White Witch (2 page)

‘Who, I gather, didn’t welcome her,’ Laurel pointed out.

‘My mother did her best, but they were not en rapport. We are a proud people and it was expecting too much of us to accept a foreign upstart without a dowry whose background was a charitable institution. Pedro inherited property, and we suspected her motives were mercenary.’

You would, Laurel thought angrily. ‘That was utterly disproved when she gave up luxury for penury when she left him,’ she declared, her voice quivering with indignation. ‘As for the St Agnes’ Foundation, it has turned out many worthy people, let me tell you. It was the only home we knew, and the staff were kind. You despise us for having no noble escutcheons, and you consider your brother made a mésalliance, but we were brought up to be virtuous, independent girls, which I’m sure is more than can be said for a lot of your fine ladies!’

They were travelling along the brightly lit streets which bordered the coast, the street lamps illuminating the interior of the car, and she saw his dark brows lift and a quizzical smile touch his lips. Involuntarily she noticed that he had a very handsome mouth.

‘I cannot help my thoughts,’ he returned courteously, ‘but I was impolite to utter them. I apologise if I have offended you. May I say that I applaud your loyalty to your sister and the people who raised you. No doubt they deserve it, but she did not.’

‘She’s dead,’ Laurel said wearily. ‘Let her rest.’

‘Certainly, but did you condone her action in depriving Pedro of his son, and keeping herself incommunicado for years?’

‘Peter was all Jo had left,’ Laurel tried to defend her sister. ‘She was terrified Pedro would try to take him away from her.’

‘He would not have done that. If she had applied for a separation she would have been granted custody while he was so young. All Pedro wanted was access to the boy.’

‘Jo was certain that if he discovered her whereabouts he would try to kidnap the child. There have been many cases of that happening. It became an obsession with her as her health declined.’

Luis gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘As if he would descend to such skulduggery! It never occurred to her that she was putting an intolerable burden upon you?’

‘But it wasn’t, we managed quite well ... She sold her jewellery...’

‘And did it never occur to you to ask how she got herself plus her jewellery and her baby out of Spain?’

‘I did wonder,’ Laurel told him, ‘but she wouldn’t tell me. She never would speak of her life here, so I’ve no idea what went wrong, but it must have been something pretty bad. They were so in love.’

‘Infatuation,’ Luis sneered. ‘And it was bad.’ Laurel looked at him enquiringly, but he said no more.

‘Was there another woman?’

Luis shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘What if there was? Spanish women are expected to look the other way if their husbands stray. That is no reason to break a marriage. We do not marry for love, which you seem to think so important. The woman settles for a good establishment and it is her task to produce
ninos.
What her husband does outside the home is not her concern.’

‘What a deplorably chauvinistic attitude!’ Laurel exclaimed, shocked by this cynicism. ‘Are you married?’

‘Not yet, but as I am head of the family it will be my duty to select a suitable wife. She will have a fine establishment, and of course she will be Spanish.’

‘Of course,’ Laurel echoed mockingly. So he had his eye upon some unfortunate
senorita
to run his home and bear his children while he came and went as his fancy beckoned. But she being his countrywoman would know what to expect, and perhaps in the long run the marriage would turn out more satisfactory than Joanna’s passionate love affair which had ended upon the rocks.

‘I’m not surprised Jo rebelled,’ she said slowly. ‘You see, she had a modern outlook, and so have I.’

‘And permissive?’ he asked slyly.

‘Certainly not!’

‘I am glad to hear that. Such conduct would not be tolerated here.’

As if her behaviour were anything to do with him! About to tell him so with vigour, she checked herself. She was to be a guest in his mother’s house and he was Peter’s uncle. She had better not antagonise him any further. She hoped fervently their contacts would be few to avoid ructions, for not only had his intolerant criticism of her sister infuriated her, but she was sure he had catalogued her as an equally undesirable person.

