CHAPTER 1

Only an hour ago, Jenny had seen her reflection for the first time since the

accident. She’d stared at a face full of nicks and scratches, and visible ends of

stitches where flesh had been sewn back together. It reminded her of a bad shave in

a cartoon, except she wasn’t laughing. She’d been unconscious for two days and

they said she was lucky? Her shoulder had been pinned together, her head had a

metal plate beneath; she felt like shit.

“You haven’t caught me on a good day you know. I could be bitchy.”

“You’ve been a hard person to trace, Jenny. I’ll manage.” The woman

proffered her hand. “Maria Santos, I’m an abogada.”

Jenny frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’d probably call me a solicitor back in Britain. A lawyer.”

“I meant I don’t understand why an abogada would be tracing me.”

Jenny took the hand in her good hand as best she could. It hurt her shoulder

though and she wished she hadn’t. She’d almost learned to move without moving

and would probably make a good busker when she got out.

“Sorry! I should have realised. Are you feeling up to this?”

“I guess so. I’m still woozy though, I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with

me.”

“Say if you want me to leave.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be okay, just don’t expect too much.”

The woman undid her attaché case, took out a sheaf of papers and studied

them. “I’m afraid red tape in Spain is rather cumbersome. I sometimes wonder if

we’ll eventually get buried under our own paper work.”

Jenny was curious and struggled into a sitting position. Denia hospital was

far from home and the prospect of company, a treat. The next bed was empty. It

had been occupied but the woman was gone, discharged. There’d been hardly

anyone to talk to for a couple of days. Not that the woman had spoken much, but

she’d been a face to look at, someone to share her frustration with.

“Is it about the accident? I wasn’t driving you know. I can’t remember

much about it but I wasn’t driving. I’d scrounged a lift after a party.”

There had been a confusion of red tail-lights, a blocked carriageway, the

car jolting, scraping, bucking; nowhere to go before they hit metal. She’d drawn

her knees up; instinctively lowered her head; willed her whole being to shrink up

her backside. It was sounds she remembered the most; metal screeching, glass

splintering, sounds she didn’t want to recall.

“Nothing to do with the accident.” Maria shook her head, her eyes all the

time on Jenny, perceptive, no sign of emotion. “Okay, so let’s start with your full

name.”

“Señorita Jennifer Alicia Bucknall… What’s this about?”

“Do you have Spanish nationality?”

“No. Born and bred in England.”

“The maiden name of your mother?”

Jenny had to think hard, paddled through a head full of thick soup, but it

came eventually.

“Olive Grace Peterson.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“I never knew my father.” Jenny screwed her face with effort. “I think he

died before I was born. His mother was Spanish. He died over here.”

Maria wrote it down, seemed satisfied.

“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to remember much. It annoys me, but they say it’s

not unusual.” Jenny pointed to where the plate was on her head. “They’ve put a

trap door here so that if things get bad you can open it up and dig out the memories

for yourself. I keep forgetting things, silly things, not everything… God knows

why. They say it’ll get better with time … Look, what’s all this about?”

There was a vase of flowers on the bedside cabinet, flaccid in the heat.

Maria pushed herself to her feet and indicated towards them.

“Your flowers, shall I give them fresh water? It’s a shame to let them

spoil.” She sniffed at them, took them to the sink in the corner of the room, filled

the vase. “You have proof of your identity?”

“I guess so - passport, bankcards. They’ll do, won’t they?”

“I wonder if I could see them, please?”

Jenny could hear the murmur of the television in the common room, a

scrape as someone moved furniture, hushed conversations. The wearisome

familiarity of the place depressed her. It felt as if she’d been lying there forever.

Maria Santos made a welcome break and she intended hanging onto her for as long

as possible. If it involved answering questions then so be it. She said, “There’s no

harm in you seeing my passport. You’re not touching my bankcards, though.”

“Very wise.”

“In the cupboard by your side; a clutch bag. It should be in the zip

pocket…Look, do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Please bear with me, Señorita.” Maria found the bag, took out the

passport, studied it, checked the date of birth, looked at Jenny and compared her to

the photograph, put the passport away again, wrote on the paper, then offered it to

Jenny. “Would you mind signing this?”

“Difficult. My shoulder, I can’t use my arm. I’m right-handed.”

Maria smiled wanly, “Sorry! No worries. It can be done later. I’m

reasonably satisfied you’re the person I’m looking for.”

“The significance being?”

“Juan García. Juan Cabra-García to be pedantic. Cabra was his mother’s

family.”

Jenny shook her head from side to side. “No! You’ve got me there. Means

nothing to me.”

“He died a few months ago, in that terrible bomb in Madrid. In his last Will

and Testament, he made you heir to La Finca Piedra, along with his younger half-

brother.”

