Chapter Three
Cerys edged open her eyelids, then slammed them shut again, the blast of sunshine threatening to laser off her retinas.
Why did her face feel as if it were on fire, too?
She touched her cheekbone.
‘Ow.’ She groaned. That hurt!
Then she moved and all the other sore spots on her body wept in unison. Her bum most of all. What had happened to her? Because she felt as if she’d been slam-dunked from a great height, into a soft lavender-scented cloud.
‘ Hola, senorita. Estas despierta? ’ The bright, excited female voice came from beside her cloud.
Who the…?
She risked opening her eyes again. And turning her head, which amplified the throbbing in her face, and the headache blooming behind her eyes. Fabulous!
A girl—or rather, a beautiful young woman—sat in an ornate chair, staring back at her with wide chocolate-brown eyes, which reminded her of someone, but she had no idea who.
‘ Hola! Como estas? ’ the girl said, her stunning face breaking into a grin, which only made the combination of thick black hair falling in carelessly perfect waves, striking bone structure, smooth olive-toned skin and those captivating eyes more spellbinding.
‘Hi,’ Cerys replied, hopelessly disorientated. Where was she? How had she got here? And why was the girl speaking Spanish?
Although the girl wore modern clothing—a flattering and expensive summer dress covered in sunflowers—Cerys had the weird thought she had travelled back in time as she took in the huge bedroom.
The ornate furniture looked like something from a bygone era, all carved wood and velvet upholstery.
While the lavender cloud was actually a magnificent four-poster bed, draped with white linen embroidered with gold.
The scent of lavender detergent and fresh earth added to the strange feeling of being cast adrift in someone else’s life.
‘Where am I?’ she managed at last, because the girl seemed to be waiting for her to speak.
‘ Castillo de las Vides . The Castle of the Vines, where my family—the De Montoyas—have lived for many generations…’ the girl said in accented English. ‘My brother Santiago is el Duque now. And the wine we produce here is the very best in Spain.’
‘Sorry, where?’ Cerys asked when the babble of information finally ceased. She’d never heard of this place. Or this family. Had she? What was she doing here?
The girl’s grin widened.
‘We can speak Inglés , if you prefer,’ the girl offered, her heavy accent doing nothing to detract from the excitement in her voice. ‘But Santiago told our housekeeper, María, you speak Spanish. I heard him say it yesterday.’
María? Why did she have a vague recollection of being woken in the darkness and asked questions by an older woman in a language she didn’t understand?
The girl pulled her chair closer, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes becoming astute.
‘Santiago drove you here in the middle of the night, and carried you to this bedroom himself. And you were asleep all day yesterday. But he hasn’t told anyone your name. It’s so romantic. He never brings any of his chicas here.’
Chicas?
Cerys frowned, her head screaming. She didn’t know what that meant, but from the girl’s expression she could guess.
‘I’m not your brother’s chica ,’ she said, because that was one thing she was certain of. She’d never heard of this guy. And she wasn’t sure she had ever been anyone’s chica .
The girl’s brow furrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, because I’ve never met him,’ she said. Although… Something was pushing at the edges of her memory—dark eyes like the girl’s, but so serious and intense they made her stomach muscles quiver.
The girl’s eyebrows rose, but as she opened her mouth to question Cerys further, an older woman Cerys vaguely recognised appeared, carrying a silver tray.
Stern but polite, she spoke in rapid Spanish to the girl, while placing the tray over Cerys’s lap and lifting a silver dome to reveal a lavish cooked breakfast which had Cerys’s stomach realising how empty it was.
All the time the older woman continued to argue calmly with the girl, who protested, then begged, then pouted, all in Spanish, but was finally ushered out of the room.
The girl swung round at the door to wink at Cerys.
‘My name’s Ana, I am el Duque’ s sister. Do not fear, I will be back to investigate later,’ she said, then was shooed through the closing door by the woman who Cerys had guessed must be María.
Investigate what, exactly?
The housekeeper smiled at Cerys, while speaking in a soothing voice, but all in Spanish. Then tucked a napkin in the neck of the cotton nightdress Cerys was wearing—which she didn’t recognise either.
A lump caught in Cerys’s throat, the motherly gesture calling to a vague memory from long ago which made sadness squeeze her ribs. She swallowed down the inexplicable swell of tears.
