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For bush telegraph read bush fire, Annalisa thought, spying the jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and the bowl of plump ripe figs. And an outfit had already been laid out on what looked very much like a priceless Louis Quinze chaise longue. The slim sofa was covered with the finest brocade in a delicate shade of powder blue, and its single arm was intricately carved and ornamented with gold leaf.
Margarita had a figure not dissimilar to her own, Annalisa realised as she picked up some sapphire silk Capri pants. A thrill ran through her as she read the label. She had never come close to wearing anything so exclusive. An ivory silk casual top by the same designer lay beside some flesh-toned underwear, still in the fuchsia-tinted tissue paper in which it had been packed in the boutique. The flimsy thong and bra were composed of so fine a fabric it brought the blood rushing to her cheeks. Margarita must be quite something, she thought, spotting some dainty cream leather mules lined up neatly on the floor.
Waiting until the door closed, Annalisa quickly stepped out of her damp bikini. There was a full-length cheval-glass in one corner of the room and it was too tempting not to steal a glimpse at herself as she dressed. Slipping into clothes like these was almost a sensual experience, like stepping into another world. But now what? she wondered, gazing around the fabulous room.
There wasn’t long to wait before she found out. A tap on the door brought the answer. A young girl dressed in a maid’s uniform stood waiting on the threshold.
‘The car is outside when you are ready, Señorita Fuego Montoya,’ she announced in halting English.
‘Wilson. Señorita Wilson,’ Annalisa corrected gently, smiling at her. ‘But you can call me Annalisa if you like.’
‘Sí, Señorita Fuego Montoya,’ the young girl said, colouring up.
She doesn’t understand, Annalisa realised, hoping the shock of hearing her late father’s name wrongly applied to herself didn’t show on her face.
‘Are you ready, señorita?’ the maid pressed, hovering uncertainly on the threshold.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ Annalisa said, reminding herself to add Spanish lessons to her list of things to do. ‘And I’ll return the clothes—’
‘Oh, no, señorita,’ the girl exclaimed, holding up her hands to emphasise the point. ‘Señora Margarita intends you to keep them.’
‘But I couldn’t possibly,’ Annalisa protested.
The maid shrugged, as if the generous gift was of no consequence. ‘The señora has many such outfits, señorita.’
Wealth like this was hard to imagine… And yet she should try, Annalisa reminded herself. Quite out of the blue she had recently inherited a considerable chunk of land in Menorca, and even though she had precious little cash to throw around right now, if she sold the estate designer outfits like these would be well within her reach. ‘I should still like to thank Señora—’
But the girl had already started towards the staircase, and with a brief wave of her hand indicated that Annalisa should follow.
For just a beat Annalisa hesitated. If only her Spanish had been stronger she might have been able to ask the maid to arrange a brief meeting with Margarita. Then she could have explained her intrusion face to face, as well as thank her for the clothes. But for now she had no answer to the dilemma.
Annalisa frowned. Everything connected with Menorca seemed to have a dilemma attached to it as far as she was concerned. And the whole point in taking a sabbatical from the small law practice where she worked as a solicitor had been to resolve dilemmas, not create more. She had come to the island to uncover the truth about her Spanish father, not to involve herself in the lives of the island’s super-rich. Her mission was to discover what had prompted an elderly Spanish grandee to leave a vast estate to her, when he had abandoned her mother the minute he discovered she was pregnant. And had never been heard from again as far as Annalisa knew.
During her mother’s lifetime the relevant questions could not be asked. There had been an unspoken rule between them that strictly forbade all talk of the past. But her mother had died almost immediately after the news of Señor Fuego Montoya’s death, prompting Annalisa to embark on her own quest.
So, here she was…feeling increasingly uncomfortable as she followed the maid down the sweeping marble staircase. The young girl’s confusion over her name had caused the past and present to collide…and in the home of a man who might be as unprincipled as her father for all Annalisa knew. But thankfully she had the benefit of hindsight to guide her now…and better still there was no sign of her enigmatic neighbour.
