, having had confirmed every one of my very worst fears—that is to say, having seen for myself that you are a young woman who likes expensive clothes, and doubtless everything that goes with them; that you are at a guess somewhere in your mid-twenties; that you are bold enough to come here demanding to see me; there is simply no way I shall allow you to ruin my brother’s life by trapping him into marriage simply because of an affair you had with him several months ago!’

Jessica was totally lost for words. His brother, he had said. That meant he wasn’t—couldn’t be Jorge de Calvadores, but he obviously thought she was Isabel. She was on the verge of correcting him when she realised what else he had said. ‘An affair’. Isabel had given her the distinct impression that Jorge was the one pressing her into an unwanted engagement, whereas his brother seemed to think the boot was very much on the other foot. Clearly there were some misunderstandings to be sorted out!




CHAPTER TWO


SHE TOOK A deep breath, wondering where to begin. Perhaps if she were to explain to him first that she wasn’t Isabel. How contemptuous he had been about her cousin! He really was insufferably proud and arrogant; she didn’t like him at all, she decided, eyeing him militantly.

She opened her mouth to explain, but was stunned into silence by the cynical way he was looking at her; a way no man had ever looked at her before, she realised, feeling the heat rising through her body. His study was an openly sexual one, and not merely sexual but contemptuous. Good heavens, it could have been Isabel exposed to that merciless scrutiny that made no allowance for feminine modesty or embarrassment! And she had thought Spaniards were supposed to be reticent, cultured and, above all, respectful to women!

‘You don’t understand,’ she began shakily when she had recovered her composure, anger fanned into tiny, darting flames by the look she had seen in his eyes.

‘On the contrary, I understand all too well,’ came the crisp response. ‘Dios, do you not think I know what goes on at these holiday resorts?’ His finely cut mouth curled sneeringly downwards. ‘You must have thought yourself extremely fortunate to meet a young man as wealthy and unworldly as my young brother, but unfortunately for you, Jorge does not come into his inheritance for half a dozen more years, when he reaches his twenty-fifth birthday. Until then I stand guardian to him, and you may take it that I shall do everything in my power to free him from your clutches. I must say I am surprised at your coming here,’ he added. ‘I thought Jorge had already made it clear to you that the affair was over. You should have persuaded him to pay for his pleasure at the time, Miss James,’ he told her contemptuously. ‘Now it is too late; now he sees you for what you really are.’ His lip curled, and Jessica went hot and cold to think of Isabel being forced to stand here and listen to these insults.

‘Your brother loved m-my … me,’ she corrected herself hurriedly. ‘He …’

‘—Desired your body,’ she was told flatly, ‘and in his innocence mistook such desire for a far different emotion—a fact which you used to your advantage, using his lust for you to force him …’

‘Just a moment!’ she inserted, with a sudden resurgence of her normal coolness. ‘If you are implying that Jorge was forced into …’

‘Oh, I am aware that there was no question of “force” as such,’ the icy voice agreed. ‘Bemused, dazzled, dragged out of his depth—these would perhaps be better descriptions. You are an attractive woman,’ he told her, openly assessing the shape of her body beneath the thin silk, ‘not perhaps in Jorge’s usual style, but no matter … Of course I realise why you are here. I suppose you thought that a personal appearance might be just the goad he needed. Absence makes the heart grow fonder—of someone else, is that it?’

Matters had gone far enough. There was a limit to the amount of time she intended to simply stand there and allow him to insult her.

‘Before we go any further, I ought to tell you that I have no desire at all to become engaged to your brother,’ Jessica told him truthfully, ‘In fact …’

‘Oh, come, you cannot expect me to believe that?’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps I should refresh your memory. I have here your last letter to Jorge. He brought it to me in a very troubled frame of mind. It seems that while he enjoyed your … company, the constant pressure you put on him to announce your engagement has panicked him into confiding in me.’

‘You having considerable experience of ridding yourself of unwanted women, I suppose?’ Jessica supplied sweetly. ‘One of the penalties of being wealthy!’

The dark flush of colour beneath his skin brought her a fierce sense of satisfaction. He hadn’t liked her implication that women would only find him attractive for his wealth, and she knew it wasn’t true. He was too intensely male for that. She found herself wondering if he was married, and then squashed the thought as being of no concern to her.