Jenny stared.

“It isn’t an even split. His brother has the major share, but these are details

we can go into at a later date.”

“I really don’t know what you’re on about.”

“The important thing is, we’ve established your identity.”

“But I don’t know a Juan Cabra-Garcia.” She closed her eyes, thought

hard. Nothing.

“There will be formalities to go through, and documents need to be drawn

up. A Public Notary will need to verify the documents to legalize them. But these

things are only a matter of time.”

Jenny said carefully, “I rather think you’ve made a mistake.”

Maria smiled. A small inclination of the head indicated she didn’t think so.

“We’ll make arrangements for you to come to my office when you’re

feeling up to it, say in six months … I’ll probably need that amount of time to

confirm things, and to make further checks. I’m afraid things tend to move a little

slowly over here.”

***

“Fuck!” The letter was crumpled into a ball then pressed between his palms.

Eduardo, window seat 27A, had no one by his side. He had purchased 27B and

27C to ensure privacy. People talked and he didn’t want to talk. Who was doing

this? Why the hell send it to him here in the U.S.? He’d barely been away ten days.

The engines flared, died, flared again, and they were on the move. He

stared at the control tower, at reflections on rain-slicked tarmac. A yellow van

scooted in the distance, wound a way through the handful of light aircraft scattered

outside hangers. He stared as the van disappeared into the complex.

Someone had gained access to his business movements. Surely it wouldn’t

be too difficult to pinpoint who?

The plane taxied to the end of the runway and waited for clearance. The

sky looked resentful, made everything miserable. There was no first-class on the

plane, which hadn’t improved his temper. The girl at check-in couldn’t offer an

upgrade; the flight was too short, the plane too small. She’d smiled widely, showed

too much gum, told him to have a good day.

Jesus! There were all those in the office, friends, consultants. There were

probably dozens if you included those who might have passed word on without

thinking. Maybe it wouldn’t be so easy after all.

It would be another week before he made home. He didn’t need shit like

this, he thought, he hardly had time for what was planned, never mind worry about

threatening letters. The jaunt had been time-consuming, the sanctity of Spain was a

long way off, but business was business and it was what he did.

This was a double hop, Charleston to Atlanta; Atlanta to Manchester. It

would involve a mad dash across the sprawl of Atlanta airport to find the Delta

flight. It would be a mad dash because the bloody plane was already late. He stared

morosely through the porthole window. The overcast skies looked tortured.

He hoped they’d be up soon because a storm could delay them and if they

were delayed he’d miss the connection.

The heavens opened and rain bounced high off the runway, but the engines

were screaming, the plane shaking. They were going, regardless of the weather.

He unscrewed the letter; stared at it, felt angry all over again. Someone was

turning it into a fucking campaign.

***

Jenny looked around the claustrophobic office. Beneath the clutter it was rather

utilitarian with black wood furniture and chrome-framed chairs. On the wall was a

clock, a calendar beneath. The calendar had come from some law society or other.

Two extra chairs were stacked by a row of filing cabinets. On the desk were two

A4 lined pads, paper clips, law books and plastic pens that could be bought by the

dozen. A heavy-looking satchel big enough for files lay in the corner by one of the

chairs. On the shelves she could make out transcripts bound with string, curled at

the edges, handwritten notes, typed reports, probably summaries, and ream after

ream of testimonies - or something else equally legal and equally tedious.

Maria pushed some of the confusion to one side, dug out a photograph and

offered it to her. Jenny leaned forward very carefully. Her shoulder was painful if

she moved too quickly. It didn’t stop her doing things, though. They said the scar

on her face would fade, but six months hadn’t been enough. She studied the

photograph and her eyes widened. “Is that it? But it’s wonderful!”

The picture showed La Finca Piedra lying in the folds of a limestone

outcrop. Pine trees swept down from the sierra. In that light, it looked astonishing.

High walls surrounded the Finca; palms curved over the wrought-iron gates. On

the slopes behind the buildings were terraces of almonds and olives. Further away,

promontories became fused in haze. The view seemed to roll onwards into infinity.

Maria Santos said, “Glad you like it. I’ve always been fond of the place.”

“So, where do I find this wonderland?”

“Between Alicante and Valencia, but it’s hidden in the sierras, rather a

quiet backwater, I’m afraid. Not a lot goes on. Benidorm is about thirty or forty

kilometres south, if you fancy nightlife.”

“The colours,” Jenny put the picture down, swept a cloud of dark hair from

her face and tied it back. “They’re incredible.” She had the same unruly hair as her

mother. She’d been told she had her mother’s attitude too, but that didn’t bother

her. She thought her mother dignified.

