The Balfour Legacy

‘Yes. Yes, it was.’ Was this what he usually said—his farewell line? A whole script prepared to ease the pain of the parting, cleverly couched to sound almost tender, but cautious enough not to whip up any false hope. And suddenly Kat knew she couldn’t face anything which masqueraded as tenderness, because that would just make this parting even more unbearable. Her fingers clenching into a fist over the handle of her bag, she stared up at him. ‘But it’s over now.’

Carlos had never been left quite so swiftly nor so efficiently by a woman before. Come to think of it, it was always him that did the leaving. Hadn’t he wondered whether Kat might try and drag it out a bit longer, digging in her delectable heels and intimating that she had no desire for their affair to end? Well, she hadn’t—and once again she had confounded all his expectations. His eyes narrowed. And maybe she was right. Maybe it really was better this way.

Leaning over, he planted the briefest of kisses on her trembling lips just as Mike appeared from the galley.

‘Look after her,’ said Carlos abruptly, and turned and walked away.

Kat’s heart sank as she watched his retreating back, but what had she expected? That he might stand there watching her wave a dinky little hanky as the speedboat put more and more distance between them? Why, he was probably heaving a huge sigh of relief—like a man who had just been relieved of a mighty burden.

She felt slightly ill as she stepped ashore, where Carlos had a car waiting for her, and was startled by a sudden blue flash.

‘I think somebody just took my photo,’ she said in confusion.

‘Oh, there’s always paparazzi hanging around here,’ said Mike with a shrug, as he hauled out her bags and put them on the quayside. And then, to her surprise, he enveloped her in a brief bear hug. ‘We’re going to miss you,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’ve done good.’

The farewell only added to her highly emotional state and, once Mike had gone, she clambered into the back of the car, directing it to stop at a pharmacie. And afterwards she was whisked to a nearby airstrip, where Carlos had arranged for a jet to fly her to London.

As soon as she’d touched down, her cellphone started ringing, with her father on the other end of the line.

‘Kat,’ he said gruffly. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m…fine,’ she answered warily. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve just had Carlos Guerrero on the phone.’

For a moment she froze as the Spaniard’s dark and golden features danced provocatively in her mind. ‘What…what did he say?’

‘Just that he was very pleased with you.’

‘He…he did?’

‘He certainly did. Said that you seemed to have been cured of your tendency to run away from problems, that you seemed to have learned the meaning of the word commitment, and that I should be very pleased with you. Oh, and he also advised me to let you have use of the London flat and start paying your allowance again.’

The breath which she only just realised she had been holding escaped from Kat’s lips with a sigh. But really, what had she expected? That Carlos would tell her father that he’d become incredibly close to her during the voyage? Or that he’d realised he didn’t want to live without her? As if it was some old-fashioned scenario and he was ringing to ask her father for permission to carry on seeing her!

When the reality was that all Carlos cared about were the stupid rules—which were what the two men had colluded about in the first place. And didn’t her father’s words reinforce the fact that the Spaniard may have taken her to his bed, but inside he still regarded her as a spoilt little girl who needed her allowance to be doled out?

‘Are you still there, Kat?’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ she said resignedly. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I just want to say…well done, darling. I’m very proud of you. The flat’s all ready and you can access your bank account immediately,’ he announced, and then his voice softened. ‘And you can treat yourself to something nice, because I’m increasing your allowance!’

It felt a little like being offered a poisoned chalice, and the drive from the airfield left Kat feeling dejected and slightly sick.

Installed in the vast Balfour apartment which overlooked Kensington Gardens, she was soon confronted with a reality which she didn’t quite understand. And at first she couldn’t quite believe. Because all the signs had been there…

She’d been…

She’d felt…

She’d thought…

It was only after more reasoned consideration and a glance at the calendar that her skin began to ice, as the mixed messages which her body was sending out caused her mind to scream with confusion.

Scanning the phone book for a list of physicians, she made an appointment with a doctor and managed to get someone to see her that afternoon.

Pushing her way past the man who seemed to have been hanging around outside her apartment all week, Kat flagged down a taxi which took her straight to Harley Street and a middle-aged gynaecologist who looked at her with a frown.