‘You must accept that Jorge no longer wishes to have anything to do with you,’ she was told implacably, ‘and even if he did, I would do everything in my power to dissuade him from marrying a woman like you. What attracted you to him the most? Or can I guess?’

‘If you did you’d be wrong,’ Jessica told him in a clipped voice. ‘As I’ve already said, I have no desire to marry your brother.’

‘No?’ With a swift movement he reached inside his jacket and removed a folded piece of paper. ‘Read this—perhaps it will help you remember,’ he said contemptuously.

Unwillingly Jessica took the letter, her fingertips brushing him as she did, strange quivers of sensation running up her arm as she recoiled from the brief contact.

Matters had gone far enough. She would have to tell him the truth. She opened the letter, and her heart dropped. She had barely done more than read the first couple of lines, skimming quickly over them, but it was enough to bring a burning colour to her face. Isabel and Jorge had been lovers—that much was obvious; as was Isabel’s impassioned plea for Jorge to marry her. What on earth had possessed her cousin to write a letter like this? Jessica felt sick at the thought of her aunt and uncle reading it; and what about John? Why on earth hadn’t Isabel warned her? And why had she been so convinced that Jorge intended to come to England? To judge from his brother, the young Spaniard wanted to escape from the relationship just as much as Isabel herself.

‘Edifying, is it not?’ her persecutor drawled insultingly. ‘And I understand from Jorge—although he was reluctant to admit it—that he was far from being your first lover.’

Jessica’s eyes widened, mirroring her shock. Was it true?

‘So, obviously realising that your letter had failed, you decided to come in person. Why, I wonder? It must surely be obvious to you by now that Jorge does not wish to marry you.’

What on earth had Isabel got her into?

For a moment she contemplated telling the truth, but to do so meant betraying her cousin. She had protected Isabel for too long to stop now.

‘Perhaps, failing marriage, you had something else in mind?’ The soft suggestion held a trace of bitter contempt. ‘I know Jorge has told you of the marriage his family had hoped might take place between him and the daughter of a close friend of ours—a marriage, I might add, which would stand a far greater chance of success than the one you proposed. Perhaps you hoped to turn this fact to your advantage. Barbara’s family are very old-fashioned. They would be intolerant of any folly on Jorge’s part.’

Jessica went white, reaching out blindly to grasp the back of a chair for support as the meaning of his words sank in.

‘You thought I’d use blackmail!’ she whispered disbelievingly. ‘You thought I came here to … to …’

‘Very affecting,’ the cool voice mocked. ‘But I am not Jorge, to be easily impressed by a pair of huge amber eyes that plead with me to believe in an innocence I know they cannot possess. You are several years older than my brother; you used his inexperience and calf love for you to further your own ends. You must have known that his family would never tolerate such an alliance—so, Miss James, let us get down to business, shall we?’

‘If by business you mean you’ll pay me to forget any claims I might have on your brother, you’re wasting your time!’ Jessica told him furiously, too angry to care about the danger emanating from him as she pushed bitterly past him, blinking away tears of rage as she wrestled with the huge front door. She could hear him behind her, and the terrible fear that he would never allow her to leave made the blood pound in her head, her fingers trembling as she tugged at the door.

He swore harshly and she felt his hand on her shoulder, sobbing with relief as the door yielded and she half stumbled into the street. Her taxi was waiting and she flung herself into it without a backward glance, not caring what conclusions her driver might be drawing. The first thing she intended to do when she got back to the hotel was to put a call through to her cousin and find out exactly what was going on.

Fortunately, it was her aunt and uncle’s bridge night, and Isabel answered the phone, her pleasure turning to petulance as she recognised the anger in Jessica’s voice.

‘You saw Sebastian?’ she exclaimed nervously. ‘Oh, no, Jess, what did he say?’

She had a good mind to tell her, Jessica thought wrathfully. So Sebastian was his name; it suited him somehow.

