White Witch (3 page)

‘Because if it includes brandy, as it will for me, it is too strong for you—and your name is Pedro now you are in Spain.’

Some recollection stirred in the boy’s mind.

‘It was Daddy’s name, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. It is something that you know that much.’ Luis’ tone was sarcastic.

‘Mummy never would talk about him,’ Peter complained. ‘Was he dark, like you?’

Luis said he was.

‘I wish I was dark,’ Peter evidently admired his uncle. ‘But I’m like Tia.’

‘Very like.’ There was a peculiar inflection in Luis’ voice. ‘But do not despair, darkness may descend upon you as you grow older. I have known blonde babies turn into brunettes, and I think I detect the beginning of the Aguilas nose.’

That, Laurel thought, was a flight of fancy, Peter’s nose was as yet unformed, but it was nice of Luis to humour the child. He had positioned himself so that he had a clear view of her, and she fidgeted under the watchful gaze from those black eyes. What was he looking for, she wondered, some evidence of lowly origins so that his contempt for the Lesters could be fully justified? Thank goodness nature had been generous to her in that respect. Her bone formation was elegant, her wrists, ankles and hair were as fine as those of any blue-blooded aristocrat. Only her mother had known who her father was, and she had vanished; he might have been a duke or a dustman. When they were little Laurel and Joanna had played a childish game, pretending they were the offspring of princes, and no one could disprove their fantasy, with any certainty. It must gall Luis’ pride to know they had been waifs and strays, for the Aguilas were highly conscious of their own ancient lineage. All a lot of nonsense, she thought scornfully; it was what men or women made of themselves that mattered, not what they were born.

The waiter brought their drinks, and when he had departed, Luis asked:

‘What is troubling you now, Laurel?’

Oh dear, she thought, there it was again, that mental rapport that she found so disconcerting.

‘Nothing,’ she returned, ‘what makes you think I’m upset?’

‘Your cheeks are pink and your eyes have an ireful sparkle. Is it because you think I wanted to drown Pedro, and am now plotting to poison him with rich food?’

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!’ she cried, flushing, knowing he had guessed what she feared beside the pool, and how absurd that fear now seemed.

Luis laughed low in his throat; what a sexy laugh he had, Laurel thought wildly, as Peter exclaimed indignantly:

‘He was teaching me to swim. You must be crazy, Tia!’ He seized Luis’ hand. ‘Can we go and choose our grub now?’

Luis raised an interrogative brow. ‘Grub, nephew?’

‘Don’t you know that means eats?’

‘Oh, does it?’ Luis rose languidly to his feet. ‘Then come along, infant,’ he slanted a wicked glance at Laurel, ‘we will select your poison. Can I bring you anything, Laurel?’

‘No, thank you,’ she replied haughtily. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘It is a long time until dinner.’

‘I may help myself to something later on, they don’t clear away until two o’clock.’

‘She does not trust me,’ Luis complained to Peter as they moved off.

And why should I, she thought, when all I know about you is that you hated poor Joanna and did your best to get rid of her? You say I’m very like her, so you probably hate me too under that suave facade you use to disguise your feelings. Was that the meaning of his continual staring? The thought was painful. Oh, damn him, she told herself angrily, I don’t care what he thinks about me—but, inconsistently, she did. When they returned Luis was carrying two plates, one of which he handed to her together with the necessary cutlery, wrapped in a paper napkin.

‘Stuffed avocados,’ he told her. ‘Peter said you could not resist those. They are one of the hotel’s specialities.’

His own plate was heaped with paella.

Laurel felt ashamed of her previous hard thoughts.

‘You’re too kind,’ she exclaimed impulsively. ‘I don’t deserve such generous treatment.’

He gave her an enigmatical look.

‘Fortunately for us, we do not always get what we deserve,’ he drawled.

Laurel looked away from the tall figure wrapped in his brilliant robe. Luis was altogether too attractive.

‘Doesn’t Senora de las Aguilas want to see her grandson?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘Very much so. She will receive you after her siesta. She thought you would wish to rest this morning.’

Laurel revived her recollections of the small, formidable woman whom she had met in Joanna’s villa. She had been courteous but aloof—disliking them both, Laurel had thought; only her eagerness to see her grandson had induced her to enter the house. It was Peter she wanted now, and Laurel hoped fervently that they would take to each other, for until Luis took a wife, she would be the dominant female influence in his life.

‘My sister Mercedes and my young brother are also at home,’ Luis went on, ‘and anxious to meet you.’

