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She headed for the shower. It was almost nine o’clock. A very late time to get up for her, but she supposed that was what happened when you lay awake half the night with an e
rotic slideshow of illicit imaginings running through your head.
On the upside, Xavier had most probably left for work by now, and the idea of not having to face him brought a surge of cowardly relief. This way was best. She’d spare him the inevitable awkwardness and herself any further embarrassment. She’d leave him a nice thank-you note, plus the money he hadn’t taken the other night for the hostel bill, and go on her way with a clear conscience.
When she went downstairs with her backpack Rosa looked startled, and then dismayed when she explained she was leaving. The housekeeper insisted she at least stay for a cooked breakfast and she gratefully accepted.
Sitting on a stool at the enormous granite-topped island while Rosa bustled around the kitchen, she took out her palm tablet and booked a ticket for the next sailing to Mallorca.
Rosa slid a fluffy, delicious-looking omelette in front of her, disappeared for a few minutes while she ate, and returned with the envelope she’d asked for earlier.
When her taxi arrived she pressed the envelope with her note and the money inside it into Rosa’s hand. ‘Please give this to Xavier.’ She leaned in and hugged the older woman. ‘Thank you so much for your hospitality, Rosa. I’m sorry I’ve missed Delmar and Alfonso. Please say goodbye to them for me.’
Only when she was in the taxi and nearing Barcelona’s busy port did she acknowledge the hollow feeling in her chest. It was so similar to the feeling she’d had in the days after her dad died, and again after Camila passed, that she couldn’t understand why it should accost her now—and so intensely.
On impulse she opened her tote bag and found the photo Maria had given her. Xavier and his biological father were so alike, with those lean, dark good looks, it made her heart clutch to see it.
It wasn’t difficult to imagine how a young Camila might have fallen head over heels.
An ache pressed against her breastbone. She felt as if she was stealing something precious from Xavier by not showing him the photo. Not sharing what she knew of his birth father.
But she’d tried.
And he had made it clear—very clear—he wasn’t interested.
Maybe down the track she would write to him from Australia. Explain what Maria had told her. Then he could decide whether to use the information or discard it.
The taxi pulled up outside the ferry terminal and Jordan put the photo away. The driver helped her retrieve her backpack, and then it took her a moment to sort out the right bills and coins to pay him.
Once he was happy she hoisted her pack onto her shoulder, turned towards the terminal—and slammed into a wall of solid muscle.
The impact combined with the weight of her pack threw her off-balance, and she stumbled backwards with a startled cry.
Strong hands caught her by the upper arms, stopping her from falling.
She looked up and her mouth dried.
‘Xavier!’
‘Running away, Jordan?’
She tried to focus on what he’d said instead of the heat of his hands, which felt like branding irons on her bare arms. ‘Wh-what?’
In her peripheral vision a big, dark-suited man emerged from inside the terminal and strode towards them.
Juan.
He lifted his hand in the air and signalled to someone she couldn’t see.
She turned her attention back to Xavier. His expression was inscrutable, but the hard glint in his gunmetal gaze told her he wasn’t happy.
Her mind spun.
Rosa. Rosa must have called him. How else had he known she’d left? Where she’d gone?
Her voice was a croak of confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You left without saying goodbye.’ His tone was mild, as though he’d dished out nothing more than a gentle rebuke, but she sensed the pull of a dangerous undercurrent in the air.
