The Spaniard's Passion
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Jane Porter
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12
CHAPTER ONE
“HOW much?” Lady Sophie Wilkins asked, holding her hand up, watching the ring catch the light. The marquis cut emerald surrounded by smaller diamonds glittered in the jewelry store’s bright fluorescent lighting, throwing off white sparks like fireworks exploding on New Year’s Eve.
“Ten thousand pounds,” the jeweler answered.
She turned her hand a little, mesmerized by the hot glow of the emerald and the brilliant blue and yellow streaks of fire in the white stones.
She heard the jewelry store door open but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the glittering stone on her finger. Ten thousand pounds, she silently repeated, ten thousand pounds, knowing she’d never have anything half so beautiful again. But she couldn’t keep it. She had to get to Brazil, and she still had so many bills to pay, and ten thousand pounds would settle a lot of debts.
Her silence troubled the jeweler. “I might possibly be able to do ten thousand five hundred,” he said as though she’d squeezed the offer from him, “but that’s my best price, Lady Wilkins. I couldn’t go higher.”
“Not even though you’ll get twice that much tomorrow?” a deep male voice asked mockingly.
Sophie felt a shadow cross her grave. It couldn’t be…
Slowly she looked up, and slowly her eyes focused. The air left her throat. She swayed a little on her feet. “Lon?”
“Sophie.”
She couldn’t look away, her hand balled into a fist and she kept staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking care of some business.”
“Business?” she repeated numbly, as if it were a foreign concept, although she knew Alonso was one of the world’s leading emerald exporters.
The jeweler hurriedly put away his monocle and the black velvet pad on the counter. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow, Mr. Huntsman. The stone’s not even cleaned yet.”
Sophie’s eyes searched his face even as her fingers curled around the wedding ring still on her fourth finger. “You’re buying a stone?”
“An emerald,” Lon answered.
He’d traveled halfway around the world to buy an emerald? “Must be valuable.”
His eyes never left hers. “It came from my mine, so I suppose you could say it has sentimental value.”
As he’d talked she’d gone hot, then cold, and now she tugged her wedding ring from her finger and handed it to the jeweler. “I accept your offer.”
The jeweler nodded his head, pocketing the ring Clive had given her nearly six years ago. “Will you take a check, Lady Wilkins?”
“Yes.” Her throat seemed to be squeezing closed. “Thank you.” The jeweler moved across the shop and chilled, Sophie began to button her long wool coat.
“You’re selling your wedding ring?” Lon asked, black lashes lowered, concealing his expression.
“It’s a reputable jeweler,” she answered, hating the defensive note that had crept into her voice.
“You’re short on cash?”
“I’m fine.” There was no way she’d ever tell Lon the truth. She didn’t want pity, and she didn’t want sympathy from him, either. She’d chosen Clive. End of story. “I didn’t realize you were back in the country.”
“I have a house in Knightsbridge.”
“You live here in London?”
“Part of the year.”
“I had no idea.”
Lon heard the pang in her voice, and he felt a shaft of hot emotion. He’d known from the start that her marriage had been rocky, maybe even downright unhappy, but she’d never said a word against Clive. “I travel back and forth between South America quite a bit. Depends on business.”
He hadn’t seen her in years and yet she was still beautiful. More beautiful. If anything, grief had etched her features finer, darkening her eyebrows, softening her mouth, creating deeper hollows beneath her cheekbones. Few women could achieve with plastic surgery what nature had given Sophie so freely.
The jeweler returned with a check which Sophie silently pocketed. Transaction completed, she murmured her thanks and Lon escorted Sophie outside. “What about your business?” she protested.
“The stone’s not ready. I’ll come back later.”
It was cold outside. The late afternoon temperatures dipped low. Sophie took a quick breath, trying to clear her head. Lon here. Impossible. Incredible. She’d never once bumped into him in all the years since they’d left Colombia.
She drew her coat closer as throngs of pedestrians pushed past them, and her gaze took in Harrod’s festive windows across the street. The ornate building’s majestic turrets were illuminated with countless white lights and windows were decked with wreaths.