‘Nothing flattering,’ she told Isabel grimly. ‘In fact he seemed to think I was you. Oh, Belle,’ she exclaimed as the scene in the vast and opulent drawing room flashed quickly through her mind, ‘you should have warned me, told me the truth. Why on earth did you want me to come here? Sebastian told me that Jorge had no desire to become engaged to you, he even showed me your letter.’

She knew from the sudden catch in her breath that Isabel hadn’t expected that, and yet true to form her cousin, even now, seemed to be trying to turn the situation to her own advantage.

‘You didn’t tell him he was wrong, did you?’ she asked quickly, ‘about us, I mean, Jess?’

‘I wasn’t given the opportunity,’ Jessica told her dryly. It hadn’t been pleasant listening to what the arrogant Conde had to say, and some of his more stinging barbs still hurt.

‘He mustn’t know,’ Isabel was saying positively. ‘Oh, Jess, try to understand—when I wrote that letter to Jorge, I was desperate—I thought I might be pregnant … Jess … Jess, are you still there?’

Trying not to betray her shock, Jessica murmured an assent. ‘Oh, you don’t understand at all,’ she heard Isabel saying crossly, obviously correctly interpreting her silence. ‘Honestly, Jess, you’re so old-fashioned it just isn’t true! Living like a frigid spinster might suit you, but it doesn’t suit me,’ she told her frankly, ‘and why shouldn’t I have fun if I want to?’

‘Was it fun, thinking you might be pregnant and unmarried?’ Jessica asked her bluntly. Isabel was still very much a spoiled child, and it did neither of them any good thinking now that she should have been treated far more firmly as a child—the damage was done, and Isabel seemed to think she had a God-given right to indulge herself in whatever she chose.

‘No,’ she heard Isabel admit sulkily. ‘But what else could I do? I had to write to him—he was as responsible as me.’

‘Go on,’ Jessica told her briefly. The more she heard, the less able she felt to defend her cousin—but then there were her aunt and uncle to think of. Both of them would be unbearably shocked if they heard the truth.

‘Oh, nothing.’ She could almost see Isabel’s petulant shrug. ‘I discovered it was a false alarm, by that time I had met John, and so …’

‘So you asked me to come here to see someone I thought you were on the verge of becoming engaged to. I don’t understand, Belle. There must be something more to it.’

There was a long silence during which mingled exasperation and fear gripped her, and then at last Isabel admitted sulkily.

‘Oh, all right then, when I wrote to Jorge he didn’t write back, but his brother did. Jorge had shown him my letter, he said, and he wanted to know what proof there was that any child I might have was Jorge’s—beast!’ she added vitriolically. ‘It was a hateful letter, Jess, and I was scared—Jorge had told me about him, that he was his guardian and that he was very strict. I was terrified he might come over here—come and see me because of what I’d written—so I panicked. I thought if you could see Jorge and tell him that I didn’t want him anymore then he would tell Sebastian and …’

And she would have been safe, without having to endure the unpleasantness of an interview with either Jorge or Sebastian, Jessica reflected bitterly. Trust Isabel to want to wriggle out of the situation with the minimum amount of discomfort to herself!

‘You do understand, don’t you, Jess?’ Isabel pleaded. ‘I couldn’t run the risk of Sebastian coming over here. If the parents or John had seen him …’

‘So you sent me into the lion’s den instead,’ Jessica supplied dryly. ‘Thanks!’

‘I didn’t know that you’d see Sebastian or that he’d mistake you for me,’ Isabel defended herself, ‘but perhaps it’s all worked out for the best,’ she added with what to Jessica was colossal selfishness. ‘Now he’s seen you and you’ve told him that you don’t want Jorge, he won’t bother us again. What was he like?’ she asked curiously. ‘To hear Jorge talk about him anyone would think he was God!’ She giggled. ‘I quite fancied meeting him; Jorge said all the women were after him. He’s immensely wealthy, and the title goes back to the days of Ferdinand and Isabella. He sounded fearfully haughty and proud.’

It was becoming obvious that Isabel knew far more about the Calvadores family than she had told her, Jessica realised. She was furious with her cousin, but as she knew from past experience, it was pointless getting angry with Isabel. Even if she were to drag her out here and make her face Sebastian and Calvadores herself, what possible good could it do? Isabel was probably right, it had all turned out for the best, although Jessica doubted that he would ever have felt sufficient concern about her hold over his brother to go the lengths of seeking her out in England.

