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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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Cass's antenna went up. Trouble in paradise? Something was up, and she had to know what.
“Alyssa, come meet my boyfriend, Antonio de la Barca. Tonio, this is my beautiful daughter, who is seven, I might add.”
Alyssa finally came down the stairs. “I saw your picture in
Vogue.
With my mother.”
Antonio stooped so that he was not towering over her. And he smiled and it was wide and genuine, marking him as a man who liked children. “Your mother is the kind of woman that photographers wish to photograph. I have no doubt that one day you will be the very same kind of woman.”
Cass fell in love with him in that moment. The sudden, shocking depth and intensity of feeling immobilized her. It was the kind of feeling she'd had once before—a sensation of absolute free-falling, a headlong plunge, into the abyss of emotional space.
Cass had gone there once before and barely survived. She stared at her sister, her niece, and the stranger in their midst, paralyzed.
Antonio continued to smile at Alyssa. Very slowly, very slightly, Alyssa smiled back.
And Cass could not move. She could not even think, she could only feel. She was stunned. Terrified.
He was so gorgeous and so Old World, so masculine, so intelligent … Jesus.
And he was her sister's.
Which was just fine.
This could not be happening, she thought.
“I have a son,” Antonio continued, “only three years older than you. Maybe one day you will meet him.”
Alyssa's eyes brightened. And when she spoke, it was clear to Cass that she was doing all that she could to sound detached—but her tone was breathless. “What is his name?”
“His name is Eduardo, and he lives with me in Madrid, just a few blocks from the Plaza de la Lealtad. We live near a beautiful park, El Retiro, where many children play soccer and Rollerblade in the afternoons.” Antonio straightened. Tracey was wearing four-inch heels. At that moment they were the exact same height.
“I would love to go to Madrid,” Alyssa breathed.
It suddenly clicked in Cass's very befuddled and stunned mind why Tracey had sent Alyssa several postcards from Madrid. Now she knew why Tracey had been channel-hopping. And she had a very unladylike but very New York City thought.
Shit.
Cass tried to get a grip. She tried to recover her composure. She did not know de la Barca, not at all, and it was insanity to think that she had just discovered some kind of profound feeling for him.
She was not falling in love.
No way. Not now, not ever, not today.
“Well, one day I am sure you will,” Tracey said, moving into the center of the tableau. “Look at what I have brought you, darling,” she said, digging four packages out of her Vuitton duffel bag and handing them all at once to Alyssa.
Alyssa clasped her hands in front of her, staring down at the giftwrapped boxes. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You have to open them!” Tracey cried. Then, “Aunt Catherine! There you are, and just in time. I have something for you, too!”
Catherine was coming down the stairs. She was smiling, and Tracey flew into her arms. They embraced warmly, and then Tracey handed her a small box that could only be from a jeweler.
Cass went to Alyssa, trying to avoid looking at de la Barca. “Do you want to take the gifts upstairs to your room and open them privately?” she asked softly, for Alyssa's ears only.
Alyssa nodded. Tears had formed on the tips of her lashes.
Cass wanted to hug her, hard. Suddenly she wanted to turn and shout at Tracey that all the gifts in the world could not make up for her absentee style of motherhood, that gifts could not buy love. She wanted to shout,
Wake up! I know you love her, but show it, Goddamn it! Spend some time here, with your family!
But she said none of those things. Alyssa's control was fragile, at best. And now, so was her own.
Wouldn't de la Barca want an intellectual woman?
“Oh, you have to open the pink package, you'll just love it!” Tracey cried, rushing forward and handing it to her daughter. It was one of the smallest packages present. In the same breath Tracey delved into
her duffel and produced a long flat box for Cass. She smiled. “And don't you dare say no.”
Cass knew it was clothing. Her sister had incredible taste in clothes, was the chicest person Cass knew, but Cass wasn't Tracey. She didn't wear miniskirts and she didn't wear stiletto heels. Of course, she was only five foot three. She wouldn't even be able to walk in the kind of shoes Tracey wore. “Thanks,” she said.
