A justice he had meted out those long, long years later, when he had ordered Mercedes de Carvello from the home she no longer
possessed.
Slowly, very slowly, his eyes refocused. Came back to the present.
And saw another face—another image. Cool, blonde, English.
Filled with revulsion.
Disdain.
For him.
The barman had come back to his end of the bar. Diego pushed his empty whisky glass towards him.
‘Another one,’ he said.
His eyes were dark and shuttered. His face expressionless.
Silently the barman refilled his whisky glass.
CHAPTER FIVE
PORTIA stood by the sash window in the Morning Room, gazing out over the lawns. Splashed across the green, all the way down to the lake, daffodils nodded and danced in the breeze. Cloudlets scudded across the bright spring sky.
She gave a sigh of contentment. The Morning Room was one of her favourites at Salton—its delicate rosewood furniture with a slight sense of chinoiserie, the trellised, hand-blocked wallpaper, and, of course, the wonderful view down to the lake.
Slowly, as she stood gazing out over the sea of gold and green, a sense of peace, of safety, started to soothe along the edges of her torn, ragged nerves.
Here at Salton she would be safe.
She had driven down the very next day, leaving nothing but a terse phone message for Hugh to say she was catching up on some unused leave. Then she had set off, reaching Salton before lunch.
She had driven as if a devil were in pursuit.
And he is a devil, she thought. Taunting me. Tempting me.
She had not slept—had been tormented by dreams. Hot, disturbing dreams, where Diego Saez hunted her down a maze of corridors, pursuing her steadily, remorselessly, until he had her trapped…
Then he advanced on her. Pulled her into his arms.
Even now, standing here, gazing out over the timeless, peaceful view of the gardens, if she let her guard down for a moment, an instant, the memories were there, leaping into her mind, clutching at her.
I don’t want him. I don’t…
She repeated the mantra to herself, clinging to it.
It was insane that she should want Diego Saez. Insane to want a man like that.
She felt her breasts prickling beneath the cashmere of her sweater and turned away sharply.
No, she would not let herself be taken over like this. It was like an illness, that was all. A bug in her system. For some ludicrous, absurd, ridiculous reason Diego Saez, with his heavy-lidded eyes and his sensual mouth, had got past her defences. Defences she had erected painstakingly, doggedly, ever since she had realised so devastatingly that for her sex was a disaster—it left her cold. Untouchable.
In her mind, she heard Susie saying impatiently, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Portia, Geoffrey was just wrong for you, that’s all! That’s why you didn’t like sex with him. And that’s why you need someone like Diego Saez! There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t enjoy sex with a man like him!’
For a hot and shameful instant she saw a vision of herself in a bedroom, with Diego Saez advancing on her. His hands were unknotting his tie, shrugging off his jacket. His eyes were focused on her, dark and knowing. And with one intention only…
She suddenly felt the sensual quickening of her own body. Then, like a lid slamming down, she regained control.