‘I’m not sure I understand exactly what it is you’re asking me, Miss Balfour.’

‘I thought I might be pregnant,’ she summarised quickly. ‘And then my period started. Or, at least, I thought it did. Only it hasn’t, not really, not like normal. I’m not sure what’s going on.’

‘Let’s do a couple of tests, shall we?’ he questioned.

Twenty minutes later, she was in another cab heading back for the apartment, where—physically and emotionally drained—she fell into a fitful doze, and woke soon after dawn, unable to get back to sleep. She forced herself to shower and dress and spent long minutes putting on her make-up, realising how long it had been since she’d worn it. But grateful now for the mask it provided. The familiar old mask which was now back in place—something for her to hide behind. Because new and scary territory had opened up before her and she was going to have to face it. Alone.

She’d just finished dressing when the silence was broken by the loud jangling of the telephone. It was her sister Sophie, who wasn’t usually given to making early morning phone calls.

‘Hello, Sophie,’ said Kat, trying to sound like her ‘normal’ self, even though she seemed to have forgotten what that felt like. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Have you seen the papers?’ her sister demanded.

‘No. I’ve only just got back from…’ Suddenly, Kat registered the urgency in her sister’s voice. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘There’s a picture of you on page three of the Daily View. Coming out of a doctor’s surgery in Harley Street.’ Sophie’s voice dropped to a worried whisper. ‘Kat, are you okay?’

What would her shy, artistic sister say if she told her the truth? ‘I’m fine,’ lied Kat, as the doorbell began peeling with a loud and imperious bell. ‘Listen, someone’s at the door. I’d better go, Soph. I’ll ring you.’

Flicking her hair away from her face, she ran to the door, peering at the CCTV image of the man who stood outside the apartment block and then freezing in disbelief.

Carlos!

Kat’s knees buckled and she swayed. Thoughts which were already confused now began to go into overdrive.

Carlos?

The doorbell rang again—and it seemed that this time he must have jammed his thumb on the bell and left it there so that she was forced to click on the intercom without giving herself a chance to compose herself. Though maybe that would have been asking too much of anyone.

‘Y-yes?’

‘Let me in.’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

On the doorstep, Carlos failed to make the obvious response; his mood was too black for that. ‘I said…let me in.’

Trembling, she pressed the button, dashing into the bathroom to check her appearance—but there was barely any time to brush her teeth before a loud thumping on the door announced his presence. He must have run up the stairs, she found herself thinking inconsequentially, because the ancient elevator took ages.

Opening the door to him, she could see that her assumption had been correct—since he was slightly out of breath and his colour was raised—but most of all she noticed the rage which sparked in dark flames from his ebony eyes. He was carrying a newspaper in one hand and he looked furious. Pushing past her, he slammed the door shut behind him and then turned on her.

‘Perra,’ he whispered, his face contorted into a dark mask of anger which automatically made Kat’s heart begin a frantic racing. ‘You lying little cheat.’ He took a deep breath and pushed his face a little closer to hers—but a wave of minty toothpaste hit him and this, with the glossy fall of hair and the carefully made-up face, was enough to make him recoil as if he’d just been bitten by a snake. He stared at the tight, white jeans she wore and the cute silk T-shirt—which was exactly the same colour as the costly aquamarines which glittered at her throat. He found himself looking at the sleek and pampered little rich girl and it was as if the past few weeks simply hadn’t happened.

‘And there was me thinking that you’d changed,’ he raged. ‘That you were no longer the girl who ran away at the first opportunity. Who had learned to deal with life and look it in the face. But, no, I was wrong. Very, very wrong. First you lie to me, and then you run—just the way you’ve always run! Commitment?’ he bit out. ‘You wouldn’t know the word commitment if it jumped out and shook you!’

Kat was trembling as the force of his words compounded her own growing sense of realisation, and fear. And with it came the sinking sensation that he was all too eager to think the worst of her. ‘You’ve seen the paper?’ she questioned.

