Lure Of Eagles

Domine raised her dark eyebrows. ‘I suppose she could appoint a—legal adviser, as you say.’

Mark jack-knifed off the couch, a white line appearing round his lips. ‘You don’t think—no! She couldn’t.’

‘Couldn’t what?’

‘Appoint Aguilar as—her legal adviser?’

Domine hesitated. ‘Well, I shouldn’t think so. I mean, he probably has an occupation of his own. In Lima, or where-ever he lives.’

‘Then why has she sent him over here?’

‘Mark, don’t ask me, ask him! I don’t know, do I? He says he came because Lisel was too shocked by the news to make the journey, that naturally, for someone like her, making a trip to England needed to be thought about, considered——’

‘I know what he said,’ snapped Mark irritably. ‘But is anybody that unworldly? In this day and age?’

‘I expect so,’ said Domine. ‘After all, she does live in a rural area. Why shouldn’t she be shy and retiring?’

‘Because, if she’s Uncle Edward’s daughter, she would be more like him!’

‘Why? You’re not at all like Daddy.’

‘No. But you are.’

‘Oh, Mark …’ Domine was tired. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more tonight. I want to go to bed.’ She walked towards the door. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Shortly,’ replied Mark, resuming his position on the couch. ‘You go on up. See you in the morning.’

‘Yes.’ Domine was reluctant to leave him, but she really had no choice. When Mark was in this mood, he was better left alone. ‘Goodnight, then.’

‘Goodnight.’

With the doors closed behind him, Domine mounted the stairs slowly, absorbing the peace and beauty of the building. The staircase had been hand-carved by a master of his craft, and the chandelier which illuminated the square hall below was a brilliant example of cut glass. The portrait at the head of the stairs was Grandpa’s with a smaller one of Grandmama and her two sons further along the gallery, but Domine’s favourite was the painting of her horse, Minstrel, that Grandpa had bought her for her fourteenth birthday. She supposed he would have to be sold, too, and she made a mental note to speak to Mrs Grant at the riding school, to see if she would take him. He was a gentle creature, and she would rather he was sold to someone she knew so that she might see him again from time to time. And then she remembered what Mark had said about selling Griffons, and a lump came unbidden to her throat. If the house was sold, she didn’t think she would be able to bear living in the neighbourhood, so it didn’t really matter who bought Minstrel.

Her bedroom was a quiet sanctuary, and she closed the door wearily, leaning back against it as she surveyed her domain. It was a spacious room, made the more so by the use of light colours and pale wood. Her bed was wide and comfortable, its sprigged coverlet a hangover from the days of her childhood. The old-fashioned wardrobes she had once had had been replaced by a modern vanity unit, and there was a walnut desk where she used to do her homework, and a stereo music centre, with speakers set up near the ceiling. She had always been given everything she wanted, but she realised, too, how much she had taken for granted.

Moving away from the door, she tugged off her belt and then, on impulse, surveyed herself in the long mirrors. Her outfit was not so outrageous. At least the smock was not transparent, and she had worn a strapless bra. She dreaded to think what he might have thought of her in tight jeans and a skinny-knit sweater, and then decided she would like the opportunity to find out. It might be quite amusing to shock a man like him, to show him exactly how far she dared go. What had she to lose, after all? After tomorrow she might never see him again. No, tomorrow evening she would wear the black satin cat-suit she had been saving for a suitable occasion. Then let him look at her with that supercilious, holier-than-thou expression!

Of course, by the next day her indignation had waned. The cold light of a February morning was sobering, and the more immediate anxiety of deciding her future dispelled her aggression of the night before. Mr Holland, her grandfather’s solicitor, had asked her to come and see him at ten o’clock, and in the activity of preparing for the appointment she had little time to think of childish retaliations. She dressed in a brown suede pants suit, with leather fringing at the cuffs and hem, and was gathering up her handbag preparatory to leaving the house when the telephone rang.

As she was right beside it, she answered it, picking up the receiver automatically and giving their number.