“Well, I didn’t use filters if that’s what you’re thinking, but I suppose it

could look false if you tried to paint it.” Maria picked up one of the plastic pens

and twisted it around her fingers.

“It’s so intense it hardly seems real. Don’t you think it’s curious how bright

colours are over here? Everywhere seems larger than life.”

“On the contrary. I’ve always found the landscape in England somewhat

watery. It looks as if it has been washed too many times.”

“This is fabulous.” Jenny assumed there must be a connection between

Papá’s family and Juan García, though Mum had been emphatic there wasn’t. Her

Papá had grown up somewhere close to here, died here before she was born, and

according to Mum was definitely, definitely, not related to the García family. “So

why has it been left to me?” she asked. “It makes me feel odd. Someone’s bound to

resent it.”

“Well, I can assure you, you’re the legal heir. These things happen more

often than you might imagine. You’re not the first I’ve had to track down, and I

don’t suppose you’ll be the last.”

“But why?”

“I think for the most part, you’ll find that whys and wherefores are beside

the point. I think the trick is coping, especially when others are involved.”

“So you won’t discuss it? I’m to be kept well and truly in the dark. Is that

it?”

The abogada nodded.

“Afraid so.”

She was in her late thirties, short, large-hipped, hair a mop of dark ringlets,

a few streaks of grey beginning to show. Her teeth were over-sized and she must

have been aware of them because she tended to keep her lips close together when

speaking.

Jenny was finding it hard to take in. She hadn’t expected the Finca to be

like this. She’d thought it might be some sort of smallholding, rocks and barren

land, not this sort of thing. The enormity of what was happening was scarier than

she wanted to admit. She didn’t know how elaborate the thread was, but it had

been woven damn intricately.

“Eduardo García is due back in a couple of days. You’ll have to meet him

sometime, so I’ve arranged for you to be shown around then, that’s if it’s okay by

you. In general you shouldn’t bump into him much, as he mostly stays in Valencia

when he’s over.”

“He doesn’t live here, then?”

“Well, he’s been selected as party candidate for the next Parliamentary

election so that takes up a lot of his time, but his business also tends to take him all

over the world. He’s expanding the García hotel empire like there’s no tomorrow.

To be honest, I think his heart is in America. He was born in England, moved to

America, and took a degree at Harvard. He didn’t contemplate Spain until his

twenties, then started to take his holidays here. Got to know Juan a little better,

caught up on brotherly love, I suppose.”

“How come he was born in England?”

“The parents divorced. Juan was young and stayed with his mother at

Piedra. The Finca belonged to Juan’s mother, the Cabra family, nothing to do with

García. The old man came to England looking at sites for a new hotel, put roots

down, remarried and had Eduardo. It became a bit complicated when the old man

died. Juan had half the hotel business but wasn’t interested in it. Eduardo couldn’t

touch the Finca, and was.”

“A strange affair.”

“It happens when families split.” Maria shrugged. “By the way, be aware

that Eduardo likes to do things his way. He might not like the idea of you having

power of veto; he’s used to running the show. Maybe it’ll be a good idea for you to

take a back seat for a while.”

“You mean be a good little lady?” Jenny arched her brow. “I’ve never been

good at that sort of thing. It hacks me off behaving like a trained moron.”

“Certainly not! I meant, listen and wait before doing anything.”

“You mean before jumping in with both feet?” She gave a snort. “I have

been known to, I suppose. I’m not renowned for subtlety.”

“Well, try to move from a position of knowledge. Understand what he’s

doing and why. If you feel the need to oppose, that is.”

“I probably will. Just for the hell of it. Just to see what his reaction is.”

Jenny leaned back in the seat. Eduardo García probably despised her. She could

see trouble ahead.

“He’s one of life’s great individuals is our Eduardo. Fractious to work

with, but there’s an emptiness when he’s gone.”

“A bit like a boil on the backside?”

Maria laughed at that. “When I was a youngster, I remember my mother

put the neck of a hot bottle over a boil on my neck. As it cooled it was supposed to

suck the grunge out. It hurt like hell.”

Jenny grimaced. “I don’t do pain. I’d want an anaesthetic.”

“Eduardo is rather exceptional. Very arrogant, very intolerant, but he has

an inspired intellect and a cool sense of humour. Rather wry and perceptive, I

suppose.”

“Sounds like a big-head to me.”

Maria stopped twiddling with the pen and tossed it to the desk. “So, tell me

about yourself. What do you do back in England?”

“I’m a research assistant for Angela Burchill.”

“The historical biographer? I know her stuff.”

“The one.”

“I’ve read ‘The Princess of Aragon’. It must be interesting doing that sort

of work. You must get to travel a lot.”

