a miniature whirlwind. But her rapid pace faltered almost as soon as she’d gained the upper room. Fitted out as a nursery, it contained everything a baby could need, and there was even a single bed alongside the capacious, comfortable crib. And far from being tossed around like a human football, Johnny was safely tucked into the arms of an exceedingly pretty girl of around eighteen years of age, a blissful expression on his chubby face as he sucked his bottle.
He had been changed and was wearing a romper she had never seen before, the all-in-one garment a soft blue cotton that had to be more suitable for this climate than anything she had brought with her. And the tiny fingers of one plump hand were entwined in the soft dark curls of the girl who was nursing him, she noted with a wrench. Johnny always played dreamily with her own long blonde locks as she fed him, part of the bonding process.
‘Mama comes!’ The hugely stout Paquita was hovering, her face wreathed in smiles, her rich voice soothing as she met Cathy’s hurt, bewildered eyes. ‘Mi hija—Rosa, mi hija. Inglés not so good. Rosa good. All children educado! Muy bueno!’
‘Mama is proud that all her children speak some English. Some better than others.’ Rosa’s tone was gentle but her smile was brilliant, her voice attractively accented as she turned her attention to Cathy. ‘Baby Juan has had his oatmeal; that is right, yes? And when Don Javier telephoned his instructions for what would be needed he told us the brand of the milk formula you used.’ The teat was eased from the little drowsy mouth and Rosa expertly lifted the sleepy baby on to her shoulder.
‘Let me.’ Cathy stepped forward, taking the child, her loving arms enfolding him. She had no doubt that Javier Campuzano had planned every last tiny detail. Those cool eyes had missed nothing on his many visits to her London flat before they had left for Spain, while his clever brain had already determined that legal custody of his nephew was already as good as his—whether the means of obtaining it were fair or foul.
Cathy shivered as a deep, instinctive fear put ice in her veins, and Rosa got up from the nursing chair, gathering the empty bottle, the oatmeal bowl, asking, ‘You are pleased with the nursery? I shall sleep here with him. I will look after him well, I promise.’
None of this was Rosa’s fault, so Cathy swallowed the impulse to snap, The hell you will! and took her time over tucking the baby in his crib.
Her first instinctive impulse had been to demand that everything in the nursery be transported to her bedroom. Right now! But this room was ideal; the long windows set in the thick stone walls admitted sunlight and fresh air, and their louvred shutters could be closed during the heat of the day. It was handy for the kitchen, too, where she could make up his formula, store the day’s supply of bottles in the fridge, mix his oatmeal and purée his vegetables. It would be neither sensible nor practical to insist on such a move. So, straightening, casting the baby a fond, lingering glance, she turned to Rosa.
‘I will be looking after Johnny myself. He can take his daytime rests in here, but I shall have him in my room at night. We can carry the crib through after his evening bath and feed.’ Then, seeing the utter desolation chase surprise out of the dark Spanish eyes, Cathy made the only compromise she was willing to consider. ‘If I need to be out for any reason I’ll be happy to leave him in your care.’ Which didn’t do much to lessen the look of hurt disappointment, and made her add, ‘He should sleep for at least two hours now, but I’d be grateful if you’d keep an eye on him while I unpack.’
That she would need to leave the baby in Rosa’s obviously capable hands some time in the near future was in no doubt, Cathy told herself as she stowed her belongings away in the capacious cupboards and drawers. If Johnny’s grandmother didn’t show up at the finca within the next few days, then she would have to go to Jerez and find her. Campuzano would have to learn that she couldn’t be kept here in isolation, a virtual prisoner, separated for most of the time from the child they were tacitly fighting over.
Carrying the crib down to her room later that evening restored Cathy’s confidence in her ability to hold her own with the overwhelming Jerezano. Rosa helped, and as they positioned the crib at the side of the big carved bed the Spanish girl said, ‘Don Javier asked me to show you to the dining-room.’ She consulted her watch. ‘In one hour’s time. And while you eat I will look in on the baby now and then.’
‘I found the dining-room when I was looking for the nursery,’ Cathy returned with a grin, placing the now sleeping child in the crib and covering him with a soft woollen blanket. ‘But I’ll be easier if you check on him, thanks.’ She had taken to the Spanish girl on sight and Johnny responded to her well; the three of them had spent a happy hour and a half, enjoying bath-time, feed-time and playtime, with Paquita puffing up the stairs to join in the fun. So if Johnny woke while she was closeted in the dining-room with Campuzano he would be reassured by a familiar face.
Not that she was looking forward to dining with Johnny’s uncle, of course. The odd, fluttery sensation deep inside her was due to apprehension about the way he would receive the ground rules she was determined to lay down, she assured herself as she stepped out of the shower in the cool green marble en-suite bathroom. He could turn awkward, she acknowledged. A strand of cruelty was woven into his proud Andalusian character, she just knew it. He would not be an easy man to cross.
Suppressing the inching, quivering feeling of alarm, Cathy dressed quickly in the simple, sleeveless black crêpe shift she had already laid out, and braided her long blonde hair. The minimum of make-up and she was ready, ten minutes early. A pity, that. Counting off the seconds to the coming confrontation could only put her already jangling nerves even more on edge.
Meeting her wide violet eyes in the mirror, she made a conscious effort to ease away the tiny frown line between her arching brows, and wondered again how Javier Campuzano could have mistaken her for Cordy.
At five feet seven, they shared the same height, and both had fine, clear skin and blonde hair to shoulder-blade length. But there, as far as Cathy was concerned, the resemblance ended. Cordy’s blue eyes were more sapphire than violet, her cheekbones far more pronounced, her nose longer and slightly aquiline, giving her features far more sophistication than Cathy’s. And whereas Cordy’s figure was model-girl-svelte, truly elegant, Cathy’s curves were far more generous—positively earthy, she sometimes felt.
But then he would no doubt put the weight gain down to recent motherhood, and he had admitted he’d only stayed at the party for a very short time. And she hadn’t put him right, had she?
She wasn’t at all easy about the deception; in fact if she thought about it for too long she ended up feeling definitely ill! But she’d had no option and would keep up the pretence to the bitter end, because if he ever found out that she was merely Johnny’s aunt, that his real mother had done a bunk, then he would take control of the baby and make sure there was nothing she could do about it.
But it wouldn’t come to that. She would lie until she was blue in the face if she had to. And on that positive—if reprehensible—thought she stiffened her spine and strode forth to do battle with the man who was her enemy.
CHAPTER THREE
‘AN APERITIF, Cathy?’
She hovered in the open doorway and watched as he laid the papers he’d been engrossed in aside, his urbane smile not quite reaching his eyes as he rose to his feet.
‘Thank you.’ She sound breathless. Her heart was performing a mad tattoo against her breastbone. He rarely used her given name, preferring the formal ‘señorita’, investing it with the delicate sarcasm she had come to dread. And now his lightly hooded eyes were making a lazy yet thorough inspection of her black-clad body and she saw his wide shoulders rise in a minimal shrug that barely moved the surface of the fine white alpaca jacket he wore.
Cathy turned on teetering heels, trying not to stumble as she made for one of the soft leather-covered armchairs arranged around the massive open fireplace, the chimney breast soaring way up to the raftered ceiling. The drift of his cool eyes had been a slow sexual insult, making her shatteringly aware of all that dominant Spanish machismo so tenuously concealed beneath the suave veneer of grace and good manners.