“Are you all right?” Tracey asked with concern.
“Absolutely,” Cass said, imagining that her smile was stretched wide and thin.
Catherine suddenly said, “Oh, Tracey, dear, how lovely.”
Her tone was odd. Cass looked up to find Catherine holding a stunning Elizabeth Locke pin, a large peridot stone engraved with the figure of a woman, set in a matte gold bar with a diamond chain. But she wasn't admiring the pin. Her brow was furrowed, and she was staring at their visitor. Cass realized she had forgotten to introduce him to her aunt.
But before she could do so, Tracey was speaking in a gay rush. “I was walking down the street when I saw it in the window and I just knew it was perfect for you,” she said, smiling happily at her aunt.
“I wish you hadn't,” Catherine said very softly, for the hundredth time, her gaze now on her niece. But then it veered back to de la Barca, and her aunt's expression made Cass concerned.
Alyssa had opened her pink parcel, and now she sat down on the second step of the stairs, clutching something to her chest.
Tracey turned eagerly. “It's a collector's item, darling. Her name is Sparkee. Isn't she just the cutest?”
Alyssa bit her lip, nodding. “Thank you, Mother.”
Cass realized she was holding a Beanie Baby. Alyssa adored the small stuffed animals and had been brokenhearted when they had all been retired last year. Tracey had probably found the little toy in an auction, or even on the Net. She had gone to great lengths, clearly. But Cass could not focus on mother and daughter now. “Aunt Catherine? Are you all right?” Her aunt seemed oddly stiff with tension.
“We haven't met,” Aunt Catherine said quietly.
“Forgive me, but I am intruding—and that is the last thing I wish to do,” Antonio de la Barca said as quietly.
But Tracey was swooping down on her aunt, having looped her arm in Antonio's again. “How could you intrude, darling? Aunt Catherine, this is Antonio de la Barca, from Madrid. Tonio, my aunt, Lady Catherine Belford.”
Cass started forward. Her aunt was immobile, as if afraid to move, the color having drained from her face. “Aunt Catherine? Are you ill?” she asked with alarm.
If Catherine heard her, she gave no sign. She stared at de la Barca, her expression strained. She could not seem to take her eyes off him. “You resemble your father,” she said thickly.
He had been reaching for her hand, and now he froze. “You knew my father, Lady Belford?”
Slowly Catherine nodded, and something terribly sad flitted through her eyes.
“Many years ago,” Catherine said. And suddenly her face crumpled with the onset of tears.
“Senora?” Antonio asked, alarmed.
“Oh! I just remembered—I need to ask the caterer something.” Catherine turned, almost running, and quite shoving past Tracey.
“Aunt Catherine!” Cass had never seen her aunt act in such a manner before.
Tracey was also wide-eyed.
“Why don't you show our guest to his room,” Cass said. She didn't wait for a reply. She hurried down the hall after Catherine, pushing open the door to the kitchen.
Inside it was a flurry of activity, as the caterer and her staff were busy making the last-minute preparations for a cocktail hour and a supper that would serve forty. Catherine stood by the end of the center aisle, hunched over it, leaning upon it, her back to Cass. She was shaking.
Cass did not understand. She rushed to her aunt, slipping her arm around her. “What's wrong? What has happened?” Cass cried.
At first Catherine couldn't speak. She could only shake her head wordlessly, continuing to tremble.
“Aunt Catherine, talk to me, please,” Cass begged. One of the staff handed her a tissue and her aunt accepted it, dabbing at her eyes.
“I never expected this,” she whispered. “After all these years. Cassandra, we must get that man out of this house—and out of Tracey's life.”
Cass was incredulous. “Why?”
“Why?” Catherine turned on her, and Cass was shocked to see both pain and fear in her aunt's wide eyes. Catherine was shaking. “I will tell you why, Cassandra. I killed his father.”