“A little. Angie says I was over here doing research for her next book when

I had the accident, but I don’t remember; there’s still a lot that’s missing from the

old grey matter. Mostly though, I get to surf the web, sit in stuffy libraries. Angela

gives me the general idea of what she’s after then it’s down to me. She filters out

what isn’t relevant then pores over it for weeks whilst I search for something else.”

“So you’re bit of a detective?”

Jenny expressed amusement. “No! Angela’s the detective. I’m the plod

knocking on doors, crawling on hands and knees for anything that looks remotely

interesting.” She turned in her seat to look through the plate-glass window. Back

home, autumn had come early, gardens had already mellowed. She said, “Isn’t the

weather lovely here? We have too much rain at home, cold as well. You’re lucky.”

“You think so? We had no let up from the sun this year, and then we had

the mother of storms. It all came at once.” Maria shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t have

air-conditioning at home. The windows get thrown open and the fans turned on.”

“We’ve no need for air-conditioning in the UK. Not where I live, anyway.

We huddle around the central heating with meals on trays, watching the telly.”

Maria smiled. “This year we’ve been eating mostly on the terrace. A

couple of months ago there were fires in the sierra at the back of us. It went up like

tinder. They brought in planes and helicopters and one flew over us. Water fell

from it onto the sunshade. We watched whilst we had our meal.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“The children were scared stiff but thankfully the bomberos brought it

under control before bedtime. We’d considered moving to my parents for the night,

but it turned out all right in the end.”

“I think I might have gone anyway, just to be sure.”

“Did you get the confirmation from the notary, by the way?”

“It’s here, thanks.” The letter was in Jenny’s bag and she patted it. Mum

had gone mad when she’d heard about it. Until then, they’d been best friends. This

was too exciting to handle by herself, yet Mum flatly refused to be involved. In

fact Jenny was sure Mum thought she’d been having an affair with Juan García,

whoever he was.

“You sound tired. I hope it isn’t over-taxing you.”

Jenny stretched. “I’ll be okay. It’s been a bit hectic, that’s all.”

Actually, she felt drained now that it was almost over. When she’d first

seen Maria, she’d been too weak from the car accident for it to sink in. The words

had been dream things, now it was time to face reality.

“Overall management of the property and riding stables will be under

Eduardo’s control. Needless to say you have use of all facilities.” Maria cast her a

glance. “And like I’ve said, you have power of veto over anything to do with the

Finca.”

“I presume from your tone it’s a good thing?”

“Take my advice; don’t abuse it. Remember, he’s a respected businessman

with a good head on his shoulders. He ploughed himself into the hotel business

once he cleared university and made a damn good job of it. If he says something,

listen. He’s very successful. Juan was the artistic soul, Eduardo the practical one,

even helped Juan make money from his art.”

He probably did. Jenny didn’t care.

“Are you planning to stay at the Finca, by the way?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’d feel a bit awkward. I’ve looked around the area

and trawled a few estate agents, but they’ve come up with nothing I like.”

“I thought you might feel that way. I’ve pencilled in a furnished apartment

for you in Calpe if that’s all right. I told them you might have other arrangements

but to keep it on hold.”

“That’s nice of you. Thanks.”

She’d stayed in a hotel overnight, in a good-sized room with mini-bar and

hairdryer, chocolates on the pillow, bathrobe on the turned-down bed. There’d

been a paper attached to the robe asking her not to take it home. The mini-bar had a

price list detailing the contents. She hadn’t bothered. Hotel prices were notoriously

high. She’d used the Café Haag, though. It had tasted just fine. The chocolates had

gone too. She wondered for a moment if it was one of Eduardo García’s, hoped

not, hoped she wasn’t boosting his profits.

“It’s on the outskirts of the resort, has good shops, local entertainment,

fairly close to the sea front, yet away from holiday rentals. I thought you might like

a sea view.”

“Sounds good.”

“You can change it, of course. The estate will look after the money side, so

don’t worry about that…” The abogada fumbled in a drawer, bent her head to look.

“I know the keys are in here somewhere, along with the directions.”

Jenny took the keys once Maria found them and stifled another yawn, “I’ll

see how it goes. But I expect it’ll be fine.”

Mum’s accusation that she was hiding something had hurt. There’d been a

welt of pain inside and she’d yelled that she’d never met Juan Cabra-Garcia, never

dated him, never talked to him, and had never, ever, had sex with him.

Her mother had been furious when the abogada had flown over to see her.

“She’s been asking damn-fool questions of me. Probed my past, asked me to prove

who I am, even wanted to see my marriage certificate. I asked her if she wanted to

know the colour of my bloody knickers. Why do you want to go getting involved?

Why can't you ignore it? No good can come of it.”