They had left the bright streets behind them and were following unlighted byroads. It was not yet light, and only an occasional wall or gateway showed up in the headlamps. Luis was a dark, slightly menacing figure beside her. It seemed they had been travelling for hours and the journey would never end.

She said quietly: ‘Believe me,
senor,
I would not have written to Pedro if there had been any alternative. I had to be at work all day and the nursery school wasn’t very satisfactory. As Peter grows older, his needs will increase, and I couldn’t bear him to be deprived. I shall leave as soon as I’m satisfied he is happy here.’

Luis must not be allowed to suppose she meant to sponge on the Aguilas indefinitely.

‘You are welcome to stay as long as you please,’ he told her, but without warmth. ‘In fact as you are a connection by marriage, it is our duty to care for you. Since you are alone in the world, I will make provision for you.’

‘You will do nothing of the sort!’ she returned fiercely, needled by this calm assumption of authority over her and his patronising tone. ‘I don’t want your ... your charity,
senor,
I’m quite capable of earning my own living.’

A somewhat ungracious speech if his offer was kindly meant, but it seemed to amuse him.

‘The independent British Miss,’ he laughed. ‘Nevertheless it is as well to have someone to fall back upon.’

But never you, with your lofty condescension, your obvious contempt. No doubt it would flatter you to have me grovelling at your feet for the few crumbs you were pleased to throw me, but I’d starve first! Aloud, she said stiffly:

‘Thank you, but I’m sure the need will never arise.’

‘At least you had the good sense to contact us upon Pedro’s behalf, but why did you not do it before?’

‘Behind Joanna’s back? I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not? It is what you should have done.
Bueno,
I appreciate your scruples,’ as she was about to utter an angry denial. ‘But before we leave this distressing subject, there is one question I must ask, and I hope you will give me a truthful answer.’

‘If I can.’

There was a curious urgency in his tone and she wondered what was coming now.

‘Has Peter, as you call him, ever had a serious illness?’

She wondered why that was important, as she replied:

‘I assure you he’s perfectly healthy, but yes, he had a very bad turn with measles and ’flu when he was three. We feared we were going to lose him, but he pulled through.’

‘Joanna did not let his father know? She did not write to him?’

‘Of course not. She was always terrified Pedro would employ a detective to trace her.’

‘He was not all that anxious to get her back,’ Luis told her drily. ‘But he did want the boy. He considered it, but it was always
manana
with Pedro, and he was killed before he did anything.’

But you are not one to procrastinate, Laurel thought, you didn’t want the heir to your brother’s property to be found, and you certainly didn’t want to find Joanna. She asked probingly; ‘My letter came as a surprise?’

‘Yes, but we were all delighted to have news of the boy at last.’

He did not sound it. She ought not to have come, if he were going to be so inimical. His feelings towards herself were unimportant, but if extended to Peter could affect his wellbeing. Then she remembered how tenderly he had settled the tired child on the back seat and was reassured. Luis would never vent his spite upon a little boy.

‘When did Joanna come to England?’ he went on.

‘Why, when she left Spain. Peter was a year old.’

Her mind went back to the night when Joanna had turned up at her bed-sitting room on the verge of a nervous breakdown, with a baby, a diamond necklace and not much else, demanding sanctuary. Laurel had with difficulty found a flat in another district to accommodate them. Later, when Jo had wanted to sell the necklace, she had asked her bluntly if it were hot, and Joanna had looked at her with reproachful eyes.

‘I may be a bitch, Laurel, but I’m not a thief. It was a gift, bestowed upon me as ... compensation.’

Compensation for what, and by whom—Pedro, or another?

‘Of course she came to me,’ she went on, ‘I was her only living relative.’

Luis slanted a keen look at her. ‘The trail led elsewhere, but it proved to be false.’

Laurel was silent. She didn’t want to discuss her unhappy sister with this hard, unfeeling man. His manner changed.