‘I would like to speak to Miss Temple, please,’ said the deep accented tones which had haunted her dreams, and she was tempted to drop the receiver there and then, and get Mrs Radcliffe to tell him that she had already left. But before she could formulate any defence, he added: ‘That is Miss Temple, is it not? How fortunate that I caught you.’

‘Caught me?’ Domine spoke faintly. ‘I—don’t understand …’

‘You have an appointment with Holland this morning, do you not?’ he suggested. ‘I hoped to reach you before you left for his office.’

‘Oh?’ Domine was gathering herself with difficulty, holding the phone with both hands to disguise the tremor of her wrist. ‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted to invite you to have lunch with me,’ he replied smoothly. ‘And because I also wanted to ask you not to make any decisions about your future until you have spoken to me.’

Domine was aghast. ‘But we’re having dinner together——’

‘With your brother, yes, I know,’ he interrupted flatly. ‘However, what I wish to discuss with you I would prefer to discuss in private, therefore I am requesting you join me here, at the hotel, at one o’clock.’

‘I’m afraid——’ Domine was beginning coldly, when she became aware of a movement behind her, and glancing round she found her brother coming stealthily down the stairs, still in his pyjamas.

‘Aguilar?’ he mouthed silently, and half impatiently, she nodded.

‘Are you still there, Miss Temple?’

The Peruvian’s voice was coldly demanding, but Mark was gesticulating urgently. Obviously he had heard her responses to what was being said, and had guessed what Señor Aguilar wanted.

‘Go!’ he mouthed, gesturing positively. ‘Find out what he wants.’

Domine sighed, and shaking her head uneasily, she said: ‘I’m still here, señor.’

‘Well?’ He was impatient now. ‘Will you join me for lunch?’

Mark was nodding vigorously, and much against her better judgment Domine found herself agreeing. The appointment was made, but when the receiver was replaced, she turned on Mark with angry resentment.

‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’ she exclaimed, aware that her palms were still moist and her heart was beating twice as fast as it should have done. ‘I didn’t want to have lunch with him, as it happens. I’d promised to meet Susie at half past twelve in Lewis’s.’

‘I’ll meet her, if you like,’ declared Mark laconically, sinking down on to a stair about a third of the way up, but Domine repudiated his offer.

‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,’ she retorted, looping the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. ‘I’ll phone her—later.’

‘What you mean is, you don’t really have an arrangement at all,’ Mark commented, with wry humour. ‘Anyway, what did he say?’

‘Don’t you know?’ Domine moved towards the door.

‘I heard the phone ring, that was all,’ Mark replied. ‘Then as I came downstairs I heard what you were saying.’

‘Mmm!’ Domine was still infuriated at her own submission. ‘Well, I’m late. I have to go …’

‘Do you think he fancies you?’

Mark could be infuriatingly sensitive at times, and Domine was glad she could turn away and swing open the door to cool her heated cheeks. ‘I think that’s the last thing he’s aware of,’ she remarked, stepping out into the damp, misty air, and the annoying thing was, she was almost certain she was right.

CHAPTER TWO

THE four-star Crillon Hotel stood in a side street, just off Manchester’s main square. Domine did wonder why he had not checked into the five-star Piccadilly, but perhaps he preferred the less hectic conservatism of the smaller hotel. In any event, it was nothing to do with her where he chose to stay, inasmuch as neither she nor Mark was expected to foot the bill.

She was still absently considering the things Mr Holland had told her, and finding the Crillon car park was full, she spent several fruitless minutes driving round and round the square, trying to find somewhere else to leave the small Porsche which her grandfather had given her six months ago on her eighteenth birthday. Eventually she managed to ease it into a limited-period parking area, and hurried across the park, aware that she was going to be rather late. It was all very well telling herself that she didn’t care whether he had waited for her or not, but the fact that she was virtually obliged to see him again this evening quickened her step, realising as she did that Mark might well be made to suffer for her tardiness.

One of several hall porters opened the swing glass doors for her as she mounted the shallow steps, and thanking him she looked apprehensively round the reception area. There seemed to be no sign of Señor Aguilar, and she looked anxiously at her watch. It was already after quarter past, and she wondered if he had gone into the restaurant without her.