“Neither you nor Eduardo can dispose of the property, nor make structural

change, without witnessed consent from the other. It’s a measure to prevent the

Finca from being broken up.”

“I understand. No problem. I’d have insisted on the same.”

“Juan García was always most adamant that the estate remained intact.”

“You realise there’re no family links to the Garcías,” Jenny said

rebelliously. “I’ve checked. It has to be something else. So what is it?”

Maria ignored her.

“Can’t you give me just a little clue? What was he like, this Spanish

recluse?”

The abogada shrugged. “Juan was of the old school; a lonely man in a lot

of ways. Kept his thoughts to himself. Seemed tormented… By the way, there’s a

cheque on its way to your account; your share of the cash and liquidated portfolio.

You’ll also share any profits from renting the villas on the far side of the estate.”

“Villas? Just how big is the place?”

“About a thousand hectares, nearly five kilometres by two.”

Jenny did a mental calculation, frowned with concentration. “That’s well

over two thousand acres. God! I didn’t think it was like that.”

“And there are the stables of course, they’re quite well-known, but Juan

wasn’t a man of business and left the running of things to managers. He thought

money was vulgar. He just wanted to paint. He did quite well with his oils, they’re

okay. He liked the idea of being a gentleman landowner I suppose, but that was as

far as it went. Art was his thing.”

“Nice when you can think like that.”

“Eduardo will probably want to change the operation; he has the Midas

touch. He’s twenty years younger than Juan. They were half-brothers like I’ve said,

he was quite the baby of the family, in his thirties. His ideas are different. He’s a

powerful man.”

“And it’s gone to his head, from what I’ve read in the glossies. I’ve been

doing my research. It doesn’t bode well.”

Maria scratched her nose. “Magazines are there to sell magazines. If the

truth comes out it’s generally by accident. I wouldn’t take too much notice of what

you read.”

“You mean like the article that claims his overriding passion is to infiltrate

the genitalia of every woman he meets?”

“That really was bordering on slander.”

“Isn’t there a saying that power corrupts, though? I think I might avoid him

where possible.”

“Eduardo is egotistical, difficult to work with, probably ruthless to the

extreme, but that’s what’s made him a success. I find it acceptable that he should

be like that. You can’t succeed without some of those qualities.”

“He seems a heartless bastard to me. Señor Eduardo García doesn’t sound

the sort of person to lock horns with.”

Maria smiled thinly. “If it doesn’t suit; you could always let him handle

things. You don’t have to be involved. You could let him act on your behalf.”

Jenny shook her head. “I’ll take my chance.” She rose to her feet and

collected her shoulder bag and straw hat. “Thanks for everything. I think I’ll get

off now.”

“Well, you’ve got the keys to the apartment. You have the map of how to

get there; and I’ve also given you the map to the Finca. By the way, I’ve left a

message for Eduardo to expect you any time after ten. I presumed you wouldn’t

relish too early a start. I told you it was in two days’ time, didn’t I?”

“Sure thing.” Jenny shook Maria’s hand and left.

She started the car, flicked the indicators on, turned into the mainstream of

traffic and put her hand up to thank the following driver for blasting his horn.

For all her fine words, she really didn’t fancy the thought of a bust-up with

García, who sounded like an egotistical maniac. When the next lay-by came up,

she pulled the car in and parked up. She took out the map and studied it, mulled it

over, took a decision and turned the car around and headed into the countryside for

the Finca.

Jenny changed gear as she began the roller coaster passage along the

foothills of the sierras, crossed over and left behind the dry, stone rutted riverbed

she’d first spotted from the main road. Traffic became non-existent; the valley

below full of green, rich with fruit trees.

Mum had gone ape-shit when she’d first heard about the legacy. “What the

hell have you been up to, Jenny? You’ve kept this quiet. How long have you been

seeing him?”

She changed gear again and negotiated a narrow bridge over a gorge, went

past a restaurant tucked to the right, saw a handful of people make their way across

the car park, a couple decidedly wobbly; hoped they weren’t going to follow her.

“Mother, why have you jumped to the conclusion that I had an affair with

him? If you think I’ve been handling wrinkly old testicles you must be mad. It’s

repulsive. I’d never even heard of him until the abogada told me.”

She rounded the top of a rise and saw the ocean.

It was a day of astonishing beauty. The sea, far below, was streaked in

every tone of blue. To the right, huge escarpments of rock scraped at the sky.

Prehistoric things, shrouded in mist. Two years ago, she’d taken a holiday at

Benidorm. The countryside had been scrubland, not like this. Not mountains, not

groves of fruit and almonds, not mile after mile of vineyards; not this sort of Spain.

The sheer grandeur of what she saw made her feel insignificant.

“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean you were sleeping with him.”

“What did you mean then?”