“What is wrong with Auntie Catherine?” Alyssa asked. She was perched on the canopied bed in Cass's bedroom. The room was stone floored, but numerous multicolored Persian rugs covered it. The walls were painted a lovely deep hue of salmon, almost matching the tawny marble mantel over the fireplace. There was a seating area there, which Cass often used, but not as much as she used the huge eighteenth-century secretaire in one corner of the room, where her laptop was set up.
“I'm not sure,” Cass said, clad only in a pair of panty hose and a bra. Cass remained stunned. Catherine had not explained her astonishing statement. Instead, she had dashed out of the kitchen, leaving Cass standing there in absolute shock.
Cass was very close to her aunt. Catherine was her best friend in the entire world, as well as her surrogate mother. Cass's father had died when she was three; her mother had died when she was eleven, and Catherine had taken the sisters in. Catherine had no children of her own. Quite early in her marriage, her husband, Robert Belford, had suffered a massive and debilitating stroke. For all intents and purposes, Cass and Tracey's aunt was their mother.
Catherine was, to Cass's mind, an amazing woman. She had not only raised the sisters herself while caring for her invalid husband, she had devoted herself to a good dozen charities throughout her life. She was a pillar of the community and an exemplary human being. She was a giver, not a taker.
She could not have killed a man.
I
killed his father.
Cass felt ill. She told herself that there was an explanation, and that Catherine had not been speaking literally.
But what if she had? What had happened, and when had it happened? Clearly Antonio de la Barca knew nothing.
Cass grimaced as she recalled the way her sister had clung so possessively to him earlier in the foyer.
“Aunt Cass, are you plotting a new scene?”
Alyssa cut in to her thoughts and Cass blinked. “Not really,” Cass said.
“You had this funny look on your face. You had better hurry, Aunt Cass, or you'll be the last one to arrive at the party,” Alyssa said gravely. “I think you should wear that red dress Mother bought for you.”
“I don't think so,” Cass said. She had to get dressed, but she could not seem to focus on the task at hand. Her mind was swimming … images of her aunt competing with images of Antonio de la Barca and Tracey.
“Mother looked beautiful in that outfit, didn't she? She is so beautiful.” Alyssa's sigh was admiring and wistful.
Cass heard herself sigh, also. How was she going to get through this evening now? Her headache intensified. It had not escaped her notice that Antonio was sleeping in Tracey's bedroom. “She's always stunning, sweetie. That is nothing new.”
“I really like her new boyfriend.” Alyssa flushed. “I hope she marries him.”
Cass just stared at her, her insides churning unpleasantly. “And why is that?”
“He has a son—I'd have a brother. And maybe we'd be a family again,” she said hopefully. “All of us, Aunt Cass. Wouldn't that be wonderful? All of us together?”
Cass could think of nothing worse. “Honey, if your mother marries, I don't think I'll be welcome in her new home. It just doesn't work that way.” She was beginning to perspire, she realized.
Alyssa was startled and dismayed. “But why not? I can't live with them if you're not there, too!”
Cass had been about to open the closet; now she paused. She had never seen Tracey look at any of her other lovers the way she'd looked at de la Barca. Tracey was in love. And why not? De la Barca was a catch.
Cass closed her eyes, ill. Men fell head over heels in love with Tracey—every single one of them. She was the one to walk away and
break their hearts. De la Barca was probably smitten at this very moment. Tracey could probably walk down the aisle with him tomorrow if she wanted to. And de la Barca was a family man—he loved children. Cass already knew he was a great father. It was so obvious. They would take Alyssa away from her …
“Aunt Cass? What's wrong? Did I say something to upset you?”
Cass fought for air. She knew she had to shut off her thoughts or she would never make it through the evening. She turned, opening her closet, but instead of seeing the clothes hanging inside, she kept seeing Tracey walking down the aisle in a wedding gown. Damn it. Maybe Catherine was right. Maybe Antonio and Tracey should not be together, because maybe that might lead him to a truth Catherine did not want revealed. A truth that could destroy her aunt, and even the entire family.
