Cristina smiled. ‘You deserve one. Most people find photo shoots exhausting and very stressful.’
‘Pilar will be happy to show you around.’ Sofia smiled.
‘Or Luis could show you?’ Agusto took a sip of his coffee. ‘He knows all there is to know. He was even born here.’
‘Oh, no, please—your son is a very busy man,’ she said quickly. ‘He doesn’t need me interrupting his work.’
Her head was spinning. There was no way she was going to be stuck with Luis on her own.
Agusto shook his head. ‘What my son needs is to realise that work isn’t everything. That other things matter more.’
Catching sight of the pleading expression on his wife’s face, he frowned.
‘Just ignore me, Cristina. As usual, my wife is right. Pilar is the best person to show you around.’
Pilar would have made an excellent tour guide, Cristina thought an hour later. She was very knowledgeable, patient, and obviously passionate about her subject matter.
‘So, did the family buy the island or the fortress first?’
‘The island.’
They were climbing the steps to the tower. There were one hundred and twelve, which hadn’t sounded like a lot until they’d reached just over halfway and the backs of Cristina’s calves had started to burn.
‘This is like a workout,’ she said breathlessly on step ninety-one.
They finally reached the top.
‘It is.’ Pilar smiled. ‘But you don’t get this view with a normal workout.’
Turning slowly, Cristina gazed in silence at the view. ‘It’s incredible,’ she murmured. ‘You can see for miles.’
The housekeeper nodded. ‘That’s why the tower was built. To spot pirate ships.’
‘Pirates? I thought they were from the Caribbean.’
Pilar laughed. ‘Some were. But we had our own pirates here. From Africa. They were very determined, and ruthless. The fortress was built to keep them out.’
Cristina nodded. Determined and ruthless. Unprompted, a picture of Luis’s beautiful, masculine face came into her head. Instantly she felt a tingling heat travel slowly over her skin, her body responding with indecent speed to the idea of Luis gazing out to sea, his grey eyes dark with predatory intent.
Yes, he would probably make a great pirate, she thought irritably. And you would be the first person he’d make walk the plank.
Downstairs were the family’s private rooms.
‘I don’t need to see those,’ Cristina said quickly.
‘But you would like to see Baltasar’s room.’ It was a statement not a question.
Baltasar.
The son who had died in a car crash.
Grace had given her biographies of all the family members, but the information on Luis and his older brother had been basic—probably because her editor had believed it to be irrelevant for a photo shoot on Banco Osorio’s four-hundredth anniversary.
Walking into the bedroom, Cristina realised that Grace had been wrong. Realised, too, why nothing had worked that morning. And why Agusto was so tense and Sofia so desolate.
There were many beautiful objects downstairs, but it what was missing that really mattered. Like negative space in a sketch, or silence in a piece of music, it told the hidden story.
In her house it had been her father’s possessions. The shirts and suits left hanging in the wardrobe, never to be worn again. His precious vintage motorbike in the garage. And of course the letters addressed to him that kept on coming…