House of Dreams (18 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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Cass was motionless. It was a moment before she could move, and then she gripped her niece's hand. “Well,” she said roughly, “it's only a dream.”
“I know,” Alyssa said. Then, “I'm hungry.”
But Cass had halted. And even as she spoke, she did not really want to know. “Alyssa. You said she was whispering in your ear. Do you remember what she said?”
Alyssa paled. “Yes.”
Cass stared, not liking the look in her dark eyes. “Honey?”
“It's the same thing. She always says the same thing. She says, ‘I will be your mother now.'”
 
 
Cass left Alyssa with Eduardo in the kitchen, under the supervision of Alfonso, drinking chocolate milk and chatting about movies they'd recently seen. She was growing anxious. It was half past seven; Tracey had not returned. She had walked out of the house about one hour before.
In the great hall, Cass went to the front door, opened it, and looked out. Antonio had obviously parked the Jeep in the garage, and only her rental car was out front. The driveway stretched a short distance to the front gates, which were open. Both the drive and the road beyond were absolutely deserted. The rough, barren terrain stretched away as far as the eye could see, finally joining the shadowy outlines of a distant mountain range and the cloudless blue sky. And finally, the heat was lessening. The sun remained strong, but was just beginning to lower itself.
Where was Tracey? Where could she have gone? And what should Cass think about Alyssa's dream?
Nothing, Cass told herself firmly. It was only a dream, and as such was meaningless.
At all costs, don't go to Castilla …
She's come back …
I killed his father …
Cass walked back into the house. She felt oddly unnerved. She had come to Spain to patch up her relationship with Tracey and bring Alyssa home; instead, Tracey had recently attacked her, and Cass was more interested than ever in Antonio de la Barca—against all ethics and all better judgment. Cass realized that she had an intense headache. And what about the fact that her aunt had confessed to involvement in the violent death of a man three decades ago while in Castile, and the behavior of her sister just an hour or so ago? Tracey had been violent, irrational, and dangerous. Was there a connection?
Cass shook herself free of her thoughts. There were no parallels to be drawn; she was being overly dramatic, as was her nature.
She had her camera slung over her shoulder, but before she took some shots of Antonio's home, she thought it wise to ask his permission.
A moment later she found him in the library, hunched over his desk, his tortoise shell frames slipping down his straight nose.
She hated interrupting him. He was clearly engrossed. “Antonio? Knock, knock.” She smiled at him. And instantly wondered if Tracey was right.
On some subconscious level, was she trying to steal Antonio away from her sister?
He looked up. “I have found—” He stopped. Immediately he was on his feet. “What happened?” he asked grimly.
Cass looked up and met his hazel eyes. She could not look away.
And she thought for one moment, that Tracey was right. She wanted this man, she would do anything to get him, and it was so very wrong.
“What happened to your face?”
“I … walked into a door.” Cass flushed, stepping back. She must never let her mind go there again.
He gave her a disbelieving look.
Cass wet her lips. “Would you mind if I photographed your house?” Her heart was hammering madly. He belonged to her sister more than ever after that incident in the great hall. She must stay in control.
He stared at her bruised face for another moment. “Of course not.”
“Great,” Cass said. She walked over to the windows, looking outside. Tracey was still not in sight. Where could she be?
“What's wrong?”
“Have you seen Tracey recently?” she asked worriedly.
“About an hour or two ago.”
Cass knew he was staring at her; slowly she faced him. Their gazes leapt together, and as quickly leapt apart. “Tracey and I had a huge fight. I wish I knew where she was. I wish she wasn't wandering around outside—it's so unlike her.”
He stared with growing concern. “We also fought,” he finally said.
Her antenna went up. No wonder Tracey had been so hateful—she was so good at laying blame everywhere else but on herself. “Oh?”
He just glanced at her, clearly not about to tell her the details of their argument. But now he was walking over to the window and scanning the grounds outside.
The scene in the crypt replayed then in her mind. She went over to him, touching his arm. “Antonio.”
Their eyes met.