‘How nice,’ Laurel murmured faintly. So she was going to have to face the whole clan, who would probably be hostile and certainly critical. ‘I ... I’m shy of strangers.’

‘They are not strangers, but your relatives,’ Luis told her repressively.

Not mine, but Peter’s, she reflected, and I do. hope he makes a good impression. She glanced affectionately at the fair head bent over his plate of various fish and meat concoctions chosen from the laden buffet. If only he were her own and she could keep him with her, but these superior Aguilas were his kin, their blood ran in his veins, though looking at him it was hard to believe it. They would give him all the advantages that he deserved—a good education, fine clothes, good food far beyond anything she could have done for him, who could only give him love. It was strange that Joanna had no qualms about denying him his birthright, but Joanna had never looked ahead, or been unselfish concerning others. Peter was her baby, and she meant to keep him, until, when she knew she was dying, she had told Laurel to contact his father. Well, here they were, and soon she would be expected to fade out, leaving him to their tender mercies, which she prayed
would
be tender.

‘Now you look pensive,’ Luis broke into her thoughts. ‘The family cannot eat you, and they
are
the family.’

‘Which means nothing to me,’ she sighed, ‘never having had one.’

He looked almost sympathetic. ‘That was a great hardship.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Lots of families squabble dreadfully, so I’ve been spared that. In any case, I’ll soon be going...’

‘No!’ Peter cried shrilly. ‘You mustn’t leave me, Tia, ever!’

They had forgotten him. Laurel could have kicked herself for her thoughtlessness, forgetting he could overhear. Leaving his unfinished plateful, Peter was clinging to her, his eyes wide and fearful.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ she soothed him. ‘I’ll still be here. I won’t go as long as you need me.’ Over his bent head she caught Luis’ sardonic eye.

‘Then you had better reconcile yourself to a long stay,’ he told her.

CHAPTER THREE

As it would be quite late in the day when Laurel met the family, she changed into her filmy black dress. It had long loose transparent sleeves, and was midi-length. It emphasised her extreme fairness, and made her thin skin look translucent. I don’t look too bad, she thought as she surveyed herself in the long glass on the wall. Peter in white silk shirt and shorts was excited, and deluged her with questions.

‘Will Granny be nice? Is she very old, does she use a stick? Will she like me?’ he demanded. ‘Oh, there’s Uncle Luis,’ as a knock came on the door, Luis had said he would collect them. He flew to open it, and Laurel went slowly to join him.

Evidently he treated his mother with ceremony, for he was wearing a white dinner jacket over dark trousers, freshly shaved, his black hair slicked down over his scalp, and he looked devastatingly attractive. He spoke to Peter, who ran on down the corridor, and as he turned his head to look at Laurel standing beside him, he caught his breath and his eyes kindled.

‘Are you real?’ he asked. ‘You look as insubstantial as a fairy, some enchantress out of legend.’

‘Of course I’m real,’ she laughed. With unconscious provocation in every line of her slight body, she held out her arm to him. ‘Pinch it and you’ll find I’m solid!’

‘You deserve a more romantic approach than a pinch,’ he responded, with a deep note in his voice. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders to draw her nearer, and bending his haughty head, touched her lips.

The contact of his mouth on hers acted like a match to tinder. A sudden upsurge of primitive passion exploded between them, engulfing them in its flame. Luis’ hands dropped from her shoulders and he enfolded her in a constricting embrace. His mouth pressed deeper and deeper into hers, forcing her lips apart. Far from her resenting this treatment, Laurel’s arms crept round his neck, and her limbs seemed to become fluid as she pressed herself against him. Time stood still while they were lost in a flood of rapturous sensation. Then Luis’ hold relaxed, and he removed her clinging arms, pushing her almost violently away from him, while he muttered something in Spanish including the word
loco
, which meant mad.

Laurel swayed and clung to the handle of her door for support, for her legs were trembling. She had often been kissed before, what attractive modern girl had not, but she had never cared for amorous dalliance, and her boy-friends had called her cold. She had no idea a male embrace could so strongly affect her. She had been aware from the first of a physical attraction between them though she had heartily disliked him. That it could become so overwhelming gave her a shock. She looked at Luis and saw he was white and shaken. He too had been taken by surprise by the force of their mutual emotions. With an effort he pulled himself together, and looked at his watch.

‘We will be late.’

The casual observation incensed her—no apology, no excuse, and she was feeling shattered. Were such incidents commonplace to him?