‘
Bueno
, I hope while you are here you will, as we say in Spain, consider my house is yours, though actually you will not be staying in my mother’s house, but the hotel opposite to it. The Casa is not large and since the Reina Isabella is one of the many I own in Andalucia we often accommodate our guests there as an alternative. I myself have a suite in it. You will be very comfortable there.’

‘I’m sure I shall.’

If an icy spray had been poured down her back, Laurel could not have felt more cold. So all the fine talk about being welcome meant nothing at all. Dona Elvira preferred not to have her under her own roof, did not want to admit her to her family circle—her, the despised daughter-in-law’s sister, who would only be tolerated until Peter could do without her.

‘And Peter?’ she asked faintly. ‘Are we to be separated?’

‘Certainly not. He will share your room in the hotel ... for the present.’

That was something, and she felt relieved. We’re on appro, she thought wryly, until we have shown we’re acceptable. At least, Peter is. I shall always be beyond the pale.

Apparently quite unconscious of the blow that he had dealt to her pride, Luis went on:

‘Though it is a modern building, the Reina is designed like an old Spanish palace, it is very spacious and unusual.’ He spoke with pride. ‘My suite is on the floor above you, so I shall be able to keep an eye on you.’

‘And make sure I don’t disgrace you?’ she asked coldly, still smarting from her exclusion.

‘
Ay de mi
, but you are an English rose—with thorns!’ he returned ruefully. ‘You are determined to prick me, but I only meant I would ensure all was well with you.’

‘I’m afraid I have a sharp tongue,’ she said apologetically, ‘but you’ll agree my position is a little ... difficult.’

‘Only if you insist upon making it so,’ he told her. ‘Your sister has gone, and so has Pedro, and their problems died with them. We have a mutual interest in the
nino’s
welfare, so can we not all be friends, and please to call me Luis.’

This appeared to be an extension of the olive branch, and she returned: ‘I would very gladly be friends, Luis.’ But she had private reservations. She had been told it was impossible for a foreigner to divine what a Spaniard was really thinking. Luis had not attempted to disguise his contempt for Joanna, and his manner towards her until now had been critical and censorious. It was only as they approached his own domain that he had become more cordial, perhaps influenced by the Spaniards’ ingrained hospitality, but she had a suspicion that it was only a mask, assumed for some devious purpose he wished to conceal. It was most unlikely there could be any genuine friendship between the product of an orphanage and the proud arrogant head of the Aguilas clan.

CHAPTER TWO

Dawn
was breaking, the rugged crests of the mountains black against a grey sky, as the car surmounted the steep slope into Mijas and turned left towards the little town. Far below lights still twinkled in Fuengirola. Laurel remembered it all so well, the extensive view down to the sea, the arid slopes of the mountains to the east and north. There, upon a rise overlooking the road, was the red-roofed, whitewashed villa where she had stayed with Joanna and Peter had been born. She wondered who occupied it now. She had spent a very pleasant two weeks with the young couple, who could have foreseen that a year later her sister would turn up in her diminutive flatlet, plus baby but minus explanation? Her few letters—Joanna was a bad correspondent—had given no hint of impending catastrophe.

She remembered also seeing the hotel, as Luis turned off the main road and down a steep slope into the courtyard. It was a long low building; nobody in Mijas was allowed to erect more than three stories to deface the countryside, as did the towering concrete blocks along the coast, set in a terraced garden descending the hillside. Laurel could smell the roses; there were roses everywhere, already in full bloom. It was a delectable spot, a romantic spot, and yet Joanna’s romance had failed.

You will do well to remember that, she told herself, but she could not imagine any liquid-eyed Spaniard sweeping her off her feet, as Pedro had Joanna. She was far too matter-of-fact, and she was so weary that all she could contemplate with enthusiasm was bed.

Luis got out of the car and went to ring the bell beside the imposing front door, which swung open at his summons, as if he were expected, as he probably was. He came back followed by a sleepy porter who collected their luggage, and unclicked her door, offering his hand to help her get out. She accepted it, for she was stiff with sitting and her legs felt as though they belonged to someone else.