‘He sent me the most hateful letter,’ Isabel was saying, her voice quivering slightly. ‘He said that he didn’t believe I might be pregnant and that it was just a trick to get Jorge to marry me. At least it’s all over with now, Jess,’ she added on a happier note, ‘I’m so relieved. By the way,’ she added coquettishly, ‘John proposed last night and I’ve accepted him—the parents are over the moon!’

Privately Isabel thought her cousin far too young to be thinking of marriage. It was plain that Isabel was far from mature, and she doubted that John was the right husband for her, but she knew better than to interfere.

‘When will you be back?’ Isabel demanded. ‘We’re having a proper engagement party, and I want you to be there, of course.’

A sop to ease her conscience, Jessica thought wryly. She had done the dirty deed for her and now she was to be rewarded; Isabel couldn’t get engaged without her. Had her cousin the slightest idea of what it had felt like to have to stand there and listen to Sebastian de Calvadores’s insults? To be told that her morals were questionable, that she was motivated by financial greed—no, she thought grimly, Isabel didn’t have the slightest conception.

Since she had allowed herself two days to sort out Isabel’s romantic problems, Jessica found herself with a day on her hands. She wasn’t going to waste it, she decided as she breakfasted in her room on warm rolls and fresh honey. She would explore Seville.

She already knew a little about it; that it had once been ruled by the Moors who had ruled all this part of Spain; that during the Middle Ages it had had a fine reputation as a centre of medical learning. Once Colin arrived there would be scant time for sight-seeing, which in any case did not interest him, so after checking the time of his flight, which was due in early in the evening, Jessica collected her guide books and set out to explore the city.

But as she wandered the Moorish Alcazar, instead of simply being able to drink in its beauty, at almost every turn she was forcibly reminded of Sebastian de Calvadores; it was from the men who had built the civilisation from which this beauty had sprung that he drew his arrogance, she thought as she looked around her. There was Moorish blood running in his veins, underlining and emphasising his total masculinity. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold, glad to step out into the warmth of the sunshine. Forget him, she told herself, why worry about what had happened? She knew that he had been totally mistaken about it, and that should have been enough. But somehow it wasn’t. She could forget the contempt in his eyes, the explicitly sexual way they had moved over her body and yet at the same time had remained so cold, as though he had been saying, see, I know everything there is to know about you as a woman and it does nothing for me, nothing at all.

If it wasn’t for the fact that by doing so she would betray Isabel she would have gone back and told him how wrong he was about her; then it would be his turn to feel her contempt, her condemnation.

Seville was a beautiful city, but she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. Almost everywhere she looked she was reminded of Sebastian de Calvadores; Moorish faces, sternly oppressive, stared back at her from paintings; Moorish men who had guarded their women like precious jewels in rare caskets and who would never in a million years permit them the kind of freedom Isabel enjoyed.

Chastity and desire burned strongly in twin flames in these people; either saints or sinners, but knowing no middle road; their history was a proud one and there could be few natives of Seville who did not boast some Moorish blood, some fierce elemental strain they had inherited from their forebears. They had been a race who, even while they tasted the cup of pleasure to the full, always remained a little aloof, knowing that where there was pleasure there was pain. A cynical, sophisticated race who had kept their women closeted away from the world to be enjoyed by them alone.

Jessica was glad when the time came to go and meet Colin’s plane. He seemed so solid and safe somehow as he came towards her, carrying his briefcase, frowning uncertainly until he saw her.

‘Jessica!’ His hug was affectionately warm. ‘Everything sorted out?’ he asked her as they got into their taxi, his tone implying that he wouldn’t be surprised to find that Isabel in her tiresomeness had allowed her problems to overflow into Jessica’s working life.

‘I think so.’

His relief made her laugh. ‘Thank goodness for that! I was terrified that we’d have a tearful besotted Latin lover on our hands!’

