Valley to the south of Granada.
Set on the south-westerly slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and running down to the coast with its sub-tropical climate, the valley had been much loved by the Moors, who had spoken of the area as the Valley of Happiness. Her mother’s voice had been soft with emotion when she had told Fliss that in spring the air was filled with the scent of the blossom from the orchards that surrounded the castle.
Olives, almonds, cherries, and wine from the vinesthat covered many acres of its land were produced in abundance by the ducal estate, and the house owned by her father was, Fliss knew, called House of Almond Blossom because it was set amongst an orchard of those trees.
Was Vidal trying to undermine her in having her brought to this so openly male-orientated room and then left here alone, virtually imprisoned in its austere and unwelcoming maleness? she questioned, her thoughts returning to the present. Why couldn’t Rosa have simply called her down when Vidal himself was ready to leave for the lawyer’s office? Why had she been made to wait here, in this room that spoke so forcefully of male power and male arrogance?
As though her hostile thoughts had somehow conjured him up, the door swung open and Vidal stepped into the room—just as she was in angry, agitated mid-pace, her eyes flashing telltale signs of what she was feeling as she looked towards him.
He was dressed in a pair of narrow black chinos that hugged the litheness of his hips and stretched with the movement of his thighs, drawing her treacherous gaze to the obvious strength and power of the male muscles there. As though having already been accused and found guilty of treachery, and deciding that it now had nothing left to lose, her gaze moved boldly upwards, its awareness of him unhampered by the white shirt covering the physical reality of his torso.
Aghast, Fliss realised that her imagination had joined in the betrayal and was now supplying her with totally unwanted images of what lay beneath that shirt—rightdown to providing her with a mental picture of every single powerful muscle his flesh cloaked from the memories her senses had stored after her proximity to him last night.
Only when her gaze reached his throat was Fliss finally able to drag it back down to the shiny polished gleam of his shoes as it quailed at the thought of daring to rest on his mouth, or meet the gaze of those topaz-gold eyes.
She felt slightly breathless, and her senses were quivering—with distaste and dislike, Fliss insisted to herself. Not with awareness or—perish the thought—some horrible and unwanted surge of female desire.
Her heart started pounding far too heavily, the sound drumming inside her own head like a warning call. Her lips had started to burn. She desperately wanted to lick them—to cool them down, to impose the feel of her own tongue against them and wipe away the memory of Vidal’s kiss. So much treachery from her own body. Where had it come from, and why? She tried to think of her father and remind herself of why she was here, dredging up the broken strands of her self-control from the whirlpool into which they had been sucked.
Taking a deep breath, she told Vidal, ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. I seem to remember that last night you warned me against being late for our appointment with the lawyer—but apparently that same rule does not apply to you.’
He was frowning now, obviously disliking the fact that she had dared to question him. His voice was cool and sharp as he answered. ‘As you say, it’s nearly teno’clock—but since Señor Gonzales has not yet arrived, so far as I am concerned I am ahead of time.’
‘The lawyer is coming
here?’
Fliss demanded, ignoring his attack on her. Her face flamed like that of a child caught out in a social solecism, or a
faux pas.
Of
course
a man as aristocratic and as arrogant as Vidal would expect lawyers to attend him—not the other way round.
The loud pealing of a bell
Set on the south-westerly slopes of the Sierra Nevada, and running down to the coast with its sub-tropical climate, the valley had been much loved by the Moors, who had spoken of the area as the Valley of Happiness. Her mother’s voice had been soft with emotion when she had told Fliss that in spring the air was filled with the scent of the blossom from the orchards that surrounded the castle.
Olives, almonds, cherries, and wine from the vinesthat covered many acres of its land were produced in abundance by the ducal estate, and the house owned by her father was, Fliss knew, called House of Almond Blossom because it was set amongst an orchard of those trees.
Was Vidal trying to undermine her in having her brought to this so openly male-orientated room and then left here alone, virtually imprisoned in its austere and unwelcoming maleness? she questioned, her thoughts returning to the present. Why couldn’t Rosa have simply called her down when Vidal himself was ready to leave for the lawyer’s office? Why had she been made to wait here, in this room that spoke so forcefully of male power and male arrogance?
As though her hostile thoughts had somehow conjured him up, the door swung open and Vidal stepped into the room—just as she was in angry, agitated mid-pace, her eyes flashing telltale signs of what she was feeling as she looked towards him.
He was dressed in a pair of narrow black chinos that hugged the litheness of his hips and stretched with the movement of his thighs, drawing her treacherous gaze to the obvious strength and power of the male muscles there. As though having already been accused and found guilty of treachery, and deciding that it now had nothing left to lose, her gaze moved boldly upwards, its awareness of him unhampered by the white shirt covering the physical reality of his torso.
Aghast, Fliss realised that her imagination had joined in the betrayal and was now supplying her with totally unwanted images of what lay beneath that shirt—rightdown to providing her with a mental picture of every single powerful muscle his flesh cloaked from the memories her senses had stored after her proximity to him last night.
Only when her gaze reached his throat was Fliss finally able to drag it back down to the shiny polished gleam of his shoes as it quailed at the thought of daring to rest on his mouth, or meet the gaze of those topaz-gold eyes.
She felt slightly breathless, and her senses were quivering—with distaste and dislike, Fliss insisted to herself. Not with awareness or—perish the thought—some horrible and unwanted surge of female desire.
Her heart started pounding far too heavily, the sound drumming inside her own head like a warning call. Her lips had started to burn. She desperately wanted to lick them—to cool them down, to impose the feel of her own tongue against them and wipe away the memory of Vidal’s kiss. So much treachery from her own body. Where had it come from, and why? She tried to think of her father and remind herself of why she was here, dredging up the broken strands of her self-control from the whirlpool into which they had been sucked.
Taking a deep breath, she told Vidal, ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. I seem to remember that last night you warned me against being late for our appointment with the lawyer—but apparently that same rule does not apply to you.’
He was frowning now, obviously disliking the fact that she had dared to question him. His voice was cool and sharp as he answered. ‘As you say, it’s nearly teno’clock—but since Señor Gonzales has not yet arrived, so far as I am concerned I am ahead of time.’
‘The lawyer is coming
here?’
Fliss demanded, ignoring his attack on her. Her face flamed like that of a child caught out in a social solecism, or a
faux pas.
Of
course
a man as aristocratic and as arrogant as Vidal would expect lawyers to attend him—not the other way round.
The loud pealing of a bell
Similar Books