“My sister's a mess,” she said unevenly. “A complete mess, but … she's not a bad person. She really isn't.”
“She needs to grow up,” he said, his gaze steady and direct. “She cannot always have her way, and she must learn to manage with disappointment. She is a child. Temperamental and reckless, spoiled.” He turned to look outside again. Something dark flitted through his eyes.
Cass couldn't agree more with what he had said. But how could he be dating her if he felt that way about her? And clearly he was now beginning to worry about her disappearance. “I'm so sorry about what she said in the crypt.”
He stiffened. “She wanted to hurt me. Which I can understand, actually. What I do not understand, though, Cassandra, is you.” He faced her fully.
Cass tensed. Why had she brought this subject up?
“When were you going to tell me the truth about your aunt and my father?”
She hesitated. “I didn't see the point. I didn't want to hurt you. You were so young when you lost your father, and I am sure you cherish the few memories of him that you have.”
His gaze was piercing. “What is it that you're still not telling me?”
Cass shook her head, her heart going wild. She did not want to be put on the spot like this, not now, not by him. “Did Tracey say anything else?” she had to ask.
He turned away. “No.”
He wasn't being honest. She was certain. Her gaze strayed outside; soon it would be twilight. She glanced at the tall, centuries-old standing clock: 7:45. “Should we go look for Tracey?”
He was picking something up from his desk. And when he turned back to her, Cass knew. She just knew what he held in his hand.
Their gazes locked.
Cass felt ill.
“A copy of the police report. It makes very interesting reading,” he said.
She felt paralyzed. “I'll bet,” she managed.
“Although the police determined that my father's death was an accident, the case was hardly black and white.”
Her ears started to ring.
“The driver of the car which took my father's life insisted that it was not an accident.”
Cass remained paralyzed.
Antonio kept staring into her eyes.
She managed, “What? Not an accident?”
“I would like to talk with your aunt. I have a great many questions to ask her.” He paced away after tossing the report on the desk.
And Cass knew she must protect Catherine at all costs. She rushed after him. “I'm sure she'd be glad to talk to you the next time you are in England,” she lied frantically.
“You are miserably inept when it comes to dishonesty,” he said flatly.
Cass blinked.
“Don't lie to me,” he said less harshly, his gaze moving over her features slowly, one by one.
She had the urge to confess, then cry. “I'm not. I mean, I am not a liar—it's not my nature.”
“That is more than obvious.” Their gazes held.
She wet her lips. “Don't make me say something that I am not at liberty to say,” she tried.
His brows came together in an expression of puzzlement.
Cass felt as if she were pleading now, and maybe she was. “Can't we let the past rest—where it belongs?”
“Is that really possible—for either of us?” His answer was spoken as honestly, and as softly.
Of course it wasn't. They were both fascinated, mesmerized, and
compelled by all things old and ancient. “I think I should go look for my sister,” Cass said, to escape.
He stopped her in her tracks.
“Suicide
. As if my father would actually commit suicide.”
She faced him, stunned.
He turned away, but not before she saw the grief, confusion, and disbelief in his eyes.
She was relieved for her own sake, for Catherine's sake, but for him, she hurt. “Is that what they think?”
He didn't look at her. “It's what the driver said, time and again. That my father walked directly into the path of his car, that it was deliberate, that he wanted to die.”
She was trembling. She was being given the opportunity of a lifetime, yet somehow she just couldn't seize it. And she hated lying to him yet another time.
“Why would my father want to die?” Antonio asked plaintively.
Cass stared up at him. She bit her lip, wondering if he could hear her deafening heartbeat. And she gave in to the urge to comfort him the way she would Alyssa or any other human being in need. She approached him and laid her hand on his shoulder from behind. “Antonio, maybe we will never know the truth. Maybe we shouldn't know the truth.”
He slowly turned. “I do not think I can accept that,” he said, again searching her face with his gaze.
“This is terrible,” Cass said, meaning it. The urge to come clean and tell him what Catherine had confessed nearly overcame her then.
