thing was, she was almost certain she was right.
THE four-star Crillon Hotel stood in a side street, just off Manchester’s main square. Domine did wonder why he had not checked into the five-star Piccadilly, but perhaps he preferred the less hectic conservatism of the smaller hotel. In any event, it was nothing to do with her where he chose to stay, inasmuch as neither she nor Mark was expected to foot the bill.
She was still absently considering the things Mr Holland had told her, and finding the Crillon car park was full, she spent several fruitless minutes driving round and round the square, trying to find somewhere else to leave the small Porsche which her grandfather had given her six months ago on her eighteenth birthday. Eventually she managed to ease it into a limited-period parking area, and hurried across the park, aware that she was going to be rather late. It was all very well telling herself that she didn’t care whether he had waited for her or not, but the fact that she was virtually obliged to see him again this evening quickened her step, realising as she did that Mark might well be made to suffer for her tardiness.
One of several hall porters opened the swing glass doors for her as she mounted the shallow steps, and thanking him she looked apprehensively round the reception area. There seemed to be no sign of Señor Aguilar, and she looked anxiously at her watch. It was already after quarter past, and she wondered if he had gone into the restaurant without her.
She was just considering what she ought to do next when a voice said: ‘Miss Temple?’ and she looked up to find herself confronted by a black-coated waiter.
‘Yes?’ she nodded, swallowing her alarm, and he gave her a polite smile.
‘Mr Aguilar is waiting for you in the bar, Miss Temple,’ the man said, indicating the archway behind him. ‘If you’ll follow me …’
With as much self-possession as she could muster, Domine followed the man through the archway and into a discreetly lit bar-lounge. There were tables and armchairs, low banquettes upholstered in red leather, and tall stools at the bar, with circular red seats. There were several people in the room, some seated at the tables, others just standing around, and others occupying the stools at the bar. She saw Aguilar at once. He was seated at the bar, but at her approach he slid off his stool and came to greet her.
‘Miss Temple,’ he said, bowing over her hand. ‘How nice of you to come.’ Almost as if he had doubted she might.
Domine waited until he had released her hand and then thrust it awkwardly into the hip pocket of her pants. She saw his gaze flick over her, and wondered what his opinion was today, but then he was asking her what she would like to drink and she endeavoured to concentrate on the mood of the moment.
He looked very little different from the previous evening. He had discarded his dinner jacket, of course, but his lounge suit was just as dark, the grey silk tie he wore with it matching his shirt. She couldn’t help noticing that he attracted the attention of other women in the bar, and when he seated himself on the adjoining stool and his knee brushed her thigh, she was made disturbingly aware of the effect he had on her.
Having accepted her usual Martini, Domine allowed her gaze to move sideways, alighting on his dark profile, trying to guess why he had invited her for lunch. It would have been flattering to think he was attracted to her, but after the look he had given her the night before, she distrusted his suave courtesy. Whatever he wanted, it was not personal, though remembrance of that fleeting contempt rekindled her desire to make him squirm.
With this in mind she rested one elbow on the bar, and turning towards him, gave him the full benefit of her most winning smile. As she moved, the tantalising fragrance she wore drifted to his nostrils, her hair a silky silver curtain about her shoulders.
‘It was—kind of you to invite me to lunch,’ she said now, allowing the fingers of her other hand to lightly touch his sleeve. Her nails gleamed with polish, long and silvery, like her hair, her lips parting over even white teeth. ‘It was so unexpected, Señor—or may I call you Luis?’
His sleeve was withdrawn from her fingers, and she was subjected to a glacial scrutiny. ‘I think you misunderstand my motives, Miss Temple,’ he declared harshly. ‘My reasons for inviting you to lunch were not—personal ones.’
‘No?’ She pretended disappointment. ‘Then what?’
He raised his glass to his lips, swallowed a mouthful of the pale lager he was drinking before replying. Then he said severely: ‘I wanted to speak with you about your cousin.’
‘Lisel?’
‘Lisel, yes.’
Domine was intrigued. This was not what she had expected. ‘What about her?’
Aguilar frowned, and sought about in his pocket until he brought out a small cigar case. Putting one of the narrow cheroots between his teeth, he continued: ‘You will recall what I have told you about her already? She is—how shall I say?—not used to meeting strangers.’ He paused as he lit the cheroot with a slim gold lighter. ‘Coming to England, if indeed she ever does, will be a terrifying experience for her.’
Domine pulled a wry face. ‘So?’
His mouth tightened, the lines that bracketed it deepening. ‘You are not at all like her, are you? You do not begin to understand how she might be feeling.’
Domine felt indignant. ‘How could I? Does she know how I’m feeling right now? Of course not. We’re two different people. We’ve had a different upbringing.’
‘That, alas, is true,’ he responded curtly, and she did not misunderstand his preference. ‘But it may be that you could—help her.’
‘Me?’ Domine was astounded. ‘How could I help such a—a paragon?’
It was hardly wise to taunt him, but his evident admiration for her cousin was irritating, and Domine was not used to being ignored. Besides, he was expecting too much if he thought she could stick around, knowing Griffons would have to be sold, seeing everything she had ever loved come under the auction hammer, just to help the one person who was responsible for destroying her and Mark’s lives.
‘You are bitter,’ Luis Aguilar said now, irritating her even more. ‘That is understandable. But I must point out that your cousin cannot be held responsible for your grandfather’s aberrations.’
Domine glared at him. ‘Thank you, but I don’t require a lecture from you concerning my grandfather’s behaviour, aberrant or otherwise! And while we’re on the subject, I am not bitter; sad, perhaps, but not bitter!’
Her outburst had annoyed him, she could see that, and his next words confirmed it. ‘It seems to me that Sir George knew what he was doing when he made his last will and testament,’ he commented crushingly. ‘Neither you nor your brother seem to have any self-discipline whatsoever, and behave for the most part like a pair of irresponsible children!’
Domine clenched her fists. ‘Then what could we possibly do to help Lisel?’ she demanded, uncaring in the heat of the moment what Mark might think of her behaviour, and was almost gratified when he retorted:
‘I cannot for the life of me imagine!’ in cold chilling tones.
Of course, after that there was nothing more to say, thought Domine rather tremulously. Deciding she would not wait for him to walk out on her, she would walk out on him, she made to slide off her stool, but to her astonishment his hand came out and gripped her arm, preventing her from making her escape. She parted her lips to make some angry objection, and then closed them again when he turned those night-dark eyes in her direction. She did not comprehend the meaning in their hypnotic depths, but she could not move under that paralysing appraisal, her breath coming in shallow gulps as she returned his stare.
‘Wait!’ he commanded, and she realised how close he had been to losing his temper. ‘Perhaps my words were—careless, reckless; call