Carlos looked as if he was about to explode. ‘So you know about the paper? Of course I’ve seen the damned paper!’ And then his face darkened with suspicion. ‘Is this some kind of elaborate set-up?’ he demanded. ‘A teaser for some newspaper deal you’re setting up? Have you perhaps succeeded where every other journalist has failed in “getting to know” the real Carlos Guerrero and are about to do an exposé on me?’

Kat felt sick. How could she have ever believed he felt for her anything other than contempt? The fact that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her while she’d been on board his yacht meant nothing. Nothing, she reminded herself bitterly.

‘We can’t have this conversation here,’ she said dully—for she was afraid that if she didn’t sit down she might do something unforgivable. Like faint. Or be sick—a fear which now felt very real indeed.

Without waiting for his reply she began walking towards the sitting room, aware that he was following her. She turned around as he came into the room, wondering how a man could possibly dwarf a room as huge as the main drawing room of the Balfour apartment—but somehow Carlos managed it quite effortlessly. In his dark suit and snowy shirt, he looked the epitome of crisp elegance. And a complete stranger.

‘I haven’t seen the paper,’ she said.

His eyes narrowed. ‘But you knew about it?’

‘My sister rang.’

‘How convenient.’

‘May I see it, please?’

He half threw it onto the coffee table and Kat knelt down and opened it up with hands which were shaking. And there, on page three, was the article Sophie had alerted her to.

It wasn’t the first time she had been featured in a national newspaper but it was the first time she had been visibly shocked by what she saw. The Kat who had been photographed leaving the doctor’s rooms in Harley Street was barely recognisable as herself. Her face looked bleached, her eyes huge and a pashmina shawl hugged around her shoulders seemed to envelope her.

But it was the headline—and the subsequent article which disturbed her far more.

Guerrero’s Society Babe Visits Baby Doc.

Swallowing down her disbelief, Kat read on.

Famous ex-bullfighter Carlos Guerrero is used to playing cloak-and-dagger—and the latest beauty in his life seems to be following in his footsteps. Fresh from a Mediterranean trip on the Spanish billionaire’s luxury yacht, stunning Kat Balfour was tight-lipped as she left Dr. Steve Smith’s Harley Street surgery. Dr. Smith is best known for his delivery of last year’s Royal Princess and his spokesperson refused to comment on rumours that one of the notorious Balfour Babes is pregnant.

Kat Balfour hails from one of the richest and most scandal-ridden families in the land, but her new beau is more than a match for their colourful history. Playboy tycoon Guerrero was once tipped to be Spain’s finest bullfighter before dramatically withdrawing from the ring, fifteen years ago.

Who knows? With capricious Kat Balfour at his side, the man tagged ‘Cold Heart’ by the Spanish tabloids may have taken on his biggest challenge yet!

Dazed, Kat sat back on her heels and stared up at the forbidding mask of Carlos’s face.

‘But they didn’t ask me to comment!’ she protested. ‘I didn’t even know they had a snapper there!’

Carlos clenched his fists in fury. ‘Is that all you care about?’ he demanded. ‘The fact that you didn’t know you were being photographed? Why, would you have applied a little more gloss to those lying lips of yours?’

Her heart began to race as she registered the venom in his voice. ‘How dare you speak to me like this?’

‘Quite easily,’ he snapped. ‘And before you start to offer any half-hearted defence, surely the fundamental flaw in your argument is that you lied to me, Kat. But we could spend the whole morning railing against each other and none of it is relevant. In fact, only one thing is.’ He fixed her in the piercing spotlight of his ebony eyes. ‘Just tell me one thing. Are you or are you not…pregnant?’

There was a horrible pause and the only sound which Kat could register was the uncomfortable irregularity of her own breathing. ‘I…’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes! Yes!’

He let out a hiss, like the sound of a pressure cooker which has just had its lid removed after many hours of being on the boil. ‘So you did lie,’ he said in a voice which sounded suddenly flat.

Kat shook her head. ‘Not exactly.’

Cold black eyes were turned on her. ‘Not exactly? How many variations of the truth are there? Perhaps you’d care to explain, or did I dream up the fact that you told me you needed to find a chemist because your period had come?’

