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Rhianna sat down on the bed and looked at the contents again. The pictures of Ben Penvarnon were the least terrible in the selection, so maybe she should offer them to Diaz, who might like them as a memento of his father.
But she couldn’t imagine he’d want the awful ones of Moira Seymour, skulking about in the bushes, she thought critically as she riffled through them. What on earth had Aunt Kezia been thinking of?
I’ll sort them out in the morning, she told herself, and began to get ready for bed.
She felt unutterably weary as she lay in the darkness, listening to the splash of the rain, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest, imprisoning her on an emotional treadmill of regret and longing.
Images of Diaz smiling into her eyes jostled with the bleakness in his face as he’d talked of his parents’ marriage. He’d been a lonely child, she thought, and his initial kindness to her had been prompted when he’d recognised the same sadness in herself.
But now the trap of loneliness was closing round them again, and although she’d tried to armour herself against it by spending tonight apart from him it hadn’t worked. She was just wasting precious hours when they could have been creating a last beloved memory together.
Besides, after what they had shared, how could they part in this coldness? It just wasn’t possible.
She slipped out of bed and went to the door, quiet as a ghost in her white nightgown.
He might be asleep, she thought as she crossed the passage. Or, worse, he might decide things were better as they were and reject her.
It was a thought that halted her, but even as she hesitated his door opened suddenly, and Diaz confronted her, wearing a black silk robe.
For a moment there was silence, then he said her name very softly, and took her hand.
Colour stormed into her face. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Neither could I,’ he said huskily. ‘I was just coming to your room. I thought—I hoped that perhaps you might let me hold you. I wouldn’t ask for anything else.’
She said, ‘Then I’ll simply have to plead for both of us,’ and went into his arms.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHE awoke just before dawn and lay for a moment watching him sleep, before easing herself to the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb him.
He deserved his rest, she thought with tenderness, remembering how he’d exerted all his self-control in order to pull himself back from some edge of desperation when he’d first begun to touch her, and the lingering, exquisite arousal to the aching passion of mutual fulfilment which had followed.
However, Pilar also deserved her illusions, she told herself, rescuing her torn nightdress from the floor and slipping noiselessly back to her room.
So it would be as well to pretend they’d spent the whole night apart.
She dropped the nightgown into her waiting travel bag, and then, her body still glowing with remembered pleasure, slid back into bed.
The rain had stopped, and a grey light was filtering into the room through the shutters. Somewhere in the garden a bird sang.
Another memory, she thought, to be recalled when she was far away, and she turned, burying her face in the pillow.
She hadn’t planned on sleeping, but when she eventually stirred the floor was slatted with brilliant sunlight, and a glance at her watch told her it was nearly mid-morning.
She scrambled almost guiltily out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Why had no one woken her? she asked herself, as she stood under the shower. It seemed to her that at some point someone had touched her hair, but that was probably just a dream.
Half an hour later, dressed and with most of her packing done, she ventured downstairs. As she stood hesitantly in the entrance hall, Pilar appeared from the salon, according her the beginnings of a smile.
‘Buenos dias, señorita. You come—eat?’
‘Thank you.’ Rhianna paused awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late.’
The housekeeper shrugged. ‘No importa. Señor Diaz say leave to sleep. So I leave.’
A place had been set for her on the rear terrace. Coffee was brought in a tall pot, followed by hot rolls, a dish of honey, and a bowl of fresh fruit. And finally Pilar put a platter in front of her, with a vast omelette filled with smoked bacon, tomatoes, peppers, potatoes and cheese.
‘Heavens.’ Rhianna surveyed its proportions with faint dismay. ‘Just for me?’
‘Por supuesto,’ Pilar returned. ‘Of course.’
‘The señor has had his breakfast?’ Rhianna ventured as she poured her coffee.
‘Many hours ago.’ Pilar gave her an astonished look. ‘Then he work on computer, on telephone. Much busy. Now he go to Puerto Caravejo—to boat.’
