to whom he was close. The thought of other people having opinions on his state of mind made his mouth tighten in anger but there was no point in venting any of that anger on the woman sitting opposite him. He never allowed other people’s opinions to have an effect on him and he wasn’t going to start now.
Briefly, though, he thought about his late wife, Marisol. She had been dainty and, peculiarly for a Spanish girl, fair. Cesar, just eighteen at the time, had taken one look at her and had known, in that instant, that he had to have her. It had been a union blessed by both sets of parents and Marisol, for that brief window when she had been alive, had lived up to every expectation. She had been the sweetest woman he’d ever met. She had cooked amazing meals, had not once complained at the hours he kept. She had been a woman born to be protected, looked after, sheltered and he had been more than happy to oblige. What man wouldn’t, for a soothing domestic life?
And since Marisol, although he had never contemplated a replacement, he had always been attracted to the same kind of woman. Unbearably pretty and willing to be at his beck and call. As luck would have it, things usually deteriorated with them when his boredom levels were breached, but that never bothered him. He wasn’t in it for the long haul. Did that mean that he had never recovered? That he couldn’t live life fully after a tragedy that had happened more than ten years ago?
He frowned at the wide brown eyes staring back at him and thought, irritably, that he would have been hard pressed to find a less soothing woman than her. Didn’t she know that men weren’t attracted to women who approached life like a bull in a china shop? He was fast coming to the conclusion that if his brother was involved in any way with the woman, aside from platonically, he was a candidate for the loony-bin.
‘And you can stop oozing sympathy,’ he grated.
‘I’m not oozing sympathy. I was just wondering how come you never settled down with someone else.’
‘Why haven’t you?’ He returned to his task of making them something to eat. It was unusual to find him behind a stove and his repertoire of dishes was limited, but he had never taken advantage of the family fortune in the same way that his brother had and consequently was more than capable of fending for himself.
‘I believe in kissing a few frogs so that I can recognise the prince when he comes along.’
‘And how many frogs have you kissed?’
‘I lose count.’
Several kissed frogs but only one who had become close enough for her to be seduced into thinking that he might be the one. It had been three years ago and it had ended amicably enough when he had sat her down and gently broken it to her that she wasn’t the woman for him, that he hoped they could remain friends. Remaining friends, she had later concluded, was just the coward’s way of exiting a relationship with the minimum amount of fuss. If a guy didn’t want some woman crying all over him then he did that gentle smiley thing and carried on about remaining friends, but a let-down was still a let-down and in retrospect Jude could have kicked herself for not at least asking him why. Instead, she had stuck out her chin and saved her tears for after he’d gone.
She had no intention of telling any of that to Cesar, however, and she was thankful that he wasn’t looking at her because, when he did, he always gave her the impression that he had some kind of weird insight into what was going on in her head.
‘That many…’
‘Yes, that many.’
‘And why did none of these frogs turn out to be the prince in disguise?’ He put a plate in front of her, brimming with bacon and eggs, far more than she could have eaten in a month of Sundays.
‘How is it that you can cook a meal and make a bed and your brother is so hopeless?’
‘Is that your not so subtle way of changing the subject?’ Cesar sat down, fork in hand, and began tucking into his breakfast, which was roughly double the amount he had set in front of her. ‘I find that it pays to be able to do everything for myself, even if I might choose not to, and that includes cooking and cleaning.’
‘Fine. In that case you can make yourself useful around here if you can’t drive back for a couple of hours…’ Jude glanced outside at the unpromising sight of snow flurries, which seemed to be reminding her that the weather forecasters might have had their fingers on the button when they’d predicted more snowfall. ‘I’m pretty useless at both.’ Their eyes met for an instant and Jude flushed. ‘Or at least uninterested.’
Cesar grunted. It was a grunt, Jude decided, that was laced with criticism. She could just feel it. The man didn’t have to actually say anything to make his opinions clear. Poor Freddy, written off by his big brother because he didn’t like wearing a suit and going into an office every day to stare at charts and profit and loss columns, having his ideas greeted with those grunts of disapproval.
‘I guess you’re one of those ultra-traditional men who think that all women should either be chained to a stove or else whistling a merry tune as they push a vacuum cleaner up and down the stairs,’ she said tetchily.
‘I admit that when it comes to the opposite sex I have pretty traditional views—am I letting myself in for a feminist lecture now? Because you seem to be very sensitive on the subject.’
‘Of course I’m not sensitive on the subject,’ Jude scoffed, stabbing a piece of bacon with her fork. She thought of James, the disappearing ex-boyfriend who had left smiling and apologising and wittering on about remaining friends. Eight months ago she had heard through a mutual acquaintance that he had since married a sweet blonde thing who had instantly become pregnant and they were both busily doing up a house somewhere in Wiltshire in preparation for the new arrival.
‘Most men are…’ he said provocatively. ‘Fernando included.’
‘Is that your way of warning me off him, should I have ideas above my station lurking at the back of my mind?’ She stood up, plate in hand, and went across to the sink, from which she had a spectacular view of increasing snow.
When she looked around, it was to find him clearing the rest of the table. In an ideal world he would have remained sitting, she supposed, having enjoyed a lavish breakfast prepared by his woman, who would tidy the kitchen without asking for help and then make him comfortable in the sitting room with a newspaper and a roaring fire. Curiosity reared its unwelcome head again and she caught herself wondering what these women of his looked like. Freddy had told her that he apparently had killer appeal when it came to the opposite sex.
‘Maybe—’ she smirked ‘—Freddy isn’t quite as traditional as you think.’
Cesar looked at her sharply and Jude shot him a mysterious smile. In actual fact, traditional-hearted Freddy had found his perfect match in Imogen because, never mind her past occupation, she was as conventional and feminine as they came and always had been. Barbie dolls had been her favourite toys at the age of seven, pink her favourite colour at the age of fourteen and she was a dream in the kitchen. While Jude had been playing football with the boys, her best friend had been experimenting with make-up and, for every botched meal Jude had scraped into the rubbish bin in Home Economics class, Imogen had produced its faultless equivalent. And enjoyed it!
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning you don’t give your brother enough credit.’ Well, that was certainly true enough. She had worked with Freddy from every angle when it came to the jazz club, had heard him explain his ideas lucidly and persuasively to accountants, had seen his fledgling plans slowly come to fruition without hitches…
‘I know Fernando better than you think.’ Did he, though? Would Fernando be attracted to a fiery, opinionated, mutinous, downright exasperating woman like this one? A woman who said whatever was on her mind and hang the consequences? Fernando, Cesar thought, would never be able to handle a woman like her! She had said that there was no romantic involvement between them. Was there? It annoyed him that his usual unerring accuracy at reading women seemed to be letting him down now.
‘Even