‘I thought…’ Stupidly, she was blushing now. ‘I got a pain during the night and I started bleeding.’ The night he hadn’t been there—when his absence had seemed to emphasise that there was nothing between them but an enforced captivity while they waited to discover whether or not they were going to be parents. ‘I thought it was my period. It was only when I’d been home for a couple of days that I realised that it wasn’t.’

‘But you weren’t going to bother to tell me about it?’

‘Of course I was! I just needed it to be confirmed first.’

‘Or was it something more than that?’ he demanded, his heart beating now with a slow and steady kind of dread. ‘Did you go to the doctor for something other than confirmation?’

It took a moment or two for his meaning to register and, when it did, Kat thought she really might be sick. Swallowing down the bile which had risen in her throat, she stared at him. ‘How…how dare you suggest such a disgusting thing?’ she spat out, trying now to rise from her subordinate position on her knees. But her rage was so intense that she half stumbled and Carlos automatically put out his hand to support her. ‘Get away from me!’ she flared.

He took no notice, just made sure that she was steady once more and then strode over to the window, looking out at the manicured beauty which was Kensington Gardens—seeing the glitter of the Round Pool in the distance, trying desperately to assemble his thoughts into some kind of order.

It was several moments before he had composed himself enough to turn round and, when he did, it was to see that Kat was sitting in the centre of a huge, overstuffed sofa, looking impossibly fragile. And in that moment, he could have kicked himself for the whiplash quality of his words. What kind of a brute was he, he wondered disgustedly, to harangue a woman who was newly pregnant?

‘Can I get you something?’ he questioned in a hollow voice. ‘Something to drink?’

‘I feel sick.’

Quickly, he found a bathroom at the end of one of the long corridors and tipped out a pile of rose petals which had been cluttering up a porcelain bowl and then took it to Kat. On further exploration of the apartment, he discovered a high-tech kitchen, where he made a pot of ginger-and-lemon tea, because he remembered reading somewhere that ginger was good for nausea.

She was still sitting where he’d left her, the towel on her lap, the porcelain bowl empty at her side. And suddenly he looked beyond her painted face and saw the vulnerability in her huge eyes.

‘I’ve made you tea,’ he said quickly, as he put the tray down.

She looked up, telling herself again that she must be strong. Carlos hadn’t broken any promises. He’d never claimed to feel anything for her. She certainly couldn’t demand love from him because she was carrying his baby. And she must close the floodgates on her love for him. He mustn’t know about it. It wouldn’t be fair—because then, wouldn’t she be burdening him with unnecessary guilt as well as a baby he’d never planned?

‘I didn’t run away,’ she told him tiredly. ‘I honestly thought my period had come, so there was no reason to stay. We’d already decided that.’ And he had done nothing to stop her leaving, had he? That had been the bottom line. Even now, he was only here because he had to be—not because he wanted to. ‘But I’d just had some kind of bleeding—apparently, it’s not unusual in the early stages of pregnancy.’

‘But you’re okay?’ he demanded urgently.

‘I’m okay.’

‘And…the baby? The baby is okay?’

‘The doctor tells me that everything’s fine.’

‘Thank God,’ he breathed.

And for the first time, Carlos began to take in the enormity of what she had just told him. A single fact that had the power to change his life for ever. He was going to be a father. Placing a delicate mug of steaming tea into her unprotesting hand, he realised that his baby was growing beneath her heart even now—deep in her belly.

He wanted to reach out and touch her—to place the palm of his hand on her still-flat belly, as if to reassure himself that his child really was in there. But he felt as if he had forfeited the right to do any such thing, his bitter accusations driving a wedge between the two of them. And he wondered now if his father had bequeathed him something of his own cruelty—whether or not he was fit to be a father to her child.

He flinched. ‘You know that there were photographers hanging around outside when I arrived and that it’s only going to get worse?’

‘But why?’ she wailed, letting her hormones get the better of her. ‘Why can’t they just leave me alone?’

His body tensed. ‘It is the joint legacy we share, Princesa. One which is bread and meat to the ever-hungry media,’ he said bitterly. ‘The ex-matador and his scandalous heiress.’