‘That can’t be helped. I’ll have to repair my make-up.’

She opened the door and escaped into the sanctuary of her room. Was that the meaning of all those questioning glances? Luis de las Aguilas had merely been wondering if she were available. With his low opinion of the Lester girls, he would see no reason to respect her. With trembling fingers she wiped her smudged mouth, but she did not attempt to repaint it, her hand was shaking too much.

Men made passes at girls, it was the nature of the beast, but what had shaken her was her instantaneous response. She had never dreamed she was capable of such wanton behaviour. She should have slapped his insolent face instead of returning his kisses. What must he think of her? Probably that she was a common little tramp. And yet ... And yet...

She had a suspicion that Luis had only meant to make a gallant gesture, and he had been taken as much by surprise as she had been by the upsurge of physical desire that had overwhelmed

them. Latin men were emotional and amorous, but she, the cool Northerner, should have had more self-restraint. Red roses, hot sunshine, blue skies and Luis’ black eyes had bewitched her. This was Spain that had brought disaster to her sister and would do the same to her if she didn’t watch her step. For there could be no greater mismatched couple than herself and Luis de las Aguilas, the eagle and the dove, and the dove was lucky if it escaped with only a wounded breast. She did not think he would pursue her further, he had only yielded to a violent impulse aroused by her foolish invitation. She must be very careful in future to avoid any physical contact now she knew how dangerous it could be, and she was confident he would co-operate for he could no more desire an affair with her than she did with him. Perhaps he would take himself somewhere else for the duration of her stay, and she was dismayed by the desolation this idea caused her.

‘Even so, quickly may one catch the plague.’

But she hadn’t fallen in love with Luis, far from it, love had nothing to do with the turmoil of emotion that had sprung up between them. Love, true love, couldn’t be born so quickly, whatever the poets said. Love was mutual trust and understanding, and she neither trusted nor understood Luis; she wasn’t sure she even liked him. She must be the victim of a sudden infatuation, though that wasn’t quite the right definition. But she mustn’t stand here forever trying to analyse her feelings, he was waiting to take her to
be introduced
to his formidable family, and they would be a salutary tonic, for they would only tolerate her for Peter’s sake, and would be thankful to see the back of her. Among his own people the gulf between her and Luis would be emphasised.

It was a very dignified, very cool and very self-possessed Laurel Lester who finally came to rejoin Luis, who had taken himself off to the reception hall, where an impatient Peter kept demanding where had Tia got to.

Luis’ dark face was inscrutable as she came up to them, and he remarked casually:

‘I have been telling my small nephew he will have to accustom himself to waiting for the ladies he is going to escort.’

‘But Tia never keeps people waiting,’ Peter protested.

Laurel smiled wanly. ‘Sorry, Peter, I had a slight mishap.’ She shot Luis a venomous look. ‘But the damage is repaired now. Let’s go.’

But wasn’t the damage irreparable?

The Casa de las Aguilas was approached by a flight of steps leading up to a massive oak door, which opened-into a vestibule full of potted plants, including the now despised aspidistra, which seemed to be a favourite in Mijas. Indoor plants appeared to be a feature of Andalucian decoration. The
salon
was a square room with french doors opening on to a small patio, three walls of which were covered with flowering plants in little pots suspended on them, the fourth being draped in a pink ivy geranium. A fountain threw up a jet of water in its centre.

Dona Elvira de las Aguilas y Mendoza, to give her her full name, for Spanish women retained their maiden names attached to their husbands’, though they were never addressed by them, was seated in a throne-like armchair beside the empty fireplace. Her small rotund figure in heavy black reminded Laurel of the pictures of Queen Victoria, but her face with its high-bridged nose was thinner and sharper. Mercedes, her firstborn, was tall and thin, very plainly dressed, her only ornament a silver cross hanging about her neck. Esteban, the youngest, was a lively-looking young man, very like his brothers, but with brown eyes instead of black. Since all her children were so tall, Laurel concluded they had inherited their height from their father, and she subsequently discovered he had been a big man, his mother being a strapping Austrian, who boasted of Hapsburg blood.

Laurel was formally presented to each in turn, and they all greeted her courteously, the women kissing her cheek, Esteban shaking her hand, without betraying the thoughts behind their opaque eyes, but she was conscious of undercurrents. Dona Elvira made Peter sit by her side, offering him sweets from a box on a small table beside her.

‘You like the bonbons,
si
?’ The child nodded shyly. She said something in Spanish and he looked blank. ‘
No
comprendo?
That is bad.’ She looked accusingly at Laurel.