Cass stared at the dress she held in her hands without seeing it. What was she thinking? If her aunt had killed a man, then she had committed a crime, hadn't she? Had it been covered up? Had the police been involved? What about Antonio's family? Did they know?
But what if it had been self-defense?
“Aunt Cass!” Alyssa cried sharply.
“I'm fine.” Her words sounded clipped and far too high in pitch to her own ears. She was losing it. She was allowing her incredibly fertile imagination to run away with her. She had to get a grip. She didn't have the facts. She had one shocking confession—a confession that might not even be accurate.
But how could her aunt make such a mistake?
“You're not wearing that red dress Mother bought you?” Alyssa exclaimed as Cass pulled a knee-length black sheath off the hanger. “Aunt Cass, that dress is ugly.”
Cass sat down hard on a royal blue damask ottoman. “Shit.” She had to speak with Aunt Catherine. Sooner, not later. The problem was, they had a house full of guests, and Cass couldn't imagine finding a moment to speak with her before the next morning.
“Aunt Cass!” Alyssa was bug-eyed.
“Sorry. The American in me,” Cass apologized. Suddenly she felt despondent. “I'm too short to wear red. Too short, too curvy, too everything.” She didn't tell Alyssa that, in the back of her mind, some stupidly vain and foolish part of her dreaded making a fool of herself in front of de la Barca. Not that it mattered. He was in love with her
sister. She could go to the black-tie affair stark naked and he wouldn't even notice. Not with Tracey around.
It had always been that way, too, ever since they were small children.
Cass had thought she was used to the fact that her sister got all the attention. Apparently she wasn't as resigned and habituated to the circumstance as she had believed.
“Aunt Cass, you're pretty, and you'll be beautiful in that dress.” Alyssa was so earnest.
“You are prejudiced, but thanks,” Cass said, meaning it. She stood and unzipped the back. Then she realized it smelled like mothballs.
Suddenly Cass wanted to cry. Her life was nearly perfect. It really was. She had her aunt, her niece, her wonderful work, and she had Belford House. Yes, a husband who was a best friend as well as a lover, and another child or two, were missing, but between raising Alyssa and her research and work, not to mention her daily horseback rides, she hardly had time to even think about that, much less the future.
But tonight she wished she had known in advance that Tracey was coming with Antonio de la Barca. She would have been psychologically prepared, and she'd have bought a new black dress, too.
And she wished, with all of her heart, that Catherine had been grossly exaggerating when she had said that she had killed Antonio's father.
Before Cass could step into the dress, there was a knock on the door and Catherine entered, clothing in her hands. “Cass, I want to apologize for my terrible behavior earlier,” she said, her face lined with worry.
Cass forgot all about her own cares. She sat up ramrod straight, mesmerized by the look in her aunt's eyes and the secret they now shared. “Your behavior wasn't terrible,” she said carefully, her pulse drumming. “There is nothing to apologize for. We need to talk about this, Aunt Catherine.”
“There's really nothing to say.” Catherine grimaced, glancing away. Unable to look her niece in the eye? Then, “I know you're not going to wear that beautiful Halston, are you?”
Cass shook her head.
Catherine didn't hesitate. “I picked this up for you last week. I don't know why … I was shopping for a new gown for myself, but when I saw this, I just felt it was right for you.” She laid a pair of black jersey pants with slit legs on the bed, followed by a beaded black top. “It's simple but elegant and it will show off your figure to perfection, Cassandra,” she said.
“How could I not like this?” Cass whispered, fingering the beaded top. “This is beautiful. And the black makes me feel safe.”
Catherine smiled at her. “Maybe one day you'll discover the excitement of feeling unsafe,” she said softly.
