Alejandro's Revenge. Anne Mather
a uniformed maid to run down the shallow steps to meet them. Small and foreign in appearance, she seemed unusually eager to please, opening the door of the limousine, inviting Abby to step out.
‘Thanks.’
Abby did so, brushing down the slightly creased legs of her khaki pants. In fact, she was sure she must look distinctly travel-worn, and she wished she’d thought about taking a change of clothes onto the plane.
The khaki pants and cream shirt would have to do, though she thought about taking her jacket out of her haversack. But now that she was out in the sunlight again the heat was almost palpable. She certainly didn’t need a jacket. And it was only March.
‘Welcome to Miami, señora,’ the maid greeted her politely as the chauffeur got out to heft Abby’s suitcase from the boot. Then, with a distinctly flirtatious air, she added, ‘Hola, Carlos. Como esta?’ How are you?
As Abby digested the fact that she now knew the chauffeur’s name, he responded to the maid’s greeting with rather less enthusiasm. ‘Bien, gracias,’ he said, which Abby knew was usually followed by Y usted? but wasn’t in this case. Then, to Abby, ‘I’ll leave this here, ma’am.’ He put down the heavy case. ‘And I hope all goes well with your brother.’
‘Oh—thank you.’ Abby blinked, wondering if the house was off-limits to the other staff. But when he got back into the limousine and drove away she revised her opinion. She had probably taken him away from his usual work.
To her chagrin, the maid took charge of her case. Lifting the strap, she tugged it on its wheels up the steps, waiting rather impatiently now for Abby to join her.
‘Come,’ she said, leading the way into the wide entrance hall. It was cooler inside, and a huge urn of flowers spilled scarlet blossoms over the marble surface of a stone table.
Air-conditioning cooled the heat that had beaded on Abby’s forehead, and she ran a nervous hand over her hair, feeling the damp strands clinging to her cheeks. She probably looked as flushed and harassed as she felt.
Looking about her, she had to admit she’d forgotten exactly how beautiful the Esquivals’ home was. Cool and spacious, it epitomised all that was good about Spanish architecture. Long windows looked out onto an inner courtyard and hanging baskets edged an arching colonnade.
‘Mees Leighton—Abigail!’ The voice that accosted her was soft and feminine, and Abby turned to find Lauren’s mother emerging from the salon that adjoined the reception hall. Small and plump, but exquisitely dressed, Dolores Esquival matched her surroundings, her sleek chignon of dark hair putting Abby’s explosion of crinkled red curls to shame. ‘Welcome to Florida,’ she added, her high heels tapping across the polished floor as she came to meet her guest. Air kisses whispered at either side of Abby’s head as she continued, ‘I hope you had a good journey, cara.’
‘I—yes. Thank you.’ Abby felt a little bemused as she returned the greeting. Lauren’s mother was behaving as if she was here for a holiday instead of flying out to be at her brother’s bedside. ‘It’s very—kind of you to ask.’
‘Not so, querida.’ Was Abby mistaken or did Dolores’s mouth tighten a little. ‘We are very happy to have you here.’
‘Yes, but—’
Ignoring her now, Lauren’s mother switched her attention to the maid, who was hovering in the background, directing her to take their guest’s suitcase upstairs. At least that was what Abby thought she was doing. Her imperious signal towards the curving staircase seemed to indicate it was.
‘Oh, but—’ Abby began, eager to explain that she had no intention of presuming on the Esquivals’ hospitality, but Lauren’s mother turned to her again.
‘This way,’ she said, apparently deaf to Abby’s protests. ‘I am sure you are eager to see your brother,’ she added, heading into the salon. ‘Everyone is through here.’
Afterwards, when she was unwillingly installed in the first-floor suite she had occupied on her first visit to Florida, Abby marvelled that she had had no suspicion that Alejandro might be there.
Yet how could she have? she asked herself defensively. She’d believed that he was just a distant relative, invited to the wedding because family politics dictated as much. She’d had no idea that he was such a close friend of the Esquivals, nor that Lauren seemed to regard him with a distinctly possessive affection.
Still, when she’d followed Dolores into the enormous salon that seemed to stretch right across the back of the house, she’d had eyes only for her brother. Besides, she’d still been slightly dazzled by the change from sun to shadow. With spots of brilliance dancing before her pupils, she’d been in no condition to instantly register all the people in the room.
Edward was there, she’d seen with some relief, apparently confined to the cushioned divan where he was reclining. With one leg encased in plaster from hip to knee, he had apparently been incapable of coming to greet her. She had hesitated only a moment before hurrying to his side.
‘Oh, Eddie,’ she exclaimed huskily, suddenly inexplicably near to tears. ‘What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’
She bent to kiss his cheek and Edward captured one of her hands and held onto it. ‘Hey, Abbs,’ he greeted her urgently. Then, in an undertone, ‘Thank God you’ve come!’
Abby’s eyes widened at his unexpected words. But before she could say or do anything rash, another hand touched her sleeve.
‘Abigail,’ declared a vaguely familiar voice. ‘How—good it is to see you again.’
Abby turned, straightening, to find Luis Esquival standing right behind her. Lauren’s father was only slightly taller than his wife, with a broad dark-skinned face and luxuriant moustaches. He extended his hand towards her. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’
Abby was confused, as much by her brother’s words as by the fairly obvious conclusion that there was nothing seriously wrong with him. He had let her believe that he’d be in hospital for some time, whereas now it appeared that apart from a probable fracture he was okay. Heavens, she thought ruefully, Ross was going to love this.
But Lauren’s father was waiting for an answer and, summoning her composure, she managed a polite smile. ‘It was—tiring,’ she admitted. Plane journeys were not her thing, and she’d had the doubtful privilege of being seated next to the toilets. ‘Thank you.’
She glanced round then, expecting to see Lauren, but her sister-in-law wasn’t in the room. Instead she saw an elderly woman seated by an arrangement of potted palms, and behind her, standing in the shadows near the ornate brick fireplace, was a tall man dressed all in black.
It was strange, but even then she had no inkling that she might know him. So far as she was concerned the only other person she was eager to speak to was Lauren herself. She wanted to find out what was behind Edward’s desperate words. She wanted to know why he’d felt the need to send for her.
But once again Luis Esquival demanded her attention. ‘We were most surprised when Edward told us you intended paying us a visit,’ he said silkily. ‘As you can see, your brother is recovering very well.’
Abby was nonplussed. Her eyes sought Edward’s, but he was suddenly intensely interested in the cast on his leg. Below the hem of his navy shorts the plaster looked extremely white against his bare skin, and as she watched he shifted a little uneasily in his seat.
‘I—I thought—’ she was beginning, when the man beside the fireplace suddenly moved into the shaft of sunlight slicing through the half-drawn blinds.
‘I am sure—Abigail—was concerned when she heard about her brother’s accident,’ he drawled in the low, seductively sensual tone that Abby remembered not just in her mind but in her bones. And as she swung round, hardly daring to believe he’d have the nerve to come here and face her, Alejandro Varga acknowledged her dismay with an ironic little smile. ‘Abigail.’ He inclined his head towards her