‘His mother always spoke English to him,’ Laurel told her.

‘Ah,
si
... his mother!’ Elvira sucked in her lips disapprovingly and exchanged glances with Luis.

Peter caught sight of a bundle of hair in a basket by the hearth; the room had an old-fashioned grate disguised by a jar of flowers.

‘A doggie!’ he cried delightedly. ‘May I stroke it, please, Granny?’ A small black poodle had raised its head.

‘My Pom-pom? Yes, if you are gentle—but you must call me Abuela.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that is Spanish for grandmother.
Ay mi
, you are your mother’s child entirely! I see nothing of my Pedro in you.’

Mercedes said something in Spanish and Luis answered her in the same tongue. Both of them looked towards Laurel, who was sitting near the entrance to the patio, feeling very much an outsider. Sunlight pouring through the glass gilded her hair; nervousness had brought rose petal colour to her cheeks, and intensified the blue of her eyes. Her white fingers were clasped about her crossed knees, and her black drapery fell softly to the floor. She looked like a white dove in a flock of rooks among the dark Spaniards. Esteban, obviously smitten, broke into an impassioned torrent of speech, and Laurel surmised that Mercedes had said something derogatory. Luis smiled with tolerant amusement at his young brother’s championship, but their mother cut him short with sudden asperity.

‘
Basra
, it is enough. Is this the way to greet a guest? Is it polite to speak a language she does not understand? Esteban, ring the bell for Manolo, we will take refreshment now.’

The arrival of a manservant carrying a tray loaded with drinks and
tapas
, little savoury pieces, prawns, cheese, olives, etcetera, broke the strained atmosphere. Laurel refused wine, but accepted coffee. Esteban pulled up a stool to sit at her feet, his liquid brown eyes expressing unutterable things, the sum of which meant bed, but that was the way Spanish youths looked at girls they admired. Pom-pom, with canine cunning, decided that Peter was the best bet for titbits, and placed himself beside him, his expression similar to Esteban’s. Dona Elvira said, her eyes fixed fondly upon her grandson:

‘When Pedrillo was born his hair was lint-white, and his eyes never changed from blue. Perhaps as he grows older he will become darker and more like his father.’ She longed for a clutch of grandchildren, and wished Luis would hurry up and get married.

‘That is very probable,’ Laurel agreed to please her, and Luis added:

‘Fair Spaniards are not so rare. Our Castilian ancestor had golden hair. The child may be a throwback to him.’

Laurel sighed, wishing she knew her origins and could trace her family back so far. She would never know what hers had been. Her eyes went involuntarily to Luis, and found he was regarding her with the now familiar intent gaze. Naturally he would choose a wife with a pedigree a mile long, when he got round to looking for one, or had he made his selection already? The introduction of Joanna must have deeply wounded his family pride.

‘You must not look so sad,’ Esteban said softly. ‘We are happy to have you here, and we are your friends.’

Over his shoulder, Laurel caught Mercedes’ malignant gaze. That one was an enemy.

‘Pedrillo must have a tutor,’ Dona Elvira announced decidedly, ‘to instruct him in his native tongue.’

‘He’s not yet five,’ Laurel reminded her. ‘Isn’t that a little young for serious lessons? He’ll pick up a lot from hearing it spoken.’

‘The servants all speak Andaluz,’ his grandmother objected. ‘He must speak Castilian like a
well-bred
hidalgo
.’

‘Which he will never be, with his parentage,’ Mercedes said nastily.

‘Mercedes, for shame!’ Luis expostulated, adding emphatically: ‘He
is
your nephew.’

Mercedes gave him a severe look, compressing her lips.

Peter looked at her wonderingly, and declared with childish candour: ‘That lady doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her.’

Mercedes stood up, smoothing her plain skirt. ‘I will not stay to be insulted by that woman’s brat! She brought Pedro nothing but shame and humiliation—and so will he if you keep him!’

She swept out of the room, and a general sigh of relief went up at her exit.

‘Mercedes grows more sour every day,’ Esteban remarked. ‘We will all be a deal happier when she enters her convent.’

‘Be more understanding, my son,’ his mother chided him. She turned to Laurel apologetically. ‘My daughter had a disappointment in her youth, poor girl, and it has embittered her. Now she has decided to devote herself to God.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Laurel murmured, not knowing what else to say. Other girls had disappointments, as the Senora put it, but they didn’t become spiteful and venomous. It was to be hoped the nuns would imbue Mercedes with Christian charity, which seemed to be woefully lacking, and she would be out of the house before Peter came to live there.

