Secrets of Castillo del Arco. Trish Morey

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ she wondered if she’d overstepped the mark by presuming familiarity. Then his hands squeezed hers and the tightness around his mouth relaxed just enough to give an answering smile that still spoke of sadness and loss. ‘Gabriella,’ he said in a way that seemed to cherish every syllable as he uttered it.

      Then he leaned down to kiss first one cheek, and then the other, slow, lingering kisses. She shuddered under the brush of his lips against her flesh, his warm breath curling into hers and peeling back the years. She breathed him in, taken by the way he smelt so familiar, of clean skin and warm leather and the same woody notes of his signature scent that she recalled—yet there was so much more besides, as if what she’d remembered had been but a shadow of his essence.

      ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’ He drew back then, letting her hands drop, and she tried desperately not to be disappointed by his absence, shoving her hands in her coat pockets, not just to keep them warm but more to stop them reaching out for him. Those teenage fantasies might have been behind her, but Raoul was here now, real, broad and achingly close. Inside her pockets, her hands curled into fists.

      ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ she managed a little shakily, surprised he could still affect her so deeply and so fundamentally, even after so many years. ‘Or you could have stayed at the house. Where are you staying? You should have let me know.’

      He rattled off the name of a hotel that barely registered in the force of the impact of seeing him again. But then, she was hardly herself right now. Memories, especially memories of anything and anyone connected to her grandfather, seemed all too willing to bubble to the surface. Raoul had been close to her grandfather for longer than she had, their two families intertwined as long as she could remember, at least until the tragedy that had wiped out both sets of parents. ‘And of course,’ she said, acknowledging that truth, ‘It’s your loss too.’

      ‘Umberto was a good man,’ he said with a nod, his deep voice rich with emotion. ‘I will miss him more than I can say.’ Then he blinked and something skated across his eyes, something so sharp and painful she could almost feel its sting, so fleeting it was gone before she could make sense of it, even if he hadn’t turned his head to look down at the grave.

      Remembering, she assumed, as she studied his profile and catalogued the changes time had wrought. He had always been on the outer edge of good-looking, his dark, strong features organised in a way that was compelling rather than handsome in any conventional sense, the shadows in his features hinting at unknown dangers and untold secrets.

      How many nights had she lain awake imagining all those dangers, all those secrets, wishing she might one day know them all?

      Age had lent him even more mystery. The angles of his jaw looked sharper. The secrets hinted at in the shadows seemed darker, his eyes more haunted. True, there were lines around his eyes, but he was simply more, she decided, more than he had been before. More edgy. More mysterious.

      More Raoul.

      And with a start she realised that, while she’d been lost in her musings, he had changed his focus and was now studying her.

      Dark-as-midnight eyes scanned her face, a hint of a frown creasing his brow, and she wondered if something was wrong before he nodded, gave her another of those slight smiles and stepped away a little to look at her. ‘Whatever happened to the Gabriella I used to know? The skinny girl with plaits who always had her head in a book.’

      She hid her embarrassment under a laugh, secretly hoping his comments meant that he approved of how she looked now, for it seemed important somehow that he did. She had long since come to terms with the knowledge that she’d never be classically beautiful—her eyes were too large and wide, and the chin that she’d hidden under a hand for much of her early teenage years was too pointy. But it was her face and over the years she’d learned to accept it, if it had taken finishing school to give her the skills to emphasise her eyes and learn to like how she looked. ‘She grew up, Raoul. That skinny girl was a long, long time ago.’

      ‘It was,’ he agreed, and then he paused, as if remembering another time, other bleak days filled with funerals … ‘How have you been?’

      She shrugged. ‘Good. And sometimes not so good.’ She glanced at the open grave, felt the anguish of loss bite hard and bite deep. ‘But, even so, better now for seeing you.’ She paused, wondering how much she could say without revealing too much of herself, and then decided simply to be honest. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

      ‘And me.’ His dark eyes looked past her. ‘But you should not be alone now.’

      ‘Oh, I’m not. Not really. Consuelo—a friend—is here. He left … ‘ She looked around, pushing a loose tendril of hair from her face as she scanned the cemetery. ‘He left to take an urgent phone call.’ That seemed to be taking for ever. ‘Probably for one of his foundations, I expect. He heads a charity for children with cancer and leukaemia. He’s always on the phone chasing contributions.’

      She was babbling, she knew, making excuses for him as she glanced at her watch before scanning the grounds again, wondering how he could let one of his donors keep him so long, today of all days. ‘We’re heading to the hotel shortly for the wake. Everyone’s already there.’

      She looked back up at him, suddenly fearful that this man was about to step out of her life as quickly as he had stepped back into it, leaving her with no idea when she might ever see him again. The thought of going another ten-plus years was suddenly too awful to contemplate. ‘You will come, won’t you? I saw you in the chapel but you’d disappeared by the time I got outside, and I thought I’d missed you. There’s so much I want to talk to you about.’

      He lifted a hand and pushed that wayward coil of her hair from her cheek with just the pads of his fingers, the lightest touch that sent a rush of heat pulsing through her. ‘Of course I will come. It will be my pleasure.’

      Breath stalled in her lungs; his fingers lingered as he coiled the strands behind her ear, as he looked down at her with those dark, dark eyes …

      ‘Gabby!’

      She blinked, registering her name, but registering even more that Raoul had still not removed his hand. His fingers curved around her neck, gently stroking her skin, warm and evocative, even as she angled her head towards Consuelo’s approach. The touch of an old friend, she told herself, reaching out to someone over a shared loss; it was nothing more than that. It would be rude, an over reaction, to brush his hand away.

      ‘Are you coming?’ Consuelo asked, still metres away and frowning as his eyes shifted from one to the other, taking in the tableau. ‘We’re going to be late.’

      ‘Gabriella was waiting for you, as it happens,’ Raoul said, and she looked up at him, surprised. For, even if he had correctly assumed this was Consuelo, that would hardly explain the note of barely contained animosity in his words.

      Consuelo didn’t seem to notice. He seemed far more interested in staring at Raoul’s hand where it lingered at her throat, as if just the heat from his glare would make it disappear. For the first time she wondered if maybe it had been there too long. She put her hand to his and tugged it down, but wasn’t about to let him go completely, sandwiching it between her own instead. She noticed he made no move to withdraw from her completely.

      ‘Am I missing something?’ she asked, looking from one to the other, for the first time realising the similarities in the two men—and the differences. Both shared Spanish colouring, with dark eyes and hair, but that was where the similarities began and ended. Raoul was taller, broader, more imposing. СКАЧАТЬ