His long, narrow hand felt very strong as it clasped hers, and she was aware of a tingle along her nerves at the contact. He looked unnaturally tall looming over her in the wan light—he
was
tall for a Spaniard, the average Andalucian being short and stocky. Must be some alien blood somewhere, she thought vaguely.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely, as she stood beside him on the paving, and she sensed his penetrating look.

‘I believe you are a dangerous woman, Laurel,’ he told her with an odd note in his voice.

She shook her head dumbly, too exhausted to ask his meaning. This was not the time to indulge in the sexual banter his remark seemed to demand, and he turned away abruptly to open the rear door. Lifting the sleeping Peter in his arms, he signed to her to follow. He paused on the threshold.

‘
Bienvenida
, Laurel,’ he said gravely.

Doubtless they say that to all the guests, she thought drowsily, as she stepped into the vestibule. Low-ceilinged, marble-floored, decorated with potted plants, this seemed to cover a vast area, the reception desk occupying one corner. Opposite the entrance, plate glass windows reflecting the concealed lighting revealed a flower-filled patio.

Luis turned right, through an archway, and right again down a long corridor, while a sleepy receptionist hurried after them, carrying a key. He unlocked a panelled door—all the rooms had massive wooden doors—and stood back to allow Laurel to enter, handing her the key.

‘
Que duermas bien
,
senorita
,’ he said courteously.

She smiled sweetly. To sleep well—she wanted nothing better. The porter followed with the luggage and dumped it on the racks provided for that purpose. Luis laid Peter down on one of the twin beds and fumbled in his pocket for a few pesetas. The man bowed and withdrew, while Luis turned to scrutinise the fair, flushed face upon the pillow. He’s looking for some likeness to his father, Laurel surmised, but there was nothing in the child’s features to connect him with the dark sardonic countenance bending over him, which belonged surprisingly to his uncle.

Luis straightened himself and looked at her. She braced herself, expecting some scathing comment, but surely it was not unusual for a boy to take after his mother, he must know that. She drooped, as pale and fragile looking as a snowdrop, while his searching gaze swept over her, but what he said was:

‘You are very beautiful.’

Laurel started, and a flush like red wine ran up under her thin skin.

‘I’m not—it must be the dim light, she told him, for the overhead bulb was not strong. ‘I must be looking a mess after travelling all night, but perhaps you admire travel stains,
senor
?’ She tried to speak lightly, for there was something in that intent regard that discomposed her.

‘Luis,’ he corrected her mechanically, still staring at her, a sensuous look in his black velvet eyes. Then abruptly he turned away towards the window, which was covered by a
reja
—the iron grille, a feature that was erected over all the lower windows of houses in that country. The room was on the ground floor, and a clump of red roses, regaining their colour in the strengthening light, grew outside it.

‘Come here,’ he beckoned to her.

Reluctantly she joined him, wishing he would go away and let her sleep. He indicated a square white house on the other side of the courtyard, a little to the left.

‘That is my mother’s house. You see, you are practically part of it, and there was no need to feel offended.’

How uncannily he could guess her thoughts! She stammered: ‘I wasn’t ... I’m not...’

He laughed softly. ‘Do not pretend, Laurel.’ He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips. ‘You are not really like Joanna at all.’

‘She was prettier than I am.’

His face froze. ‘Fair and frail,’ he said acidly, ‘but in spite of the evidence, I believe you are true.’

‘I hope so,’ she said uncertainly, wondering what on earth he was getting at and what he meant by evidence. ‘I ... I’m very tired, Luis.’

‘I am being very thoughtless.’ He drew the curtains over the window, shutting out the growing day. ‘There is a house phone,’ he pointed to it. ‘Ring for anything you require. I will give orders that you are not to be disturbed until you are ready for your breakfast.’

But still he lingered, as if loath to go. Laurel moved purposefully towards her case, snapping open the hasps. It might be his hotel, but this was her room, and surely his Spanish sense of propriety should tell him he ought to get out of it. He seemed to have got the message, for striding to the door, muttering, ‘
Hasta luego
,’ he went out, closing it softly behind him.

