The Spaniard's Passion. Jane Porter
If she just felt festive once?
Forgive me, Clive, she whispered, and peeled the black dress off her shoulders and down past her hips.
Standing in her closet she stared at the few gowns she had left, including the one dress she wanted to wear, the one dress she’d never worn. It’d been bought for her honeymoon with Clive and yet the resort they went to turned out to be quite casual.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. “Sophie, it’s half six and the guests will be arriving soon.”
“I’m already ready, Louisa,” Sophie answered, reaching for the red gown.
The bedroom door opened and Louisa appeared in full party regalia: long gray satin dress, diamond and pearl necklace, diamond and pearl brooch, diamond and pearl earrings, even a little diamond and pearl tiara tucked into her puffy silver hair. “You’re not even close to being ready!”
Sophie pulled the shimmering strapless red shantung silk dress from the closet. “All I have to do is zip it.”
“You’re going to wear that?” Louisa eyed the red dress with suspicion. “What about your black gown?”
“I’ve worn that two years in a row—”
“And it looks splendid on you.”
“Clive bought me this dress,” she said, stepping into the slim long skirt with the small train. But she wasn’t thinking of Clive. She was thinking of Lon—even though he wasn’t coming tonight. “I’ll be downstairs in just a moment.”
Downstairs Sophie did a last minute inspection. The ballroom glittered. The six magnificent chandeliers with the five thousand crystals shone on the polished stone floor and the enormous Christmas tree in the corner. The small orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz and even though no guests had arrived yet, the scene felt magical—like marzipan confections painted and dusted in sparkling sugar.
She spent the first hour of the party greeting guests at the front door, collecting coats, accepting hostess gifts, and generally making visitors feel welcome.
At least, that had been her objective until Lon showed up with a bouquet of white lilies he placed in Sophie’s arms.
“What are you doing here?” she choked, stunned to see Alonso slide a long black wool overcoat from his shoulders, revealing a gorgeous tuxedo beneath.
“The Countess can’t hire staff for this job?” he replied, leaning down and greeting her with a kiss.
She turned her head so his lips brushed her cheek. “Don’t start,” she whispered into his ear.
He held her a moment longer than necessary and then kissed the side of her neck, just below her ear. “I haven’t even begun.”
His voice hummed in her, as did the suggestive promise. She struggled to catch her breath, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation, the zing of adrenaline.
He’d barely kissed her. How could such a light touch be so electric? How could such a fleeting brush against her neck make her feel so hot and tense?
“I had a change of plans,” he said, stepping away, adjusting the cuffs on his dress shirt. “Fortunate, isn’t it?”
No. What she felt for Lon was crazy and intense and she couldn’t stand the tangled emotions he stirred within her. “I’ll give the flowers to Louisa,” she answered, grateful for the appearance of new guests arriving. Someone had to save her from Alonso. It’d once been Clive’s job, but he couldn’t do that anymore.
“They’re for you. If I brought Louisa flowers, they’d be yellow mums.” He continued to study her, his narrowed gaze taking in every detail of her snug red gown, the matching red shoes peeping from beneath the hem, the twist and loop of her long hair—fastened low at her nape so coiled tendrils fell between her bare shoulder blades.
“Have any of your friends arrived?” he asked, finishing his inspection, his gaze resting on her bare throat and ears.
“Uh—no.” She tensed. “You’re the first.”
“I’m glad it worked out that I could come. I’m really looking forward to meeting all these wonderful friends.”
Friends. She fought panic. Her friends were actually just one, and the one happened to be Federico Alvare. And somehow she thought Lon already knew…
“Are these the same friends you’re going to Brazil with?” he persisted.
Sophie inhaled sharply. How did he know she was going to Brazil? How could he know? She’d told no one. No one, that is, but Federico…
Lon’s eyes never left her face. “Why don’t we find some water for your flowers, Sophie?”
“I can’t. The guests—”
“Oh, yes you can,” he interrupted gently, kindly. “The guests are fine. It’s you, darling, I’m worried about.”
She took a small step backward. She didn’t like Lon like this. He was even more frightening. Far too intimidating. “There’s no reason to be worried—”
“When were you going to tell me about your holiday plans, Sophie? Or were you just going to sneak away with Federico without telling me?”
It felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath her. A moment ago she’d felt so hot she wanted to peel off her dress, and now she felt covered in frost. Again her thoughts spun, wondering how could he know such a thing? How did he find out?
Lon saw Sophie swallow, a convulsive little swallow. She was afraid.
She should be. If Sophie landed in Sao Paulo with Federico, Miguel Valdez would skin her alive.
“Maybe we should go to the library,” she whispered.
“Good idea.”
In the library he closed the paneled doors behind them. “I want to hear everything.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
“The jury’s out on that, love.”
They stared at each other from across the library. Lon rather admired Sophie’s verve. She was showing more spirit than she’d shown in years. But her confidence was misplaced. She had no idea what she was doing. No idea who she was dealing with. “Does the Countess know?”
“What do you think?” Her hands balled into fists. “And how did you find out, anyway?”
“Is that what you’re most worried about?”
She couldn’t read his mood. His blue eyes, that strange startling ice blue, were devoid of any emotion. She couldn’t read him at all right now. “What should I be worried about?”
“How about draining your bank account? Handing over ten thousand pounds to a complete stranger—because you don’t know Federico Alvare, and you did give him the money, didn’t you?”
She couldn’t answer. She stared at him and curled her fingers into her hands.
“You applied for a Brazilian visa,” he continued. “You had Federico buy you an airline ticket.”
They were booked on a flight on December 26th. Federico had made the plans. He’d booked the tickets, too. “There’s no reason I can’t go on holiday. I haven’t had a holiday since Clive died.”
“Clive died in Brazil.”
“So I’m not allowed to visit the country now?”
“Not if you intend to visit the rough neighborhood in Sao Paulo where he died.”
She held his gaze. “Is there something I should know about his death? Something you haven’t told me? Because you were the one that arranged to have his body sent home.”
“I helped with the