To change the subject, Luis told them:

‘I want to take Laurel and the boy up to Ronda. The new hotel there was Pedro’s patrimony and will become his. He should see his heritage.’ Dona Elvira sighed. ‘Your grandfather was cousin to a
marques
, and you have become a tradesman!’

Luis laughed goodhumouredly. ‘A much more profitable thing to be than an obsolete nobleman—you must move with the times, Mama.’

Peter, who had just taken in what he had said, was staring at him round-eyed.

‘A hotel... all mine?’ he gasped.

‘Every stone in it, when you come of age.’

Laurel too was taken aback. Luis had told her he owned several hotels, but she had no idea that Peter could claim one of them. She caught his quizzical glance and knew he guessed her thoughts—uncanny how he was able to read them.

‘Worth coming to Spain for?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘For Peter, yes,’ for she would get nothing out of it except to lose the boy. ‘Where is this place?’

‘Ronda? It is a very old town up in the mountains, and is distinguished by being split in two by a nine-hundred-feet deep gorge. You will find it fascinating.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ but she was wondering if she dared spend a day alone with Luis, for Peter hardly counted. Esteban too seemed to have a similar idea, though for a different reason, for he said:

‘Mind if I come along too? Senorita Laurel is too young and pretty to risk her reputation without a
duena
.’

‘She is family,’ Luis said curtly.

‘But not within the table of affinity. You know what a nasty tongue Mercedes has, and she did not fancy our guest. Besides, I would like to see Ronda again myself. I have not been there since the
corrida
last December.’ He turned to Laurel.

‘Though it was the home of Pedro Romero, our most famous torero, it only has one
fiesta
a year.’ His eyes kindled. ‘He introduced fighting on foot, face to face with the bull. Before that it was always done on horseback, and he was reputed to have killed six thousand bulls without having been gored once.’

Laurel shuddered. ‘Horrible!’

‘What not getting gored? Oh,
claro
!’ He looked dashed. ‘You are English and side with the bull, though quite a lot of your countrymen watch the
corridas
.’

‘I don’t know how they can,’ Laurel murmured, looking at Luis, and caught his faintly scornful smile.

She must never forget he was Spanish, and his race was capable of great cruelty. The Inquisition had been a Spanish institution. If she allowed herself to become emotionally involved with him she could expect no mercy. He would use her and throw her away without compunction. At least Pedro had married Joanna, whatever he had done to her afterwards, but Pedro had been a good deal younger than Luis, who would never commit such a folly for the sake of love. As it was, he was thinking she was feeble and squeamish to be revolted by the bloody spectacle which he no doubt enjoyed. She must find an excuse not to go to Ronda with him.

But all her wise resolutions vanished like dew before the sun when she found herself alone with him that same evening. After a comparatively early dinner by Spanish standards at eight o’clock, the tired child dropped off at once into exhausted sleep, and one of the maids told her she had been instructed to keep an eye on him if the Senorita wished to patronise the bar for a drink and to find company. Laurel did not wish for either, but she was too restless to stay in her room. She wandered out on to the terrace on to which the bar opened. The nights were still chilly, and the patrons, preferred its shelter to the fresh air outside. So the terrace was deserted. It faced towards the sea, and the myriad lights of Fuengirola spread a carpet of stars along the border of the ocean. She was leaning over the balustrade gazing at them, when Luis came noiselessly to join her. Her heart gave a hard throb when she caught sight of him. He had dined with his mother and his evening clothes made him look every inch a Spanish grandee. She said uncertainly:

‘I’m glad to see you, I want to talk to you.’ For it was not good for Peter to dine at night in the hotel restaurant.

‘I am enchanted to hear you say so.’

She was irritated by his exaggerated speech. ‘It’s only about Peter. Is he to go on living here?’

‘Why not? Are you not comfortable? Just relax and enjoy yourself while he becomes used to us all.’

‘Late dinner in the evening is not suitable for a young child.’

‘Not according to English ideas.’ Was there a faint sneer in his voice? In every nerve she was conscious of his tall figure looming over her. ‘What arrangement would you suggest?’

‘I don’t want to upset the staff...’

‘They are here to serve you. I assume a light supper served in one of the lounges would meet the case, then you can have your own meal later on in peace.’

Involuntarily she murmured, ‘Alone.’