“Yes, it is. And not only is it terrible, I am just beginning to comprehend the amazing coincidence of de la Barcas becoming intimately involved with de Warennes, time and again, over the centuries, with no good ever coming of it.”
For some reason, standing there so close to him, in the room now darkening with shadows, she almost felt that it was their involvement that was on his mind, even as intellectual and platonic as it was. And she thought about Isabel and Alvarado, her aunt and Eduardo, and now Tracey and Antonio.
Cass closed her eyes.
Tracey and Antonio, or me and Antonio?
“Cassandra?”
Her eyes opened, and an eternity was built into the ensuing heartbeat and their locked gazes. And Cass knew, she just knew, that he was wondering the exact same thing.
And he tilted up her chin, leaning forward, and before Cass could really understand what he was doing, his lips moved over hers. Cass felt the floor beneath her feet tilt. She gripped his arms, clinging, exultant—nothing had ever been this right!
His hands closed on her waist. And suddenly the barest of kisses quickly changed; suddenly lips were parted, locked, sucking hard, and tongues dared to touch. Suddenly Cass was enfolded in his arms, her small body tucked thoroughly against his.
And Cass was overwhelmed by every inch of his hard, muscular body, by the feel of his frame, his strength, his touch, his taste. Even his smell was dizzying her with urgency …
And as abruptly, the kiss ended. Antonio pushed her away; Cass could barely comprehend what was happening.
They could only regard one another, wide-eyed and breathlessly, and Cass could not decide who was more surprised, Antonio or herself.
Cass felt her cheeks grow hot. Still she could not breathe. She remained in shock. Her sister's boyfriend … “I … I had better go look for Tracey before it gets any darker.” Her words came out in a rush.
“Cassandra,” he said, slowly. There was a flush on his face as well. He looked dumbfounded.
Cass trembled, clutching her Minolta to her chest. Was he already having regrets? While she was trying not to give in to elation and all kinds of hopefulness?
“I think we should talk. Now.”
Cass didn't know what to do, what to think. She was afraid. “I think we should look for Tracey.”
He seemed grim and he finally glanced at the clock. It was eight o'clock. Outside, the sun was setting, and while Cass could not see it directly, the sky was darkening and stained with bands of pink and orange. Antonio suddenly walked to the window. “I don't want her wandering out there after dark,” he said. “Perhaps she is already back.”
Her heart continued to behave like an African jungle drum. Cass stared. There was an innuendo to his words that she did not like, not at all. “I doubt she went far,” Cass said desperately. “She never drives, both cars are here, so she's on foot.”
His jaw flexed. And this time, when he tried to meet her gaze, she was the one to look away.
She was an idiot, Cass thought, hurrying to the door. He was worried about her sister—she had just seen it written all over his face. How could she have ever let a moment like that happen?
Damn, damn, damn.
This was far more than inappropriate. Cass shivered. If Tracey had wanted to kill her before, it would only be worse if she ever learned about this brief, mistaken moment of passion.
Cass shivered again.
Antonio caught her arm from behind, halting her. “Don't run away. I must explain myself.”
Cass wanted to pull away, but she could not seem to move. “What is there to explain? You and I, we got carried away. Somehow. You're in love with my sister.”
His eyes widened. “Is that what you think?”
Cass nodded. “Every guy she's ever dated has been head over heels. Men. They can't get past the perfect face, the perfect body, the perfect hair.” She shrugged.
“I am not in love with your sister,” he said flatly.
Cass stared, wondering whether she should believe him.
His jaw flexed again. “Our relationship is over,” he said, his gaze excruciating direct.
Cass was speechless. It was over?!
“We have nothing in common. I was aware of our differences from the moment we met. It should have never started.”
Cass hugged herself, absolutely breathless. “How did you meet?”
“At the Palace Hotel in Madrid. I was meeting an associate for drinks; your sister was with a friend.” He shrugged.
Cass really didn't want to know more.
Suddenly he swore in Spanish. “This is so awkward,” he said.
Cass was motionless. What was awkward? The subject—or the growing attraction between them? The fact that they had kissed?