Laurel undressed Peter without waking him—nothing short of an earthquake would have done that—and slid him into bed. Then she looked about her. The room, a double one, was large, with two old-fashioned armoires on either side of the beds, containing wardrobes and drawers. A long shelf ran behind the beds. The bathroom was beside the door. She no longer felt sleepy and decided a bath would relax her. Seeping in the warm water, she thought about Luis de las Aguilas. She didn’t want to think about him, for she had decided during that interminable drive from Malaga that she detested him, and would keep out of his way as much as possible, but he refused to be banished from her mind. He fascinated while he repelled and she could not deny his good looks. He was what her colleagues at the office would call a dreamboat, a dish, a rave or whatever was the latest in their absurd vocabulary to describe an attractive man, but she was convinced he had contributed largely to her sister’s distress and had possibly engineered the breakdown of her marriage. Joanna had never been able to endure criticism and disapproval which he had obviously handed out by the bucketful, and he had had a lot of influence over Pedro.

‘Oh, bother the man!’ she exclaimed aloud, as she clambered out of the bath and dried herself with the thick white towels provided for her use. I hope one of his hotels falls down or catches fire and keeps him somewhere else, she thought. Peter’s my job, I’ve got to help get him acclimatised, poor lamb, and no dreamboats, dishes or raves are going to distract me!

With which firm resolution she slipped into bed and fell asleep with the scent of roses wafting through the open window on the soft Andalucian air. Andalucia, the home of flamenco, serenades, and the passionate men and women of the south! No premonition warned her that she could fall a victim to its magic.

She awoke from a dream-haunted sleep in which a dark saturnine face predominated, to find sunlight streaming in through the chinks in the curtains and a tousled Peter sitting up demanding sustenance. She looked at her watch—after eleven, a preposterous hour to expect breakfast, but Peter must be fed. Tentatively she rang room service, asking if they could have something served in their room. After all, this was a hotel, not a private residence. The desk had received instructions and she was informed that
desayuno
would be coming
pronto.
She put on her dressing gown and drawing back the curtains looked across to the Casa de las Aguilas. It was fitted with the usual
rejas
over the lower windows and iron balconies in front of the ones above, and there was no sign of life. She started to unpack, for last night she had felt too tired to do more than find their night things. Peter was prancing about the room clad only in a pair of trunks.

‘Why those bars over the window?’ he demanded. ‘Like a cage.’

‘To keep intruders out.’ Cage was an ominous simile.

‘Why we not have them in England?’

‘Because they are Spanish, but it might be a good idea, with so many thieves about.’

‘Are things better here than at home?’

‘Some things are, I expect.’

He called England home, but he would have to learn that he belonged to Spain. He looked so typically British that her heart contracted. Would he ever become reconciled to his heritage?

Breakfast arrived, brought by two obsequious waiters. There was orange juice made with fresh oranges, milk for Peter, coffee for Laurel, croissants, small cartons of preserves and honey, butter in silver foil, and a large bowl of fresh fruit. They were being accorded V.I.P. treatment. She saw the men glance curiously at Peter. They knew who he was, of course, and he was obviously not what they had expected.

‘Say
gracias,’
she instructed him; he had better begin to learn the language.

‘Gracious,’ Peter responded obediently, and the waiters beamed at him.

‘Why I say that?’ he enquired when they had gone.

‘It’s Spanish for thank you, and it’s
gracias
, not gracious.’

‘Will I have to learn Spanish?’

‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea now you’re in Spain?’

‘No, ’cos I’d have to unlearn it when I go home.’