Cass reached out to hug her, hard, feeling overwhelmed once again. “I don't think I'm genetically predisposed to dangerous living, Aunt Catherine.” But now she wondered about her aunt as a younger woman. Had she been involved in something dangerous? Illegal? Something that had put her in a situation where she had killed Antonio de la Barca's father?
Catherine laughed. But her eyes were tearing; she was still distraught. She turned away so Cass would not see.
“I like the red,” Alyssa announced firmly. “On my birthday you have to wear the red.”
Cass smiled, but it was forced.
“I had better get ready as well,” Catherine said. She paused at the door. “Cassandra? Forget what I said. I'm a tired old woman, and sometimes, well, the past is as clear as a bell, far clearer than just yesterday. At other times I am hardly sure of what I am thinking. I was exaggerating, dear. It's a long story … There was this accident … this tragic accident … I've blamed myself. And it's not important now, Cassandra.” And she smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes, and the light there held a question. Would Cass believe her?
This time Cass did not even attempt to smile back.
Because her aunt was lying and Cass saw the lie in her eyes.
 
 
Tracey studied herself in the bathroom mirror. She was wearing a pale blue gown that was sheer enough to see through, the top and the back plunging dangerously low. The two tiny straps were exquisitely beaded, as was the one hip-high slit. She wore a flesh-colored undergarment with it, which she had purchased with the gown.
Tracey knew she was beautiful; today, however, she did not look her best. So she had carefully concealed the circles under her eyes, as carefully applied shadow and smoky liner to her eyes. With her fair coloring, less makeup was always more, and she was very careful as she added a touch more blush to her high cheekbones. She wanted to be radiant; she wanted to glow. And she wanted to see hunger in Antonio's gaze when he glimpsed her in the brand-new Versace evening gown.
Tracey stared. She looked tired. And there was no mistaking the worry in her eyes.
Everything was going wrong, every possible thing, but it was always that way when she came home.
She should have never decided to hold this affair at Belford House. What had she been thinking?
Tracey inhaled, trembling. Her temples throbbed. She had been hoping to have a magnificent supper party to launch the auction of the ruby necklace—that was what she had been thinking. And her aunt's fabulous family home had seemed like the perfect place—a setting that could not be replicated at any London club or trendy restaurant.
Tracey looked down at the flute of champagne on the sink. She had no intention of partying that night. Her intention was to stay sober, to be a magnificent hostess. The flute was half-empty. Tracey hesitated.
Why not?
she thought.
Because she was so scared. And her fear had nothing to do with the black-tie supper affair, even though she wanted that to go well, even though she wanted Sotheby's to be pleased.
Why not?
She had to calm her nerves.
To hell with it,
she thought, and she drained the rest of the glass. One glass would not hurt her.
For one instant, Tracey was soothed, and then the glow vanished almost as quickly as it had come. Fear took its place. She was acutely aware of Antonio in the bedroom, dressing. She turned to stare at her profile. Her stomach was as flat as a board. As she smoothed her dress down, she could see the two sharp points of her hip bones.
If only she hadn't come home.
Her bathroom door was ajar, and she heard Antonio moving about. The sickness inside her abdomen grew. He was angry with her, but she did not know why. He had been cold to her ever since she had arrived. And this was just what she needed now, on this important night, which had already gotten off to a completely rotten start. What had she done?
What hadn't she done?
Tracey gripped the flute. Alyssa hated the Beanie Baby, Cass hated the dress, Catherine was disapproving because she had spent so much … She could never please them, no matter how she tried, and it hurt. It hurt so much, she hated coming home. It hurt so much! Why could she never please them, never do anything right? She knew she was a rotten mother, while Cass was so perfect at it. She knew they all judged
her and found her lacking—even her own daughter.
God. Hell. Bloody
hell. She also knew damn well that she hadn't been back to Belford House in three months. They all thought she didn't know. She wasn't stupid. She had a calendar. She knew, all right. She'd never been gone this long before, and it made her hate them, sometimes, and it also made her hate herself.

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