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He was nice-looking, and despite the darkness of his sun-bronzed face, I realized he wasn’t an England-educated Spaniard. Granda never had anyone but locals tend the vineyards and the olives, and I wondered where this man with his Oxford tones had come from.
He had strong, well-shaped hands. Narrow, with long fingers, they looked both strong and capable at anything he chose to do. In another time, another place, I might have found him attractive. Out of my league, but most definitely tasty. He’d rolled his work shirt up to his elbows, and his forearms were just as tanned, the hair on them bronzed by the sun, the scar...
For a moment, I froze, shock rendering everything around me into an odd stillness. And then I took a breath.
“Ian,” I said.
Chapter Three
My despised cousin Ian looked at me again. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. There was nothing I could say. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Bella had promised that I only had to fool Granda.
And I should have remembered that Bella’s promises had never been worth shit. He looked like a different person. As a child, he’d been skinny, his nose too big for his face, his brown hair and hunched shoulders accentuating the difference between him and his older brother Marcus. I never would have guessed he’d grow up to be so...so presentable. I should have recognized the sneer. “I thought you were supposed to be away at some conference,” I said.
“I was. Until I heard you were coming. I cancelled, and I told Marcus to get his butt back here as well.”
“Marcus is here?” My voice rose in a breathless little shriek, as the sheer stupidity of this masquerade hit me full force. How could I have been such an idiot, to fall for Bella’s blandishments? I should have known that disaster would follow me.
“Not yet. I expect him tomorrow.”
I didn’t let him see the relief that washed over me. “I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“No, you won’t. I cancelled your ticket to Paris.”
“Why?” I demanded in a frosty voice. But I knew why. Ian Whitehead had been put on this earth to make my life, and Bella’s, an eternal misery. All through our teenage years, he’d mocked us, taunted us, teased and tormented us. He was the dark brother, thin and suspicious, always too smart for his own good with a whiplash tongue, as opposed to his brother Marcus. Charming, golden Marcus, with broad shoulders and a smile that could melt the stoniest hearts, and both Bella and I had fallen in love with him the moment we saw him. Marcus was fourteen, Ian was twelve when Granda had the two of them brought to the villa, and we’d both made our choice instantly. After all, they weren’t real cousins, but the grandsons of Granda’s second wife. But he’d decided they were Whiteheads, and they’d been coopted and even changed their names.
Not that I’d ever had a chance. Bella had captivated Marcus, immediately, and he was besotted in return. They allowed me to tag along most of the time, and with Marcus had come Ian, baiting us. He was the price I had to pay for basking in the glow of Marcus’s golden light.
The simple fact was, I’d never gotten over him. I’d spent so many years dreaming of one kiss from those beautiful, perfect lips that I’d paid little attention to the men around me, settling for bad choices.
I didn’t want to see him again. Wasn’t ready to. Trust Ian to have arranged it.
“I can rebook,” I said sweetly.
“No one will drive you to the airport.”
“I can hire a car.”
He laughed derisively. “You’ve forgotten what the town is like. Trust me, Santa Maria de Fe hasn’t changed. No one’s going to go against Granda’s word, and I’m his voice. You’re staying.”
I glared at him, giving free rein to my emotions. “For how long?”
“Depends on how long it takes Granda to die. That, or he gets tired of you, but he’s just as fooled by you as everyone else.”
“But not you,” I said.
“No, not me. You’ll stay to make sure Granda has a peaceful passing. I don’t want him rewriting wills or cutting people out anymore. Enough is enough.”
“Who has he cut out?” Besides me, I thought, but that was old news.
“Damned if I know. Maybe you, maybe me, maybe everyone, and left Mariposa and the business to the Dominican nuns or the preservation of street dogs charity.”
“He likes cats better,” I said reflexively, remembering Granda’s beringed hand stroking the big gray tabby who slept curled up on his lap.
“True enough,” Ian said. “But you know as well as I do that he hasn’t had a cat in years, not since Salvador Dali died.”
For a moment I was startled. The granda I remembered hadn’t any use for modern art or Spain’s most famous eccentric, and he would hardly go into mourning...and then I remembered that was the name of the cat. “Look, Ian,” I said, swiveling around on the bench seat, dislodging more papers. “There’s no need for us to fight about things. I can’t imagine why you could possibly want me to stay here. You and I have never gotten along and that’s not about to change.”