She was just considering what she ought to do next when a voice said: ‘Miss Temple?’ and she looked up to find herself confronted by a black-coated waiter.

‘Yes?’ she nodded, swallowing her alarm, and he gave her a polite smile.

‘Mr Aguilar is waiting for you in the bar, Miss Temple,’ the man said, indicating the archway behind him. ‘If you’ll follow me …’

With as much self-possession as she could muster, Domine followed the man through the archway and into a discreetly lit bar-lounge. There were tables and armchairs, low banquettes upholstered in red leather, and tall stools at the bar, with circular red seats. There were several people in the room, some seated at the tables, others just standing around, and others occupying the stools at the bar. She saw Aguilar at once. He was seated at the bar, but at her approach he slid off his stool and came to greet her.

‘Miss Temple,’ he said, bowing over her hand. ‘How nice of you to come.’ Almost as if he had doubted she might.

Domine waited until he had released her hand and then thrust it awkwardly into the hip pocket of her pants. She saw his gaze flick over her, and wondered what his opinion was today, but then he was asking her what she would like to drink and she endeavoured to concentrate on the mood of the moment.

He looked very little different from the previous evening. He had discarded his dinner jacket, of course, but his lounge suit was just as dark, the grey silk tie he wore with it matching his shirt. She couldn’t help noticing that he attracted the attention of other women in the bar, and when he seated himself on the adjoining stool and his knee brushed her thigh, she was made disturbingly aware of the effect he had on her.

Having accepted her usual Martini, Domine allowed her gaze to move sideways, alighting on his dark profile, trying to guess why he had invited her for lunch. It would have been flattering to think he was attracted to her, but after the look he had given her the night before, she distrusted his suave courtesy. Whatever he wanted, it was not personal, though remembrance of that fleeting contempt rekindled her desire to make him squirm.

With this in mind she rested one elbow on the bar, and turning towards him, gave him the full benefit of her most winning smile. As she moved, the tantalising fragrance she wore drifted to his nostrils, her hair a silky silver curtain about her shoulders.

‘It was—kind of you to invite me to lunch,’ she said now, allowing the fingers of her other hand to lightly touch his sleeve. Her nails gleamed with polish, long and silvery, like her hair, her lips parting over even white teeth. ‘It was so unexpected, Señor—or may I call you Luis?’

His sleeve was withdrawn from her fingers, and she was subjected to a glacial scrutiny. ‘I think you misunderstand my motives, Miss Temple,’ he declared harshly. ‘My reasons for inviting you to lunch were not—personal ones.’

‘No?’ She pretended disappointment. ‘Then what?’

He raised his glass to his lips, swallowed a mouthful of the pale lager he was drinking before replying. Then he said severely: ‘I wanted to speak with you about your cousin.’

‘Lisel?’

‘Lisel, yes.’

Domine was intrigued. This was not what she had expected. ‘What about her?’

Aguilar frowned, and sought about in his pocket until he brought out a small cigar case. Putting one of the narrow cheroots between his teeth, he continued: ‘You will recall what I have told you about her already? She is—how shall I say?—not used to meeting strangers.’ He paused as he lit the cheroot with a slim gold lighter. ‘Coming to England, if indeed she ever does, will be a terrifying experience for her.’

Domine pulled a wry face. ‘So?’

His mouth tightened, the lines that bracketed it deepening. ‘You are not at all like her, are you? You do not begin to understand how she might be feeling.’

Domine felt indignant. ‘How could I? Does she know how I’m feeling right now? Of course not. We’re two different people. We’ve had a different upbringing.’

‘That, alas, is true,’ he responded curtly, and she did not misunderstand his preference. ‘But it may be that you could—help her.’

‘Me?’ Domine was astounded. ‘How could I help such a—a paragon?’

It was hardly wise to taunt him, but his evident admiration for her cousin was irritating, and Domine was not used to being ignored. Besides, he was expecting too much if he thought she could stick around, knowing Griffons would have to be sold, seeing everything she had ever loved come under the auction hammer, just to help the one person who was responsible for destroying her and Mark’s lives.

‘You are bitter,’ Luis Aguilar said now, irritating her even more. ‘That is understandable. But I must point out that your cousin cannot be held responsible for your grandfather’s aberrations.’