‘It’s always useful to know another language,’ Laurel said carefully, again with that little pang. How could she tell the child that that rather forbidding house across the way was his home now, for presumably the Aguilas would take him into it eventually. Reminded of the family, she wondered what to wear, as presumably she would meet them shortly. They would expect her to be in mourning for Joanna, as they would be for Pedro, but the only black dress she had brought was a semi evening dress, the rag she had worn for the funeral had been discarded. She compromised by wearing white, trousers and a sleeveless cotton top. Her very fair hair was almost silver, like frosted gilt, and the only colour about her was her vivid blue eyes and her red mouth. She would, she hoped, soon acquire a tan, her arms and neck were far too pale for this land of sunshine. Peter she dressed in shorts and tee-shirt, the latter out of deference to his Spanish relations; at home he could have run about without one.

A chambermaid came to do the room and realising with pleasure that she was not expected to make their beds, Laurel went with Peter out into the reception hall.

They descended marble steps marked ‘To the Pool’ and came to a sort of undercroft, on a lower level than the ground floor of the hotel. Glass doors gave access to a flat space in which was the swimming pool, surrounded by green lawn on which mattressed metal couches were arranged. Several guests lay upon them, grilling in the sun, only rousing themselves to lave their bodies with oil. Under the lee of the steep tree-clad bank that sheltered the grounds was a bar and tables covered by a trellis of creepers overhead. Here lunch would be served later on, but coffee and other beverages could be obtained at any time. On the opposite side, a balustrade divided the lawn from the descending levels of the gardens, with a view of the distant town and the sea, the skyscrapers in Fuengirola clearly visible. Behind the hotel and to the left of it was a rugged line of hills, the Sierra de Mijas. Peter was eager to explore and they went down flights of steps amid rockeries of flowering plants to discover a children’s pool, a tennis court and other amenities.

‘This is a nice place,’ Peter declared. ‘May I go in the big pool?’

‘Presently,’ Laurel told him, for she was expecting a summons from their hosts.

There Peter insisted he was hot, and stripped to his underpants, then demanded a Coke. While he was sucking it up through a straw, Laurel glanced up at the open balconies of the first floor, wondering if one of them were Luis’. As if she had summoned him, he came out of one of the rooms, arrayed in a multi-coloured towelling robe.

‘Aren’t you going to swim?’ he called. ‘I am.’ He disappeared before she could confess that she had never learned that art.

He reappeared through the lower doorway, his robe over one arm, and a couple of towels, clad in black swimming trunks. The whole of his bronzed body was exposed and Laurel felt her pulses stir, because it was beautiful. Lean muscular chest without hair (did he shave it?), slim waist, long graceful legs. He dropped the gear he was carrying, and stepping to the side of the pool, dived in, shooting the length of it in an underwater crawl.

‘Ooh, I’d like to do that!’ Peter gasped.

‘And so you shall.’ Luis came up beside them, his wet black head like that of a seal. ‘Come on, I will give you a lesson.’

Peter shrank back and Laurel put a protective arm around him.

‘He can’t swim.’

‘Then of course he must learn. Jump in,
chico
, I will hold you.’ Peter shrank even closer to her. ‘
Madre de Dios!
An Aguilas and afraid of water!’

‘ ’Course I’m not,’ Peter declared, and ran to the edge of the pool.

‘No!’ Laurel cried, while a cold shiver ran down her spine, in spite of the hot sunshine. When Luis had mentioned Pedro’s property, she had been too preoccupied to take in the full implication. By Spanish law all children inherit equally and Pedro would have obtained a large share of his father’s estate, and it was to Joanna’s credit that she had never made any claim upon him, but his brothers stood to lose with Peter’s advent—was that why Luis had enquired about his health? If he wanted to dispose of him an easy way had presented itself. The pool was deep, the shallows did not extend far, and she could not plunge in to the rescue, she would only drown herself.

Ignoring her protest, Luis reached up and took hold of the little boy, lowering him gently into the water.

‘Ugh ... it’s cold!’ Peter spluttered.

‘It only feels so at first.’ Standing up to his waist in water, Luis supported him, urging him to strike out and kick. Peter, with his face set in grim determination, strove to follow his instructions.