“Why has he left it to you?”

“Mum, I don’t know who the hell he is. I don’t know why he’s left it me.”

“No-one does that sort of thing. Not without good reason. You’ve been

seeing him. Was it whilst you were supposed to be researching for that damned

writer? Was it whilst you were on holiday?”

“Mother, he was your age. What the hell do you think I am? I’m not

desperate.”

“You must have done something for him to leave it to you.”

“For God’s sake, Mother. I’ve told you, I don’t know who he is, I’ve never

met him and he certainly hasn’t had his hands grubbing inside my knickers.”

There was a Finca below. Jenny pulled the car to a stop at the brow of the

hill. Was that it? The view was from a different angle but it looked like the one in

the photograph. If it was, it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, ten times

better than the picture. She wound the electric windows down. There was a

murmur of glass against rubber and pine-rich air flooded in. She gawped for ages.

Eventually she drove down to the Finca, through the open gates, stopped

the car and stepped out. She jammed the hat on her head, shoved her hands into her

back pockets, and stood quite still, marvelling at the huge property. It was

overwhelming.

A side door opened, a woman approached across the gravel drive.

“Buenos días. May I help?”

“Buenos días, Señora,” she replied. “I’m Señorita Jenny Bucknall. I don’t

know if anyone has mentioned anything about me.”

“Ah! Yes of course. I’m sorry; we were expecting you in two days’ time,

Señorita. My name is Elvira; I’m the housekeeper. I’m afraid we have nothing

ready for you.”

An old lady with mop and bucket ambled across the drive to them.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting anything.” Jenny held out her hand to Elvira.

“I was in the area and thought I’d drop in for a look around. Have I caused a

problem?”

Elvira took her hand and shook it. “Of course not. No problem.”

The old lady came to Jenny’s side, and greeted her with unexpected

enthusiasm.

“Señorita, you’ve lost weight. You’ll be skin and bone if you aren’t

careful. Those fine silks won’t suit you then. Mark my words, you need to eat

more, a lot more.” She poked her delicately in the ribs. “Put some flesh where it

counts. I’ve told you before, men like a bit of something to hang on to.”

She gave a knowing grin and sauntered away. Jenny watched her go with

mild amusement.

“She thinks she knows me. Who is she?”

“Carmen. She’s the cleaner. I’m afraid the poor woman hardly knows what

day it is. Perhaps the Señorita would like to follow me inside?”

Jenny tagged behind Elvira, up the stone balustrade steps, through the

enormous carved doors and into the Finca. What history had been forged here, how

many lives changed? She breathed in, took in the odour of ancient things and

forgotten dust, gazed around. Why would no one explain why she’d been included

in Juan Cabra-Garcia’s will? She might only own a share of this historic villa, yet

even that must be worth a fortune. It was like something out of a fairy tale. It was

mad. What bizarre web was she caught in? She couldn’t help thinking that

someone had fouled up big time.

A telephone rang and Elvira went to answer it. After a moment she came

back and apologised. “Would you excuse me? Something needs my attention.

Perhaps you’d like to explore a little until I return?”

“No problem.” Jenny took off her hat and shook her hair free. There were

tapestries on the wall. She wandered over and very cautiously touched one. The

archaic material was coarse. She sniffed; it smelled musty. The fabric was faded

but the picture on it was lively: knights and horses, crazy people doing crazy

things, clashing bodies, motion, all quite exquisite.

She peered closely at the needlework and a deep voice said, “You could

use those colours, I suppose. At least a modern version, give or take a shade or

two.”

Jenny jerked upright, hadn’t heard anyone approach. “Colours?” She

looked stupidly at the man who stopped by her side. With height advantage he

made an imposing figure. He leaned to examine the tapestry along with her. It

brought him too close. She frowned and unconsciously touched the scar on her

face.

“Sorry. Didn’t intend to make you jump. The colours on the tapestry; could

you use them when you get around to decorating the place? It would be

sympathetic, yes?”

She held the straw hat by the brim and played with it nervously. “I suppose

it can be good to pick out a few to use as highlights, but not necessarily. I think

complementary colours can work just as well.”

“Well, you’re the expert.”

She arched her brow.

His eyes calmly held hers. “So I guess I should bow to your opinion.

Rafael assures me you come with the very best credentials.”

He’d obviously confused her with someone else. There was something

about him that was disturbing; she could imagine his entry into a room caused

wives to glance at their reflections, and made husbands hostile.

He suddenly grinned. “Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Eduardo

García… but haven’t we met already?”