“It’s almost Christmas,” Lon said, breaking the uneasy silence between them.
Which meant it’d been almost two years without Clive. Sophie bit her lower lip, fighting tears and the confusing emotions threatening to overwhelm her.
God, she’d missed Lon. He’d been her friend for years and then he’d just disappeared from her life. She struggled to think when she’d last seen him but she couldn’t even figure out how long it’d been.
“You still look like a savage,” she said huskily.
“And you don’t like savages.”
“I liked you.”
“Past tense?”
Sophie’s eyes stung all over again and the wind tugged at her coat, nipping at her skin. What lies they’d told themselves to make her decision all right.
“I have to go home,” she said, voice thickening. “The Countess is waiting.”
The first raindrop fell from the heavy dark clouds. “I’ll take you.”
“It’s too far. An hour and a half—”
“I’ll take you,” he repeated, and he practically tucked her beneath his arm, her head against his shoulder, her body pressed to his side.
He was still hard, solid, imposing and she shivered all through her feeling as if she’d been washed overboard and was close to drowning.
He’d only been back in her life twenty minutes and already nothing was the same. But that’s how Lon had always been. Huge. Imposing.
In his car, Sophie felt the strangest emotion—crazy emotion—longing, regret, desperation. She thought she’d do just about anything to go back in time and find the teenagers they’d all once been.
“I’ve missed you, Sophie,” he said quietly.
Her heart lurched. You’re far too lonely, she chided herself even as her heart lurched again. It was a painful jump, much like the painful jumps she’d felt as a teenager when she knew he wanted her and she didn’t know what to think, or what to feel.
Hot tears started to her eyes and she blinked. It was embarrassing, being so emotional. She hadn’t felt this way in ages. Ever since Clive died she’d been very controlled, very contained, but here she was about to leap out of her skin.
She wanted to blame her nerves on fatigue, stress, holiday jitters, but it was Lon. He’d always done this to her. Tied her up in knots. Made her feel so many things.
He was still magnetic. Compelling. His unusual coloring—very black hair and very light blue eyes—drew attention. He certainly wasn’t your typical Englishman, and maybe that’s what fascinated the women. He looked foreign. Dangerous.
But then, he was dangerous.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, shifting and accelerating.
“You.” She tried to disguise the intensity of her feelings, but wasn’t succeeding. She shouldn’t be here alone with him. She couldn’t let herself get close to him. They weren’t teenagers anymore, and she knew Lon didn’t play games. No, Lon played for keeps.
And she didn’t do keeps. At least, not with Alonso. He was still too unpredictable, still too intimidating.
Her gaze traveled his broad forehead, the wide jaw, the strong nose before settling on the thin scar running along the edge of Lon’s right cheekbone. The scar hadn’t been there five years ago. “How did you get that scar?”
“Nicked myself shaving.” He leaned back in his deep leather seat. It was a deep scar, an ugly scar. It wasn’t a shaving mishap.
“Must have been a big razor.”
The corner of his mouth twisted. “Huge.”
She couldn’t look away from the scar. It should have ruined his hard face. Instead it added strength. Character. With the creases at his eyes and the scar high on his cheek, he looked like a man that knew his way around the world. Like a man who’d come to terms with life. “Did it hurt?”
“Losing you hurt more.”
She sucked in a breath and glanced down at her bare hands. Her left hand felt so empty without her heavy ring.
“So you’ve never married?” she asked, swiftly changing subjects, trying to find safer ground. Clive had told her once that Lon maintained homes and offices in Bogota and Buenos Aires but it seemed like a universe away from her life in England.
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Live-in girlfriend?”
“You’re quite curious, muñeca. Are you interested in applying for the job?”
His slow, mocking smile set her heart racing and her limbs felt like lead. Oh, he was still dangerous. He still turned her inside out, made her feel shaky and jittery. “Sorry. Not interested.” She should have never gotten into his car, should never have agreed to this. “Living-in is less exciting than fairy tales would lead us to believe.”
