A Stormy Spanish Summer(27)

‘About forty minutes—maybe fifty, depending on the traffic.’

Vidal’s response was equally terse, his attention outwardly focused on the road ahead of him. Although inwardly he was far more aware of Fliss’s presence in the car next to him than he liked to admit.

She was wearing a light-coloured summer dress, and as she had walked out to the car ahead of him he had seen how the sunlight striking through it revealed the long slender length of her legs and the curve of her breasts. Now, despite the leather smell of the car’s upholstery, he could still smell the fresh scent of Fliss’s skin—clean and yet subtly, erotically female—its delicacy causing within him an automatic need to move closer to her and so catch the scent properly.

Inside his head an image formed of Fliss’s body pressed close to his in paganly sensual offering. Cursing inwardly, Vidal fought to suppress his own body’s sexual reaction to that image, dropping his hand from the steering wheel and driving one-handed so that his arm could shield the physical evidence of his arousal from Fliss. He was thankful that she was staring ahead and not looking at him. The reality of seeing her now, as the woman she was and not the girl who had refused to leave his memory, should surely have diminished that desire—not increased it.

The silence between them was dangerous, Vidal acknowledged. It was allowing thoughts to flourish that he did not want to have. Better to silence them with mundane conversation than to give them free rein.

Keeping his voice neutral and distant, he told Fliss, ‘In addition to showing you your father’s house, I have some estate business to attend to before we return to Granada.’

Fliss nodded her head and then, unable to hold back the question, she asked him quickly, ‘Did … did my mother ever visit my father’s house?’

‘Alone, you mean? To spend time in private with your father?’

Fliss could hear what sounded like disapproval in Vidal’s voice. The same disapproval no doubt felt by his grandmother.

‘They were in love,’ she pointed out, immediately defensive of any criticism of her parents. ‘It would only be natural if my father—’

‘Had taken your mother to his house with the intention of bedding her, without any thought for her reputation?’ Vidal shook his head. ‘Felipe would never have done that. But then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you should think of it, given your own behaviour and sexual history.’

Fliss sucked in her breath, her lungs cramping tensely before she exhaled, furious shaky. ‘You know nothing of the reality of either of those things.’

Vidal turned to look at her, disbelief hardening his expression. ‘Are you seriously expecting me to listen to this? I know what I saw.’

‘I was sixteen, and—’

‘And a leopard doesn’t change its spots.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Fliss agreed furiously. ‘You’re the living proof of that.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Vidal challenged.

‘Meaning that I knew then what you thought of me, and why you judged me the way you did, and I know you still feel the same way now,’ Fliss told him.

Vidal’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. She had known how he had felt about her, despite all he had done to try and keep his feelings hidden from her—for her sake, not for his own? But of course she had, Vidal taunted himself. He had assessed her maturity and her readiness to know of his desire for her on her age, mistakenly believing her to be an innocent.

‘Well, in that case,’ he assured her curtly, ‘no matter what you know, let me assure you that I do not intend to allow those feelings to affect my duty and my responsibility to carry out my late uncle’s wishes with regard to your inheritance.’

‘Good,’ was the only response Fliss felt able to muster.

So it was true. She had been right. He had disliked her all those years ago and he still did now. She had already known that, so why did his confirmation of it make her feel so … so hurt and abandoned?

She had known how he felt about her when she came here. Or had she secretly been hoping for a miracle to happen? Had she been hoping for some kind of fairytale magic to wipe away the anguish she carried inside her? Leaving her free to … To what? To find a man with whom she could truly and completely be a woman, free to enjoy her sexuality without the stain of shame? Why did she need Vidal’s belief in her innocence to do that? She knew the truth, after all, and that should be enough. Should be. But it wasn’t, was it? There was something within her that could only be healed by. By what? By the touch of Vidal’s hand against that sore place in reparation and acceptance of her as she really was?