‘Whose company would you like?’ He moved a little nearer. ‘Mine?’

‘Oh, I expect I’ll soon make some friends,’ she said quickly, edging away from him. If only he wasn’t so disturbing!

‘You would find it distasteful?’

‘Of course I didn’t mean that,’ she said crossly. ‘But you’re the big noise around here and it would make me conspicuous.’

He laughed, a low, sexy sound that stirred her blood.

‘You are very discreet, Laurel, but you could join me in my suite.’

‘That would be very indiscreet.’

‘But very enjoyable.’ He began to stroke her arm from which the full sleeve had fallen back, and his touch set her blood on fire. Someone in the bar-lounge was playing a guitar, and a little breeze moaned in the palm trees below them. Eroticism breathed in the scented air, and Laurel flung back her head, striving to free herself from its spell. It came in contact with his shoulder and he buried his face in the soft waves of her hair, while his arm crept round her waist.

‘You are very sweet, Laurel.’ His voice came muffled.

Making a supreme effort, she wrenched herself away from him.

‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ she asked desperately. ‘In the circumstances isn’t that in rather bad taste?’

Again he laughed softly. ‘Are you seduceable?’

‘No,’ she cried vehemently. ‘Oh, please, Luis, this isn’t what I’m here for.’

He drew back and said in a completely changed voice, ‘I apologise. I see I have misjudged you. The little episode this afternoon misled me.’

When she had responded to his kisses; she blushed in the darkness at the recollection. ‘I ... I don’t know what came over me. I must have been crazy.’

‘Delightful craziness.’ She sensed he was smiling. ‘But dangerous if you do not want to follow it through. I came to ask you to come up to my rooms.’ She stiffened. ‘I do all my business there, and I want more information about Peter.’

‘Can’t we talk here?’

‘It is becoming cold. I have no evil intentions towards you, Laurel, you can trust me now that I know where I stand. I do not make the same mistake twice.’

This speech which should have been reassuring, Laurel found singularly unsatisfactory, but what
did
she want from him? He had evidently believed she was available, and finding she was not, had withdrawn. The wild rapture she had felt in his arms had not been shared, his emotion being much more commonplace, and he had put the wrong interpretation upon her response. Now she had put him right, he had become the stately Spanish Don again and she need have no qualms. Feeling chagrined, she said brightly:

‘I’m ready, if you’ll show me the way.’

Luis’ suite, bedroom, sitting room and bathroom on the second floor, was plainly but expensively furnished. There was a large desk in one corner of the sitting room, evidence that he did do his business there, but before the window, which opened on to the balcony, there were tapestry-covered chairs, a small settee, and a coffee table. There was no
reja
to impede the view, which was over the swimming pool to rising ground opposite which culminated in a rocky prominence, once part of a castle’s fortifications, which now housed a shrine.

Luis settled Laurel on the couch with a cushion behind her back, and went to pour her a glass of sherry.

‘You said you were never told how Joanna got herself out of Spain without a passport,’ he asked, watching the amber liquid fill the glass. ‘Did you ever wonder?’

‘I wondered about lots of things,’ she admitted, ‘but if I pressed Jo for confidences she became hysterical. From something she let drop, I imagine she was smuggled across in a private yacht.’

He nodded. ‘I suspected that. Most of her un-scrupulous friends down on the coast owned ocean-going craft. Those friends were one of the things she and Pedro quarrelled about.’

He brought her the sherry, setting it down upon the table. Laurel sipped it, then seeking to defend her sister, said:

‘But if he was busy all day, she must have been very lonely by herself in that villa. Apparently
his
friends weren’t exactly matey.’

Stiff-necked Spaniards, who kept to themselves, Joanna had told her.

‘There are plenty of pleasant English people living in the locality, but they are unable to rise to yachts and diamond necklaces.’

‘But didn’t Pedro give her the necklace?’

Luis was studying the wine in his glass. ‘Presumably,’ he said evasively. Laurel looked at him suspiciously, but his face was expressionless.

‘I don’t know what you’re implying,’ she said slowly. ‘But I won’t listen to any nasty insinuations about poor Jo. I ... I loved my sister.’ She choked. Then to her horror tears started to her eyes and ran down her cheeks, for she had not yet recovered from the agony of loss Joanna’s death had caused her. They had been very close before her marriage, two alone against the bewildering world of authority that had ruled their childhood. She fumbled for her handkerchief and became aware that Luis was beside her, his arm about her shoulders, as he pushed a large white one into her hands.