His Forbidden Passion. Anne Mather

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      Now, however, Norah looked positively anxious. ‘Here you are!’ she exclaimed in relief, as soon as Cleo opened the door. ‘I’ve been worried sick. Where have you been?’ Then, her brows drawing together as Cleo moved into the light of the living room, ‘What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

      Cleo shook her head without saying anything. Walking past her friend, she rounded the breakfast bar that separated the tiny kitchen from the rest of the living space and stowed the milk in the fridge.

      Then, straightening, she said, ‘Why on earth would you tell a complete stranger where I was?’

      ‘Oh…’ The colour in Norah’s cheeks deepened. ‘So she found you.’

      ‘If you mean Serena Montoya, then yes, she did.’

      ‘Serena Montoya? Is that her name?’ Norah tried to lighten the conversation, but she could tell Cleo wasn’t distracted by her efforts. ‘Well, she said she was your aunt,’ she offered lamely. ‘What was I supposed to say? She didn’t look like a con artist to me.’

      ‘Like you would know,’ said Cleo drily. Norah’s many unsuccessful attempts to find herself a decent man were legendary. Coming back into the living room, Cleo flung herself onto the sofa, regarding her friend moodily. ‘Honestly, Norah, I thought you had more sense.’

      ‘So she’s not your aunt?’

      ‘No, she’s not my aunt,’ stated Cleo with more force than conviction. ‘I mean, didn’t anything about her give you a clue? Be honest, Norah. Do I look like Serena Montoya’s niece?’

      ‘You could be.’ Norah wasn’t prepared to back down. ‘In fact, although you’re taller than she is, you do have similar features.’ She paused. ‘Montoya. That’s a Spanish name, isn’t it?’

      ‘I don’t know. I believe she lives in the Caribbean, so it could be.’ Cleo was impatient. ‘But my parents were black, Norah. Not Spanish. You know that.’

      She hunched her shoulders, reluctant now to remember the rare occasions when she’d questioned her identity herself. She hadn’t looked a lot like her parents, and she had wondered if one or both of them might have Latin blood.

      But those questions had aroused such animosity that she’d kept any further doubts to herself. And she refused to believe they’d been lying to her. She’d loved them too much for that.

      ‘Oh, well…’ Norah was philosophical. ‘So what else did she say? There must be some sort of connection to bring her here.’

      ‘There is no connection.’ Cleo was exasperated. Then, seeing Norah’s indignation, she went on, ‘All right. She said that Mom and Dad weren’t my real parents. That my biological father’s name was actually Robert Montoya.’ She paused. ‘Her brother.’

      ‘Oh, my God!’

      ‘Yeah, right.’ Cleo felt a sudden sense of apprehension at the sudden possibility that it might be true. ‘That’s why I looked a bit—spaced-out when I came in, I suppose. It’s not every day someone tells you you’re not who you’d always thought you were.’

      Norah bit her lip. ‘But you think she’s lying?’

      ‘Damn right!’ Cleo stared at her emotively. ‘Of course she’s lying. How can you ask such a thing? You knew my parents. Did they strike you as the kind of people who’d keep a secret like that?’

      ‘Well, no.’ Norah sighed. ‘All the same, I have sometimes thought that you didn’t look a lot like them, Cleo. I mean, OK, your skin is darker than mine, but you’re not a blonde, are you? And you’ve got that gorgeous straight black hair.’

      ‘Don’t go there, Norah.’

      Getting to her feet again, Cleo turned abruptly away, heading for the small bedroom that Norah had had decorated for her when she moved in.

      She didn’t want to consider that there might be even a grain of truth in what Serena Montoya had said. To do so would tear the whole fabric of her life up to this time apart.

      She should have asked more questions, she acknowledged. She should have asked the woman outright what proof she had to substantiate her claim.

      Instead, all she’d done was keep on denying something that she now saw in retrospect had to have some meaning. Maybe not the meaning Serena Montoya had put upon it, but a reason why she’d contacted her.

      Dominic Montoya was standing staring out of the hotel’s fourteenth-floor windows when Serena strode into the suite. The lights of the capital were spread out below him, a teeming, noisy metropolis, much different from his family’s estate back home.

      The door’s automatic closing mechanism prevented Serena from slamming it, but the oath she uttered caused her nephew to turn and regard her with mocking green eyes.

      ‘It must have gone well,’ he remarked, as Serena charged across the room to where a tray of drinks resided on a bureau. He watched as she splashed vodka and ice into a glass and raised it to her lips before adding, ‘I assume you found her.’

      Serena swallowed half her drink before replying. Then, her lips tightening, she said, ‘Yes, I found her.’ Her blue eyes sparkled coldly. ‘But you can go and see her yourself next time.’

      Dominic pushed his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and rocked back on the heels of his leather boots. ‘So there is to be a next time,’ he remarked casually. ‘Have you made that arrangement?’

      ‘No.’ Serena was stubborn. ‘But one of us will have to bite the bullet, won’t we?’ She shook her head. ‘Your grandfather’s going to have a hissy fit.’

      Dominic’s dark brows drew together enquiringly, and Serena thought, not for the first time, what a damnably attractive man he was. A small core of resentment uncurled inside her. Whatever happened, her father would never blame him.

      Ever since her brother, Robert, had found the infant, Dominic, wandering the streets of Miami when he was barely three years old, it had always been that way. Dominic was that most fortunate of beings: the favoured grandchild. The only grandchild until now, Serena reflected irritably. Although her brother had married when he was in his early twenties, she never had. She’d had offers, of course, when she was younger. But their mother’s premature death when Serena was in her teens had persuaded her that her father needed her as his hostess, and she’d never looked back.

      Now, discovering her brother had had an adulterous affair with Celeste Dubois had really thrown her. She’d always thought they were close. She’d been shattered when he died. But recently, her father had revealed the circumstances of the affair, how he—and he alone—had helped Robert keep the child’s existence a secret.

      She shook her head and Dominic thought he could guess what she was thinking. He knew she’d never forgive Robert for deceiving her and Dominic’s adoptive mother, Lily. It was the fact that Lily couldn’t have children that had made his own adoption so much easier.

      And he knew how lucky he’d been to find such loving, caring parents. His own biological mother had never wanted him, and she’d been only too happy for someone else to take responsibility for him.

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