Just for a moment Jessica compared this image to the reality of Sebastian, and wondered if Jorge was anything like his formidable brother. Probably not. She couldn’t see Sebastian allowing himself to be manipulated in the way she was coming to suspect that Isabel had manipulated Jorge. No, when it came to the woman in his life, Sebastian would be totally in control. Was he married?

‘Jess?’

Stop thinking about him, she chided herself, giving her attention to Colin. She was in Seville to work, not concern herself with the private life of a man who was virtually a stranger. Stranger or not, for those first few pulsating seconds when she had seen Sebastian she had been aware of him in a way that still had the power to shock her. For all his repressive arrogance there was a sensuality about him, a total maleness and a dangerous allure, reminiscent of that of a jungle cat for its prey.

Colin was tired after his flight and it was decided that he would dine in his room and have an early night.

‘Have you been to the exhibition centre yet?’ he asked Jessica. She shook her head. ‘Well, the exhibition doesn’t open until tomorrow. We’ve got an appointment with Calvortex after lunch. Keep your fingers crossed, won’t you?’ he asked her. ‘I’ve done all next season’s designs with their fabrics in mind. If they’re anything like last season’s we’ll be on to a real winner—especially if he gives us the exclusive use of his stuff for the U.K.’

‘How much do you know about them?’ Jessica asked him as they stepped into the hotel foyer.

‘Very little, and most of that word of mouth. The Chairman of the company handpicks his clients, from what I’ve been told. The company is a small family-run business; apart from that I know nothing, except that they produce the sort of fabrics that fill the dreams of every designer worth his or her salt. I’m relieved to hear you’ve sorted out all that business with Isabel,’ he added as they headed for the lift. ‘Tiresome girl! Why should you run round after her?’

‘Well, I won’t have to much longer,’ Jessica told him. ‘She’s got herself engaged.’

‘God help the man!’ was Colin’s pious comment as the lift stopped at their floor.

Their rooms were not adjacent and outside the lift they went their separate ways.

In her own room, Jessica tried to concentrate on the morning and the textile show, but somehow Sebastian de Calvadores’s aquiline features kept coming between her and her work. A hard man and a proud one, and her face burned with colour as she remembered the way he had looked at her, the insulting remarks he had made to her.

She went to bed early, and was just on the point of falling asleep when she heard someone knocking on the door.

‘Jess, are you awake?’ she heard Colin mutter outside. ‘I’ve got the most dreadful indigestion, do you have anything I can take?’

Sighing, she went to her suitcase and found some tablets. If Colin had one fault it was that he was a hopeless hypochondriac and that he refused absolutely to carry even aspirins about with him, preferring instead to play the martyr for the uninitiated. Jessica had got wise to this within her first few months of working for him, and had grown used to carrying what amounted almost to a small pharmacy around with her whenever she travelled with him.

She opened her door and handed him the small packet.

‘You’re an angel!’

Colin bent forward, kissing her cheek lightly, and as he did so out of the corner of her eye Jessica glimpsed the couple walking down the corridor towards them; the woman small and petite with smoothly coiled dark hair and an expensive couture evening gown, her escort tall, with raven’s-wing dark hair and a profile that made Jessica’s heart turn over thuddingly as she stared at him.

Sebastian de Calvadores! What was he doing here, and who was he with?

Her face paled as he stared contemptuously at her, suddenly acutely aware of her thin silk nightgown and tousled hair, Colin’s hand on her arm, his lips brushing her cheek. Her face flamed as she realised what interpretation Sebastian de Calvadores would be placing on their intimacy, and then berated herself for her embarrassment. Why should she care if he thought she and Colin were lovers? What possible business was it of his? And yet his steely glance seemed to say that he knew everything there was to know about her, and that he doubted that her motives for being with Colin were any less altruistic than those he had accredited her with in his brother’s case.

‘Jess, is something wrong?’ Colin asked her with a frown, sensing her lack of attention. ‘You’ve seemed strangely on edge ever since I arrived. It’s that damned cousin of yours, I suppose.’

‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m just a little tired,’ she lied huskily, glad when Sebastian and his companion turned the corner of the corridor. ‘I’ll be fine in the morning.’




CHAPTER THREE


AS A PREDICTION it wasn’t entirely true; Jessica felt strangely on edge and tense, her muscles clenching every time someone walked into the dining room where they were having breakfast.