She shook her head slowly. Eduardo García? Damn! She shouldn’t be

snooping around like this, not uninvited, not without letting him know first. He

thrust out his hand. She took it carefully.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t bite. I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived, so I

couldn’t see to you earlier. Actually, I wasn’t due until the day after tomorrow, but

I finished business early and I like to spend time here when I can. I’ve discovered

it’s the one place I can properly unwind…” He allowed their hands to part. “… I’m

sure I know you from somewhere. At one of Rafael’s infamous parties, maybe?”

Her lips were dry and she wet them. “I hardly think so.”

“Your accent is distinctive. It must give an amusing edge in your business.

At the moment, people here seem to associate arty things with the English, so an

accent like yours should definitely be in vogue… By the way, have you seen

around the place yet?”

“Elvira was about to show me.”

“Perhaps I should guide you instead.” Eduardo tapped his lips vaguely.

“You know, I’m certain we’ve met. You seem quite familiar.”

His eyes sought hers and it made her feel out of the ordinary, made her feel

significant. Jenny suddenly swallowed. Jesus Christ, he made her think of sex.

“So,” he said, “How long have you been into interior design?”

What the hell did she do now? They strolled side by side. She cleared her

throat. “Not as long as you might think.”

“Considering Rafael’s remarks, I expected you to be older. He told me how

impressed he was. In fact he raved. Eminence comes in younger packages these

days, it seems.”

They turned along a panelled corridor. At the end was a closed door.

“This room takes pride of place.” He undid the door, waved her forward so

that she might go first.

Over his shoulder she could see a stone fireplace, window seats, panelled

walls. She squeezed past, delicately trying to keep her distance, and wondered

what his reaction would be if she accidentally brushed against him.

Inside, a couple of dark oak chairs were close to the fireplace. In the centre

was a large four-poster, soft drapes were over the walls. It seemed oddly familiar;

she must have seen it in a magazine somewhere.

“This is the room of La Dama de la Xara,” Eduardo followed her in.

“There are records for it dating back several hundred years. There are details of

every bedsheet, every piece of linen that has ever been bought. They say La Dama

de la Xara haunts the place. It’s become a local legend.”

“I think I read about her once, though I can’t remember when or where.”

“She was the eldest daughter of one of the owners, supposedly quite a

catch. They say she stormed off one night after she found her fiancé bedding a

serving wench in here, and was never seen again. Could have run off, but was most

probably murdered. They say she returns each year and drifts around to see if he’s

repented. Utter nonsense of course, but it sounds good.”

“I think it sounds sad.”

He smiled indulgently. “And what would you do with this room if you

were let loose?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t touch it. There’s too much character here.

No matter what you did it would be destructive. In fact, it would be downright

desecration.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

Jenny peered through a leaded window. To the side was a hedge of

oleanders; below the window, a huge jasmine, heady with perfume. Gardens

stretched into the distance. She said wistfully, “This is like something from a film

set.”

“It is rather beautiful, I suppose.” He held the door open and motioned her

to it. “We’ll go to the west wing, if you’re ready.”

She gave the room one last look. “About the only thing I’d change is the

position of that chest. It doesn’t look right there. Is it a linen chest? It’s huge.”

“I believe so. I think it’s from the late sixteenth century. It’s beautifully

made.” He walked over to it and lifted the lid to show her the intricate carvings on

the inside.

“Well, if I had my way, I’d move it into the window bay. It feels as if it’s

in the wrong place. Perhaps have it slightly to the right of the window?”

“Juan only moved the thing from there a couple of years ago. We’ll have it

put back, if that’s what you think.” He closed the lid. “Shall we go?”

She went to the door and automatically turned to the left, but Eduardo took

hold of her arm. “Maybe I should go first?” he said prudently. “We don’t want you

getting lost.”

She moved to one side to allow him to pass, but their bodies locked and the

idea of sex came to mind again. She freed herself very carefully.

He said, “Your instincts are good. We’d normally go that way, but we need

to take a detour. We had a really bad storm a few weeks ago and it caused a roof to

fall. A lot of damage was done.”

She followed him without speaking until they reached the west wing. The

door creaked as he opened it. He said, “This room desperately needs work doing on

it. It’s a good example of its type, though. A secret room was added.” He waved

his hand. “It was a hellish time you know, the inquisition and all that. They needed

somewhere to hide.”

Jenny looked around with growing unease. This seemed familiar as well.

Was her tired mind playing tricks, or had she been here before?

“The secret room will also need work.” Eduardo pushed a lump of wood to

one side with his foot. “In fact, there’s a lot of renovation required all around.

However, there are other boorish people involved and I shall have to persuade

them first. I’d like you to draw up plans, though. We’ll worry about the work

later.”

She said, “Just think, all that violence and torture. I suppose evading it

became a way of life for most of them.”

“Or death. They used the inquisition as an excuse to settle scores. Evil

bastards!”