At that moment the telephone began to shrill and, putting her tea down on the table, Kat leaned over and picked it up. It was her father.

‘Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on, Kat?’ he began ominously.

Kat opened her mouth to start explaining when it suddenly hit her that she didn’t have to. She didn’t have to do anything. Not any more. Maybe in the past she had run away from her responsibilities—and maybe her father’s set of Rules had helped her see her life in a different light. Or maybe Carlos had. But she wasn’t running now. Even if she wanted to—which she didn’t—running was no longer an option. She was going to be a mother. She was going to have Carlos’s baby and she was going to have to learn to stand on her own two feet. And that meant that the rest of the Balfours were really going to have to butt out and leave her to get on with it.

Without thinking about it, her fingers of one hand drifted to her stomach and she let them rest there—almost protectively—looking up to see a sudden flare of light in the ebony eyes which were fixed on her.

She turned her lips back to the mouthpiece. ‘Actually, I don’t really want to talk to anyone at the moment, Daddy,’ she said steadily.

‘But—’

‘No buts. I’m fine.’ She listened to her father for a minute, acutely aware of Carlos’s intense scrutiny. ‘Yes, he’s here. With me. No, Daddy. No. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Yes. I promise.’

Slowly, she replaced the receiver and Carlos saw the wariness in her eyes as she regarded him—as if expecting him to start interrogating her again. His mouth hardened. And maybe she had good reason to think that.

The phone began to ring once more and, seeing her eyes close wearily this time, Carlos snatched up the receiver, his eyes narrowing as he listened. ‘Yes?’

‘Carlos! It’s Tania Stephens here,’ came the throaty voice of a woman. ‘I’m the one who left my bikini on your yacht and wondered if you’d just like to—’

‘No comment,’ he snarled, slamming it down again, and when it began to ring again almost immediately he took it off the hook. Was this what it was going to be like? he wondered. With the phone ringing and the press clamouring and Kat getting bigger. Living out her pregnancy in the middle of the city, with that cold and unapproachable air about her while the media-hungry world closed in.

There was a solution to the problem which lay before them, he realised slowly. But only if Kat would agree to it—and that was by no means certain. ‘I can find you somewhere safe to stay,’ he said slowly. ‘Somewhere the press won’t bother you.’

She looked up. ‘Where?’

‘That’s up to you, Princesa. I can give you several options. I have places pretty much all over the world you can choose from.’

‘With you, you mean? You’ll be coming with me?’ she questioned in a cool voice, as if she didn’t care one way or the other. Because the last thing she wanted or needed to feel right now was disappointment when he told her that, no, he’d be leaving her alone to face the coming months.

Carlos expelled a breath. ‘Well, that depends,’ he said slowly. ‘On whether or not you want me there.’

There was a pause while the question hung in the air.

Don’t make yourself vulnerable, Kat told herself. Don’t open yourself up to yet more pain. ‘If you want,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘I don’t really care either way.’

Carlos met the blue of her dazzling eyes which now seemed as cold as a winter sky. She had agreed to leave the spotlight of the city and he was going with her.

His mouth hardened. It may have felt a little like a victory, he thought, but it seemed a very hollow one.

Chapter Twelve

HE TOOK her to a house she recognised, though it took a moment or two for Kat to realise why.

‘It’s the house in the painting!’ she exclaimed, her heart lifting with an unexpected kind of delight. ‘The one in your study on the yacht.’ The one she used to gaze at when she was transcribing recipes during a time which now seemed like light years ago.

‘It is indeed. My hacienda,’ said Carlos softly.

Standing in the doorway of the lovingly cared-for old house, surrounded by a shaded veranda decked with flowers and foliage, Kat looked out at the stunning Andalusian countryside. Outside were orchards of Carlos’s very own oranges and lemons—which scented the soft, warm air. And in nearby pastures overlooking distant mountain peaks lived his beloved Andalusian horses which people came from all over the world to buy.

Despite her mixed emotions, Kat thought she had never seen any where more lovely in her life. It seemed so solid and real—so far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. And it made her feel indescribably wistful for a life she had never known and probably never would. A life with deep roots and the promise of longevity.