Page 38 of Eternal Craving

I knew how to play Miranda. She was used to men fawning over her. This woman had everything – money, power, and beauty. The alcohol loosened her nerve, and she let down her guard. Her husband had died at forty, falling ill after a trip to France. He’d left her childless. Now one of Spain’s wealthiest widows, with nothing but time for pleasure, she failed to conceal her desire for excitement – from me anyway.

Out of Salvador’s view, I’d reached under the table and caressed her thigh, my hand sliding up to linger at the edge of her panties. After several minutes, I ignored her and concentrated on Salvador. When Miranda fidgeted, I fed her sugared almonds, wooing her all over again, pushing and pulling her into a state of longing.

“There’s nothing more interesting than a woman who’s well-traveled.” I sighed, my thoughts drifting to Annabelle.

Miranda gave me a coy smile. “Or a man with a mysterious past.”

“Daumia is certainly indefinable.” Salvador downed his wine.

I raised my glass in a toast. “To defining the indefinable.”

They laughed as I took a sip of wine.

“We want to know more about you,” Miranda said boldly.

Salvador leaned forward. “Well, I know one thing – he’s certainly honorable.”

A war between Felipe and I raged just beneath the surface.

There was no room for procrastination and no time for cold feet.

“But he’s so coy about revealing anything.” Miranda ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass.

I topped up her wine. “What do you want to know?”

“How you came to live in such a great home?” she asked.

I held her gaze. “Fate dealt me a kind hand.”

“This was once the Bastillion estate, wasn’t it?” She patted her lips with her serviette.

My back stiffened. “Right up until the house burnt to the ground.”

“And Roelle Bastillion?” Miranda gave me a long stare.

I placed my fork on my plate, my appetite now dulled.

“Such a terrible way to die,” she continued. “No kind hand for Roelle.”

“The fickle hand of fate.” I needed to change the subject. “You have French heritage?”

Miranda appeared surprised. “Most people don’t notice, Daumia. And what’s your heritage?”

“Italian father, Spanish mother.”

“You were born in Santiago de Compostela?”

“Yes. Near the Romanesque Cathedral.”

The butler entered. Never had I been so happy to see the man.

“Tell me more about England.” I gestured to the waiters they should leave.

“They’re very progressive,” Miranda replied. “Take their architecture, for example…”

Her words faded as thoughts of Harold Ferring came to mind. After he’d left, I’d come to realize his talent. He’d designed the house so that when the sun rose, it flooded the servants’ quarters and breakfast room. At sunset, the light lingered in my office, the library, and the bedrooms. Masterful, the genius was captured in the details.

With dinner over, we headed for the living room. Miranda excused herself, withdrawing to powder her nose.