As she struggled to eat the fluffy tortilla accompanied by toasted bread and a delicately spiced tomato salad, the housekeeper continued to question her gently in Spanish.
After a few mouthfuls, Cerys had to put the fork down. She was exhausted and it hurt her jaw to chew, plus her stomach was rebelling against the thoughts racing around her sore head.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,’ she said to the housekeeper, who seemed surprised. ‘And the breakfast is delicious, but I can’t eat any more.’
The woman nodded, unoffended, and lifted the tray. She said something which included the name Montoya.
‘Thank you so much for looking after me,’ Cerys said as the housekeeper left the room. The woman only smiled.
Cerys was still staring out of the large bay window ten minutes later, studying the acres of vines interspersed with woodland which covered the surrounding hills, trying to make sense of all the questions in her head…
Why was she here? Who were these people? And why was her mind so blank? She didn’t even know how she had acquired the bruises on her face and her backside. Or where the simple oversized nightdress she was wearing came from.
She jumped when a sharp knock sounded on the door.
‘Come in…’ she said.
Heat scorched her sore face when a tall man walked into the room—making the palatial bedroom suddenly feel poky. She didn’t recognise him, but he seemed to have a physical effect on her—making her belly jiggle and heat spread across her collarbone and down into her…
She crossed her arms over her chest, far too aware of the loose-fitting nightie, and her nipples pebbling into stiff peaks beneath the thin cotton.
He stepped closer and the light from the window illuminated his face.
The square jaw, the patrician nose, the serious expression and those eyes…
A deep, dark brown, with flecks of gold in the irises.
Why did she recognise his eyes? They were like the girl’s but also not—because they had none of her amusement or excitement… Or transparent emotion.
In a fitted shirt and expertly creased suit trousers, he was magnetic. In fact, she couldn’t stop staring at him as he crossed the room and sat in the chair the girl had vacated.
‘ Buen dia .’ His clipped Spanish accent did nothing to reduce the scalding heat rising up Cerys’s neck like a mushroom cloud. ‘I am Santiago álvaro De Montoya Lopez. El Duque de Cantada. Do you remember me?’
So, this was the brother Ana had mentioned.
Cerys wanted to say yes, because she definitely remembered his eyes—so disturbing and compelling—but nothing else about him was familiar. Not even the discolouration on his brow beneath the tanned skin. How had he become bruised, too?
While he studied her intently, waiting for her answer, she decided she couldn’t possibly have met him before, because she would not have forgotten anyone this overwhelming—and frankly, hot. She managed to shake her head, his presence so intimidating it had robbed her of the power of speech.
His eyes narrowed, his gaze becoming even more piercing, if that were possible—the sceptical expression made Cerys feel guilty, but she had no idea what for.
‘We met in Barcelona, two nights ago,’ he said in perfect English. ‘You were injured, during a street robbery. Do you remember this?’
She shook her head again, then cleared her throat.
‘No, I… I don’t think I have ever been to Barcelona.’
Her voice came out on a perilous quiver, which would have been embarrassing if she weren’t so confused right now, about everything—her bizarre reaction to this man most of all.
He raked his hand through the thick waves of dark hair. ‘You most certainly have been to Barcelona,’ he corrected her.
Before she could respond, he stood and paced to the window to stare out at the vines, his shoulders rigid with tension. Or was that irritation?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the confusion clearing a little. However she had ended up here, it was obvious she was a nuisance. ‘You’ve been very kind.’ She lifted the sheet and placed her bare feet on an antique silk carpet. ‘But I can leave now…’
He swung round from his contemplation of the landscape.
‘ Madre de Dios ,’ he hissed, impatience flashing in his eyes. ‘And how do you plan to do this?’ he demanded. ‘When you have no money, no travel documents, and very few clothes?’
She stared at him. ‘I… I don’t have any clothes? Seriously?’ She folded her arms around her waist, feeling naked under that searing judgement. At which point she realised she didn’t even have a bra.
‘You do not remember this either?’ he said, frustration making his stern expression even more forbidding. That said, she knew how he felt—because she was getting quite exasperated herself.
How could she have got herself into this much of a fix? Or was this some weird anxiety dream?
Gee thanks, subconscious.
Hopefully, she would wake up any minute, because Senor Hot was fast turning into Senor Super Pissed-Off.