She would be glad to get back home, she thought wryly as her nerves jumped for the third time in succession at the sight of a dark-haired man. Arrogant brute! He hadn’t even given her an opportunity to explain, denouncing her as though she were some female predator and his brother her completely innocent victim. She thought about what she had learned from Isabel and grimaced slightly. How could her cousin have behaved in such an unprincipled way? She had always had a streak of wildness, a tendency to ignore any attempts to curb her headstrong nature, but to actually try and force Jorge into marriage … And that was what she had done, no matter how one tried to wrap up the truth, Jessica admitted unhappily. Even so, that was no reason for Sebastian de Calvadores to speak to her in the way he had.

‘Time to leave for the exhibition,’ Colin reminded her, dragging her mind back to the real purpose of her visit to Seville.

Half an hour later they were there, both of them lost in admiration of the fabrics on display.

‘Just feel this suede,’ Colin murmured to her. ‘It’s as supple as silk. It makes my fingers itch to use it!’

‘And these tweeds!’ Jessica exclaimed. ‘The wool comes from South America, I believe?’

‘Many Spaniards have family connections in South America,’ Colin reminded her, ‘and I suppose it’s only natural that they should turn those connections to commercial advantage, in this case by importing the wool in its raw state, and dying and weaving it here in Spain.’

He drew Jessica’s attention to the display belonging to the company they were to see. ‘In a class of its own, isn’t it?’ he asked, watching the way she handled the supple fabric. ‘And those colours!’

‘They’re incredibly subtle,’ Jessica agreed with a touch of envy.

On leaving college her first intention had been to find a job in a design capacity with one of the large manufacturers, but such jobs were hard to come by—even harder with the downturn in the textile industry in Britain, and although her languages had stood her in good stead, she had found that without exception the Continental firms preferred to take on their own young graduates. Now working with cloth in its raw stages was only a pipe dream.

There was quite a busy throng around the Calvortex display and it was several minutes before Colin could talk to one of the young men in charge. He explained his purpose in Seville, producing the letters of recommendation he had brought with him, while Jessica swiftly translated.

‘Unfortunately I am merely a member of the staff,’ the young man exclaimed regretfully to Jessica, ‘but I will certainly mention this matter to my superiors. If we have a telephone number where we can reach you?’

Handing him both his card and their telephone number at the hotel, Colin announced that they had done enough for one morning and that it was time for lunch. Typically he decided that they would lunch, not at the restaurant within the exhibition, but at another one, far more expensive and exclusive, as Jessica could tell at a glance when their taxi stopped outside it.

She was wearing another of his outfits, and attracted several admiring looks from the other diners as they were shown to their table, Colin beaming delightedly at the attention they were receiving.

Over lunch though he was more serious. ‘I hope I do manage to get to some arrangement with Calvortex,’ he confided.

Jessica, sensitive to his mood, picked up the tone of worry in his voice.

‘It would be very pleasant,’ she agreed, ‘their fabrics are fantastic, but it won’t be the end of the world if we don’t, will it?’

‘It could be,’ Colin told her gravely. ‘Things haven’t been going too well this last couple of years. The people with money to spend on haute couture are getting fewer and fewer, and we don’t exactly produce high-fashion stuff. Calvortex fabrics have a worldwide reputation, if we could use them for our clothes I’m convinced it would help boost sales—I’ve already had one approach from the Americans, with the proviso that we use Calvortex. Somehow they got to hear that we hoped to do so, and they’ve suggested an excellent contract. There’d be enough profit in it for us to start a cheaper line—bread and butter money coming in with the designer collections as the icing.’

What he said made sense, and Jessica knew enough about the fashion world to know he wasn’t exaggerating. Several of the larger fashion houses were cutting back; designers came, were acclaimed for a couple of seasons, and then simply disappeared, but it was like chilly fingers playing down her spine to realise that Colin might be in financial difficulties.