“The disillusioned princess.”
“Hardly a princess.”
“No, just an impoverished lady forced to sell her house, her car, and now her wedding ring.”
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. He could hurt her in ways no one else could. “They’re just things,” she whispered.
“And what are things when you’re surrounded by warmth and tenderness and love?”
She almost hated him right now. He was so cold, so cynical. He had to know she was living alone with the Countess, Clive’s mother. He knew the Countess, too. He knew she wasn’t warm, and he had to know Sophie was virtually trapped at Melrose Court with no personal space, or freedom, anymore.
But she didn’t say that, didn’t say a word. If he wanted to be cruel, fine, let him. He’d be gone soon. He’d drop her at Melrose Court and drive off into the night and she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
“I would have paid you twice as much for your ring, Sophie.” Lon’s voice broke the silence. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I don’t need your charity.”
“It’s not charity. The emerald alone was worth twenty thousand pounds. The setting was another ten to fifteen.”
She shrugged. Don’t think about it, she told herself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, you wouldn’t have been able to get more. “I’m happy with what he paid me.”
“As long as you’re happy,” he answered, running a hand across his brow, rubbing tiredly.
His hair was long, longer than he’d ever worn it ten years earlier, and the back nearly touched his shoulders. He was too big for the black Porsche. His shoulders filled the car. His hands on the steering wheel were large, his skin burnished from hours in the sun.
But he wasn’t just big. He was strong. Immensely powerful. She knew Lon had worked in the mines personally, years before he’d ever bought his share. He hadn’t been afraid of the explosives, the tight quarters, the perils of collapsing tunnels and elevator shafts.
What an odd pair they were. Lon, afraid of nothing, and Sophie, afraid of everything.
“How long did the honeymoon last, Sophie?”
She startled, shocked by his nerve. “That’s none of your business.”
His smile was cool. “I want to know. Tell me. How long did it take before you knew you’d made a mistake?”
Her mouth went dry. She struggled to swallow. “Take that back!”
“Not a chance.”
“You have no right—”
“I loved you.” Lon’s voice dropped, his jaw tightening with anger. “Clive never loved you. He just didn’t want me to have you.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you, silly girl, were so damn afraid of your feelings, you ran straight into his arms.”
Her head swam, Lon’s words nearly making her ill. She reached for the door handle as if she could escape.
But there was no escape. Lon had found her. Lon still wanted her. And deep inside she knew this time Lon would never let her go.
“Do you know what it was like, realizing I’d lost you forever?” He ground his teeth together as he stared straight out the windshield, night falling all around them. But the strain showed in his face, reflected by the dashboard lights, and the greenish dashboard light heightened the paleness of his scar. “I knew you’d never have an affair, either. Good sweet Sophie Johnson would be true to her husband. And you were, weren’t you?”
His leather coat had fallen open and his black cashmere sweater was v-necked, a fairly deep v-neck that showed tanned skin and hard muscles. Lon’s chest was wide, deep, the thick muscles wrapping his rib cage in sinewy bands.
She blinked back stinging tears. “Of course I was loyal.”
“Of course.” He smiled but there was no warmth, no mercy in his eyes. “You’re loyal to everyone—but me.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks and she felt hot and prickly all over. “We were young, Lon. I was young.”
“Not that young.”
“And it was a long time ago.”
“Not long enough for me to forget.”
“Lon.”
“Don’t think it’s over, Sophie.” His deep voice held her, trancelike, and she found herself looking up at him. His eyes should have been black, but they were the lightest, clearest blue. “It’s not even close to being over. You’re not even twenty-eight. I’m thirty-two. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
By the time they arrived at Melrose Court, Sophie felt dizzy, her stomach churning so hard she was certain she’d soon be ill. Lon shot her a hard look after parking. “Did you eat anything today?”
“I’m fine.” But stepping from the car she was anything but fine. Her legs nearly buckled under her and tears of rage filled her eyes.