‘You won’t let me go?’ he asked anxiously.

‘You can trust me.’

Peter began to enjoy himself, he laughed and splashed. He had a natural aptitude and made quick progress, having complete confidence in his teacher. He objected strongly when Luis told him he had had enough for a first time, and lifted him on to the pool’s edge at Laurel’s feet. The intensely black eyes met hers with a mocking glint, as if he had divined the reason for her perturbation.

‘I am not the wicked uncle of the fairy stories,’ he told her, and Laurel turned her head away in shame, disturbed that he seemed able to read her thoughts.

‘What an idea!’ She tried to brazen it out, and he smiled ironically.

‘
Your
idea. Like your sister, you have a vivid imagination.’

Peter intervened, demanding to go in again.

‘Tomorrow,’ Luis told him. He again looked at Laurel. ‘Too cold for you?’

‘Tia can’t swim,’ Peter informed him.

‘Is that so?’ Luis drawled. He reached for his towels and threw one to Peter. ‘Then tomorrow you can both have a lesson.’ His eyes raked Laurel’s figure as if he were envisaging her in a swimsuit, and she felt her colour rise. She did not blush easily and she was furious with herself for being so discomposed by a man she was determined to dislike.

‘Thank you,’ she said disdainfully. ‘I’d hate to put you to so much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all, it would be a pleasure,
senorita
.’

Oh, will it? she thought savagely, imagining those strong brown arms supporting her flailing limbs. He would enjoy having her at his mercy, no doubt. At the same time she felt a little thrill of excitement. He undoubtedly had something, this dark Spaniard, and he was affecting her strongly against her will. It must be the same magnetism that had caused Joanna to go off the deep end about his brother, which until now she had been unable to understand, the call of the dark blood to the fair. But as she had told him, she was the practical one of the sisters, and she had no intention of falling under the spell of this Don Juan, for that was what he was, who took ex-marital infidelity as a matter of course. Even if they were married, she would never be sure of him. Married? Was she crazy? But didn’t every young girl subconsciously regard every attractive male she met as a possible husband, though she considered herself long past such juvenile folly. In all the wide world there was no more unsuitable mate for her than Luis de las Aguilas, and she was sure he would heartily agree with her.

The waiters were starting to bring out the luncheon dishes, laying them out in the covered tables in front of the bar. There was a multitude of succulent confections from which the visitors could help themselves to whatever they fancied.

Their advent proved a distraction from swimming. Luis swung himself out of the pool, and Peter, eyeing the convoy hopefully, announced:

‘I’m hungry!’

‘You’ve only just had breakfast,’ Laurel reminded him, drying him vigorously with Luis’ spare towel.

‘Swimming makes you hungry, doesn’t it, mister?’ He looked up appealingly to his tall uncle, who was using the other one.

‘Tio to you,’ Luis corrected him. ‘It certainly does, and you shall choose whatever you fancy.’

‘He’ll make himself sick,’ Laurel protested, redressing him in his shorts, minus his underpants. She was glad to turn her eyes away from Luis’ near-nakedness. Pedro had been a handsome man, but his brother was more so, he had a finer physique, and carried himself more proudly. She thought inconsequently: For God’s sake cover yourself up, man, I’m not used to so much masculine glamour!

‘He’ll think it worth it, and there are plenty of people to clear up after him,’ Luis said carelessly, as he put on his beach robe, but that wasn’t much better. Swathed in its rich colours, he looked like an Eastern prince.

Most of the loungers were occupied, but with a flick of his fingers, Luis had the attendants running to produce two more with their mattresses, which they set up at the spot he indicated half in sun and half in shade. There was no doubt who was master at the Reina Isabella. Laurel sat down on one of them with Peter beside her; Luis stretched himself on the other one, and when a waiter came hurrying up, ordered iced drinks. ‘Sangria for you and me, orange for Pedro.’ ‘My name’s Peter,’ the child objected, ‘and why can’t I have san ... what you said?’