‘Well,’ Colin told her when they had finished eating, ‘let’s get back to the exhibition and see if we can find something to fall back on if we don’t get anywhere with Calvortex, although I’m afraid if we don’t we’ll lose the American contract—and one can see why. The texture and colour of those tweeds they were showing …’

‘Mmm,’ Jessica agreed, ‘they were marvellous. I wonder how they manage to get such subtle colours?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve heard it’s a closely guarded secret. Their Chairman is also their main designer and colour expert. It’s quite a small concern really, but as I said before, extremely exclusive.’

The rest of the exhibition, while interesting, fell very far short of the standard of the Calvortex display, although Jessica did think that some of the supple leathers and suedes might prove useful to them. For some time she had been trying to persuade Colin to try a younger, more fashionable line, and she could just see those suedes, in pewters, steel blues and soft greens, in flaring culottes and swirling skirts, topped with chunky hand knits.

It was shortly after dinner that Colin received a message from reception to say that there had been a call from Calvortex.

‘Stage one completed successfully at least!’ he announced to Jessica when he returned to the bar, faintly flushed and obviously excited. ‘I’ve spoken to the Chairman and he’s agreed to see me tomorrow. I’ve explained to him that I’ve got my assistant with me, so he’s arranged for us to tour the factory, and afterwards we can talk.’

She wouldn’t be included in the talks, of course, Jessica reflected, but it wouldn’t be too difficult a task to occupy herself for a couple of hours—in fact she would enjoy seeing how such beautiful fabrics were made.

Although Colin had not suggested that she do so, she dressed with particular care for the visit—an outfit chosen from their new season’s designs, a cream silk blouse and a russet velvet suit with a tiny boxy jacket with narrow puffed sleeves and scrolls of self-coloured embroidery down the front. The skirt fell smoothly in soft loose pleats from the narrow waistband, and it was an outfit that Jessica knew suited her.

Colin obviously thought so too, because he beamed with approval when he saw her.

‘Very apt,’ he approved as he looked at her. ‘The jacket has a certain matador air, very much suited to this part of the world, and I must say I’m very pleased with the way that embroidery has worked out. The colour suits you as well.’

‘I thought about the tweed,’ Jessica told him, referring to a tweed suit which was also part of the new collection, ‘but as it doesn’t compare favourably with their fabrics, I thought …’

‘Quite right,’ he approved. ‘Now, I’ve ordered a taxi for us, we’ve just about got time for a cup of coffee before it arrives.’

He looked more like an Old Etonian than a famous designer, Jessica reflected, eyeing his sober Savile Row suit and immaculate silk shirt. Colin belonged to an older generation that believed in dressing correctly and that one could always tell a gentleman by his clothes—Turnbull & Asser shirts and handmade shoes.

The factory was situated just outside Seville, surprisingly modern and with access to the river and the port. It was, as Colin pointed out, very well planned, close to main roads and other facilities, and when he gave in their names at the gates they swung open to allow their vehicle to enter.

They were met in the foyer by a smiling dark-haired young man, dressed formally in a dark suit, his glance for them both extremely respectful, although there was a gleam of male interest in the dark eyes as they discreetly examined Jessica.

Having introduced himself as Ramón Ferres, he told them that he was to escort them round the factory.

‘Unfortunately the Conde cannot show you round himself,’ he explained in the sibilant, liquid English of the Spaniard, ‘but he will be free to have lunch with you as arranged,’ he informed Colin. ‘Forgive me if I stare,’ he added to Jessica, ‘but we did not realise when Señor Weaver mentioned an assistant that he was talking of a woman. I’m afraid you might find the chemical processes of the factory a little boring …’

‘Never,’ Colin interrupted with a chuckle, while Jessica suppressed a tiny flare of anger at their escort’s chauvinistic remark. Of course in Spain things were different. On the whole women were content to take a back seat to live their own lives, especially in the more wealthy families. No doubt someone such as Sebastian de Calvadores’s wife, if indeed he had one, would never dream of interfering in her husband’s life, or of questioning him about it. That was how they were brought up; to be docile and biddable, content with their families and their homes.

‘You’ll find that Jessica is far more knowledgeable about the manufacturing process than I am,’ Colin added to their guide. ‘In fact I suspect she prefers designing fabrics to designing clothes, if the truth were known.’

‘Both fascinate me,’ Jessica said truthfully.





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