He paced, raking a hand through his hair. Then he stared at her. “You are more of a mother to Alyssa than Tracey is. How long has this gone on?”
Cass found it hard to reply. “Since Tracey's divorce. Since Alyssa was two.”
“I admire you, Cassandra,” he said. He did not smile at her.
Cass was already stunned. Now it felt as if his words had somehow knocked the air right out of her lungs.
He admired her.
Antonio de la Barca admired her. She knew she should get a grip, rein herself in; he had been Tracey's lover, not hers, but Christ, never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined a man like this telling her that he admired her. She shrugged. “My life is Alyssa and my career, my aunt, and Belford House.”
He smiled briefly. “We seem to have parallel lives.”
Cass could only stare. They did have parallel lives, in a way. “I guess so.” How lame.
His smile faded. “What just happened …”
“It's okay,” Cass cried. Suddenly she needed air. She was off balance; she needed time to think and regroup. But mostly, to think.
He was through with Tracey. Did she dare?
Dare.
It was the tiniest voice there in her mind, but Cass heard it.
Of course you dare.
The voice was stronger now, even unsettling.
“No, it's not okay. I am under some duress, but even that is an inadequate excuse.” He paced again, but only to the window. Night was falling. The sky was a dark, rich shade of inky blue, and a star was winking down at them. The clock wasn't far from where he stood. It was now 8:15.
“I apologize for my behavior,” he finally said, facing her. “You are my guest, sleeping here under my roof. It was inexcusable, given the complicated circumstances, to put you in such an untenable position.”
Cass forced what she hoped was a very bright smile onto her face. “Apology accepted,” she said too lightly.
His gaze was piercing.
Cass avoided it by looking away.
“However, there is something I want to ask you.”
Cass nodded, fidgeting now. “Shoot.” She was aiming for flippancy. Like it didn't matter that their kiss was a mistake. Like she totally did not care that he admired her. God, right now she felt like strangling Tracey.
Tracey, who stood in her way.
And the extent of her sudden hostility toward Tracey astounded her.
“You share my passion for the past. The amount of research my father has done is incredible. I realized the moment I arrived here that the first order of business is to file everything. It would take months should I endeavor to do so alone.”
Cass hadn't realized there was so much material, but he was right. “You should file everything. It will make all future research so much easier to do.”
“I want you to stay,” he said abruptly. “I could use your help.”
She started.
“I think if the two of us work together, we could organize the library within thirty days.”
Cass continued to stare. She was overwhelmed—there was nothing she would like more than to work with him, side by side, day by day, cataloguing his father's research, she realized. God, they could even reconstruct the intriguing yet oh-so-tragic life of Isabel de Warenne. “How can I?” she finally asked.
“Is it your deadline or your sister which stands in the way of your accepting my offer?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “I have almost a year left on my deadline, and when I'm inspired, I'm fast. It's Tracey. And what about Alyssa? Alyssa would have to stay with me.” She couldn't believe she was even considering his stunning proposal. And Alyssa hated Spain. She wanted to leave—and Cass had practically promised her that they would leave together on Monday.
“That is hardly a problem,” he said, and now he was smiling warmly. “Eduardo could use the company; he could use the friend.”
Cass's heart turned over so hard and so fast that she was dazed with the realization that she was a goner. One kiss, one professional proposal, and she was a complete goner. She was head over heels for this man, and to deny it any longer would be absurd.
Shit,
she thought.
Shit. Now what?
Dare.
“Think about it,” he said.
Cass looked up at him. She was almost ready to blurt that there was nothing to think about, of course she would stay. But she wasn't a fool. She was a sensible, thinking, responsible adult. If she stayed—jeopardizing her relationship with her sister—she would also wind up with a broken heart, and undoubtedly a whole lot of egg on her face, as well.
And then there was Alyssa. If Tracey decided to play hardball, she could lose Alyssa forever.
“I'll give it some thought.” Cass turned hurriedly away before he might try to persuade her again. “Let's try to find Tracey,” she said, cutting him off. “You search the house—I'll go outside.” Not giving him a chance to respond, she bolted from the room.

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