“It must’ve been dreadful cooped up like that, praying they wouldn’t

discover where you were hidden.”

“I guess for a lot of people it’s not so different now. The world’s a terrible

place.”

Jenny ran her hand over the arm of a chair. Years of work had probably

once buffed it to satin, but now it looked dull, lifeless. “I think I can picture what it

must have been like. Small tables and knobbly legs, tiny beds, perhaps a window

with moth-eaten linen drapes. I’ll bet it was like living in an oversized doll’s

house, loads of dust and must and heartache.”

Eduardo flicked her a curious look, reached for a lever hidden on the

underside of the sill, and pulled. There was a dull thud, a wall panel cracked open,

and he nodded for her to go through. She hesitantly pushed the panel and entered

the small doorway.

Jenny frowned and turned to look back at him. It was ridiculous, but she

knew the odour. She crept in. Immediately, the hairs of her neck stood on end. The

room was like a large doll’s house. In the centre was a dark oak table, legs with

chases, convolutions and ridges. In the corner was a tiny bed, and there were

threadbare linen drapes at the window. She damn well recognized every bit. Had

she dreamed it? How could you dream smells? She made her way out, felt stunned.

“So Elvira has shown you around after all. Very clever. Thank you for

wasting my time. What did you hope to gain by it?”

“No, wait!” Jenny stared with dismay as he strode into the corridor.

“We’ll go back to the main hall.”

She caught up with him. “A lot of places will be built like this I suppose?

You know, secret rooms and the like?”

“Didn’t Elvira tell you?” he said sarcastically. “This is probably the only

Finca in Valencia with one like it.”

“Elvira has told me nothing.”

“Benito Cabra designed the priest hole, he liked to dabble where he

shouldn’t.” Eduardo thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “He was a character by

all accounts. Did a bit of ducking and diving, was one of the nouveau riche of the

day. He was popular at the Spanish court. There was envy. It made him

vulnerable.”

They turned to the left as the corridor branched. Jenny walked by his side,

trying hard to keep up. He behaved as if she was responsible, but it was hardly her

fault. She cleared her throat. “I suppose all of this is well documented. There’ll be

books on it, photographs and suchlike.”

“I doubt it. Only guests will have seen it. Not that it’s confidential,” he

added, “It just isn’t public knowledge. Why should it be?”

Why did she know things? Jenny followed him back to the main hall.

Elvira was there and came over as he saw them. “Señor, the interior designer has

arrived.”

“Designer?” He stopped abruptly, frowned, turned to Jenny. “Then who are

you?”

“There hasn’t been a chance to tell you.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course there’s been a chance.”

“I tried but…”

“Just who the hell are you?”

She turned from him but he gripped her arm and spun her back again.

“Are you one of their bloody spies? Have they sent you? What have they

told you?”

Elvira said, “I’m sorry I had to leave you, Señorita Bucknall. I looked for

you, but you were gone.”

“Señorita Bucknall? I know that name!” Eduardo glared fiercely. “I know

who you are. You’re the one in Juan’s will. The pretender to the bloody throne.”

“Everything is legal and above-board.”

“Is that what you think?”

Jenny strove for a cutting remark; none would come. Her mouth opened

then snapped shut without uttering a sound. Triumph skittered across Eduardo’s

face. She knew he understood her alarm, and probably derived pleasure from it.

“So, the usurper cometh. The English invasion in full force.”

“Get lost!”

Elvira said nervously, “Perhaps the Señorita would like café con leche,

biscuits? I can prepare tea, if you prefer.”

“I suspect the Señorita is ready to take her leave.”

Jenny gave him a scathing look then strode from him towards the

housekeeper.

Elvira was anxious. “I hope Señor García looked after you all right? I’m

sorry I was so long. It’s a beautiful Finca though, isn’t it?”

Jenny nodded in dumb agreement, but she’d changed her mind. La Finca

Piedra was a bizarre place and she didn’t know if she wanted anything to do with

it.

As they neared the entrance, a woman swept past with barely a glance. She

was tall, elegant, dressed in severe black, as self-important as any person Jenny had

seen.

“A fine building.” Elvira frowned; her eyes unconsciously followed the

woman. “Absolutely top notch. It’s full of history. Did it rise to your expectations?

I’ve always loved the place. You’re very lucky.”

Jenny didn’t answer. High on the wall was a huge oil painting of her, and

she was absolutely naked. Her legs and arms were draped carelessly over a chaise

longue. Dark strands of unruly hair escaped in a provocative manner from beneath

a comb. Dangling from her left shoulder, covering nothing, was a thin fragment of

grey silk with a gold lion emblem sewn into the corner.

She suddenly felt sick. Who was doing this to her? This was part of no dream. That silk scarf had been a birthday gift.