Ignoring her protest, Lon swept her up the stairs. “She’s feeling a little faint,” he informed a startled Countess Wilkins, his arm still wrapped around Sophie’s waist. “Could you get a glass of water?”
The Countess disappeared and Lon stared down in her face. “You’re looking a little pale, Sophie.”
Only Lon would be so ruthless. Only Lon would want to punish her. Yes, she’d liked him all those years ago. And maybe yes, she’d loved him, but he wanted more than her love. He’d wanted everything. All of her. He was like a vortex and he scared the hell out of her.
“I’m not ready to date again,” she whispered, conscious that Louisa would return any moment.
“No?”
“No.”
“So it’s not true about you and…what’s his name? Rich, good-looking man. Dark hair, rather like mine, dark eyes—”
“Federico,” she interrupted with a soft strangled sound.
“Federico,” Lon said slowly, thoughtfully drawing the name out. “Sounds foreign.”
Sophie shivered, and her dark blue gaze, dropped. “Aren’t we all?”
Any other time Alonso would have smiled. It was true. Just as Lon and Sophie had met as teenagers in Latin America, most people in their sphere had lived all over the world. Diplomats, engineers, miners, bankers, foreign investors. But Lon couldn’t smile, not when they were discussing Federico Alvare.
Miguel Valdez was one of Latin America’s biggest druglords and Federico Alvare served as his right-hand man. A former MI6 agent, Lon knew Federico personally, and Federico would drag Sophie to hell if he could.
“It’s all right if you have a new boyfriend,” he continued conversationally, trying to ignore the fire burning through his middle. Sophie and another man? Possibly. Maybe. Barely. Sophie and Federico Alvare? Never. And it was this rumor that had brought him back to England. His contacts said Lady Wilkins was in trouble, that she was associating with one of the world’s most dangerous criminals. He hadn’t believed it until now. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be dating. It’s been two years.”
“I’ve no interest in dating again, and he’s not a boyfriend. He’s just a…friend.” Sophie couldn’t even meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. “Federico used to work with Clive.”
She was either painfully innocent or damn brazen. Right now Lon couldn’t figure out which. “I had no idea.”
Sophie’s lower lip quivered and she pressed her lips together, pressing down. Her small pale face suddenly looked tight and a damp tendril slipped from the twist of dark hair pinned up at the back. “No, you wouldn’t know. After Clive and I married, you wouldn’t have anything to do with us.”
He watched, fascinated, as the long tendril clung to the side of her neck. Lucky tendril. Lucky neck. Now he had to protect that pretty neck before something tragic happened. “It was a two way street, Sophie.”
“Clive tried,” she gritted, her blue eyes fierce. She was wearing a cream sweater dress and the top two buttons had popped open giving him a glimpse of an ivory bra strap.
“Not very hard.”
“You never returned his calls. You’ve no idea how much it hurt him, how much it hurt both of us.”
Lon was perfectly happy letting Sophie talk. He was too interested in the open buttons of her sweater dress, the hint of creamy breast, the long pale column of her throat, her very sweet mouth…
Sophie’s lips, even without lipstick, were full and pink and right now all he wanted to do was drink the angry words from her mouth, draw the air from her lungs, fold her into him.
His body hardened just looking at her. He physically craved Sophie. His mind wanted her mind. His skin wanted her skin. His body wanted to be lost in hers.
“You could have called me,” he said even as the Countess returned with the glass of water.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” Louisa Wilkins said, giving Alonso a brief embrace. “It’s been years. Two years. Since Clive’s funeral, I believe.”
Lon heard Sophie’s swift inhale and felt her stiffen. “I think you’re right,” he answered, anxious to move on to less sensitive topics. “But you look wonderful, Louisa, not a day older.”
The Countess practically beamed. She’d missed male company, too. “Thank you, Alonso. Very kind of you to say. And you are staying for dinner, aren’t you?”
Sophie’s blue eyes looked panicked. “I think he’s busy, Louisa.”
“Not that busy,” Lon corrected. “I’d love to stay.”
