Thank you for visiting.  Authors from small publishing houses, struggle in the face of competition from big publishing consortiums, especially if they're new. Becoming known is very difficult.   PASS this free chapter to your friends. Whether you enjoy it or not, someone you know just MIGHT and it would be a shame for them to miss out.       Without Reproach    Chapter One

Her face was 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 felt like crying, not laughing – where had her face gone. Apparently, after they’d brought her in she’d remained unconscious for several days - and they said she was lucky; she felt like shit?

Her shoulder had been pinned together, her head, a tiny metal plate inside - only a small chunk of swirling dark hair missing but made her self-conscious. Her once petite nose was still swollen, discolouration fading but noticeable, high cheekbones marred with stitches. She said, “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, Spanish, 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 five feet seven slim figure 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.”

“Jennifer Alicia Bucknall.”

“Your age?”

“Umm… 22… I think. Jeez! I can’t think straight….Look, 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!” He crumpled the letter into a ball then pressed it 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 rain 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.

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 resentful.

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.

***

Beneath the clutter the office 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 dark 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, the same dark eyes. Her mother claimed she’d been as slim as Jenny at one time as well, until middle age had spread her. 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?”

“Afraid so.” Maria gave a nod.

The abogada must have been 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 found it all a bit too much 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.

Maria leaned back. “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?”

“Not really. It was never his home. Not his side of the family you see. The thing is, 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 a few years ago, then started to take his holidays here. Got to know Juan a little better, caught up on brotherly love, I suppose.”

“So what age is this great man?”

“Early thirties.”

“I thought he’d be older the way you were talking. 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 – I know he’s new to the Finca as well, but he’s used to running his own 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.”

“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. 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. You’re one of the new owners. Welcome. 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 must have been six three at least, well built, good looking in a rugged sort of way – looked as if his nose had been broken at some time. 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, the closeness of him made her think of sex. She hoped it didn’t show.

“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, but to be honest I’m not sure. This was my brother’s place. It’s beautifully made though.” 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.

***

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