The Countess folded her hands over her stomach. “I’ll have Cook add another place to the table.” She turned to Sophie. “And Sophie, show Alonso the whiskey. If I remember, he likes a good drink before dinner.”
In the library Sophie watched Lon pour himself a neat shot. “It seems she’s developed a soft spot for you.”
Alonso capped the crystal whiskey decanter. “It’s the holiday season. She’s feeling nostalgic.” He sipped from his crystal tumbler. “I imagine Christmas is quite difficult for her.”
Sophie said nothing. She just took a seat on the slip-covered sofa and curled her legs beneath her.
“It must be difficult for you living alone with the Countess here,” he said far more calmly than he felt. On the inside he was growing angry. Irritated. He didn’t like losing his temper.
Other officers had kidded him that when pushed, he had an almost superhuman strength, and it was true, he could lift twice his body weight. Easily. Once in training camp he’d clean and jerked 600 kilos and others had just gaped. He’d told them it ran in his family, that his dad was a miner from Scotland, but it was only part of the truth.
His stepfather was Scottish, and a miner. His biological father was an Argentine aristocrat who killed himself by driving a hundred miles an hour into a tree. Drunk, of course.
It was Lon’s Argentine blood that got him in trouble.
Sophie shifted miserably. “Louisa’s been very good to me.”
Talk about laughable. The Countess had always treated Sophie like a second-class citizen. But maybe he was being too harsh. Maybe things had changed. “She looks well,” he said. “But how is she really doing?”
“She’s in remarkably good health, and of course, this time of year, she’s very focused on the ball.”
“Oh yes. The annual Wilkins Christmas Gala. I received my invitation last week.”
Sophie couldn’t hide her surprise. “You got an invitation?”
“I get one every year.” Lon answered with satisfaction. He knew, just as she did, that the Countess had never particularly liked him. “I’ve just never been in the country before.”
“You’re attending, then?”
He heard the wobble in her voice. She didn’t want him to attend. Interesting. “Should I?”
“No.” She flushed, and added quickly, “It’s just not your kind of party. Hundreds of people. Not enough food. I don’t think you’d even know anyone attending.”
“But it’d be worth it if I could see you.”
Sophie started to rise and then sat down again. She pressed her hands tightly to the sofa cushion. “Nothing’s going to happen between us, Lon. I’m not over Clive. I’m not ready for anything new—”
“I’m not new.”
How true, she thought, feeling her heart mash in her chest. He wasn’t new. He’d been part of her world for nearly fifteen years but fifteen years ago he hadn’t been right for her. Ten years ago he hadn’t been right. And even today, he wasn’t what she needed. “Please do not make this ugly, Lon. Do not force me to be rude.”
“You? Rude?” He laughed without humor. “You couldn’t be rude if you tried. You’ve made diplomacy an art form. You turned tact into a virtue. You can rest now, Sophie. You’re the martyr you always wanted to be.”
Her head swam. She sank her fingers into the old down-filled cushion. He was so good at wounding her. So good at finding the jugular. “And you, Lon, do you enjoy being deliberately unkind?”
He watched her delicate features tighten, her mouth pinching, her voice dropping so her words were barely audible.
She looked so fragile sitting on the edge of the over-stuffed sofa, so unlike all the cool, casual women he’d learned to fill his life with.
Sophie wasn’t cool and casual. She was rare, and beautiful, almost otherworldly, and he’d once wanted her so badly that losing her had been a death.
Yes. He had been deliberately unkind. He’d meant to hurt her. Deep down he still wanted her to suffer for choosing Clive instead of him.
He’d lost his heart the day he walked Sophie down the aisle, literally handing her over to Clive.
He’d never said it aloud, couldn’t even dwell on the memory, but he’d hated her for asking him to walk her down the aisle. He’d hated filling in for her father who was too ill to participate in the wedding. He’d hated that she’d even try to turn him into family…a surrogate brother or parent.
He didn’t want to be her father.
He wanted to be her lover.
“No,” he answered grimly. “I don’t enjoy being unkind. I just am.”