Domine glared at him. ‘Thank you, but I don’t require a lecture from you concerning my grandfather’s behaviour, aberrant or otherwise! And while we’re on the subject, I am not bitter; sad, perhaps, but not bitter!’

Her outburst had annoyed him, she could see that, and his next words confirmed it. ‘It seems to me that Sir George knew what he was doing when he made his last will and testament,’ he commented crushingly. ‘Neither you nor your brother seem to have any self-discipline whatsoever, and behave for the most part like a pair of irresponsible children!’

Domine clenched her fists. ‘Then what could we possibly do to help Lisel?’ she demanded, uncaring in the heat of the moment what Mark might think of her behaviour, and was almost gratified when he retorted:

‘I cannot for the life of me imagine!’ in cold chilling tones.

Of course, after that there was nothing more to say, thought Domine rather tremulously. Deciding she would not wait for him to walk out on her, she would walk out on him, she made to slide off her stool, but to her astonishment his hand came out and gripped her arm, preventing her from making her escape. She parted her lips to make some angry objection, and then closed them again when he turned those night-dark eyes in her direction. She did not comprehend the meaning in their hypnotic depths, but she could not move under that paralysing appraisal, her breath coming in shallow gulps as she returned his stare.

‘Wait!’ he commanded, and she realised how close he had been to losing his temper. ‘Perhaps my words were—careless, reckless; call them what you will. However, I tell myself, I would rather you were honest with me than—than merely paying lip service to my position.’

His position! Domine gazed at him in bewilderment. What position? What did he mean? As Lisel’s friend? Her adviser? Or was he hinting that he had power of attorney to act on her behalf?

She became aware that his fingers were numbing her wrist, but she had no desire for him to relax them. On the contrary, she liked him touching her, and there was the growing realisation that she was arousing him to show emotion. Until that moment he had displayed a singular lack of any kind of feeling, except perhaps contempt, and there was a curious satisfaction in knowing she had succeeded where Mark, even at his most objectionable, had not.

As if he was aware of what she was thinking, his hand was immediately withdrawn, and she looked down at the livid marks his fingers had left on her skin. She did not bruise easily, but she would be surprised if she had nothing to show for this afternoon’s violence, and his warring expression revealed his consciousness of that fact. No doubt he was regretting his behaviour bitterly, and the opportunity it had given her to expose his lack of self-control.

‘I am sorry,’ he said now, not looking at her, but hunching his shoulders over his glass, staring concentratedly at the row of coloured bottles which highlighted the back of the bar. ‘I did not mean to hurt you. I simply wanted—time to explain why I had brought you here.’

‘Yes?’

She refused to help him, and he went on more slowly: ‘My intention was to ask whether you would be agreeable to visiting your cousin. I would like you to come to Puerto Limas, to stay near your cousin, to befriend her. To prepare her, if you can, for the way of life she will be expected to contend with if she comes to England.’

He looked at her then, but now Domine was so shocked she found it impossible to sustain the advantage she had gained. ‘You—want me to—to come to Peru?’ she gasped, and when a movement of his head implied his consent: ‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Why not?’ The dark features were a mask hiding his true feelings. ‘She is your cousin, after all, a blood relation. Surely that must mean something to you.’

‘We probably don’t put as much emphasis on blood relationships as you do,’ replied Domine dazedly, trying to come to terms with his new disclosure. He was asking her to visit Peru, she kept telling herself incredulously, he was actually suggesting she should travel more than six thousand miles to stay with a cousin she had not even met!

Shaking her head, she looked at him doubtfully, trying to understand his reasoning. ‘But you don’t even like me,’ she protested, incredulity giving way to practicality. ‘Do you?’

His hesitation was scarcely flattering. ‘I would rather not discuss personalities, Miss Temple,’ he declared at length. ‘I am prepared to concede that the women of my acquaintance do not behave as you do, but I am equally disposed to admit that Englishmen do not treat their women with the same—respect. Therefore no analogy can be made.’

Domine’s indignation was superseded by her curiosity. ‘Are you married?’ she asked, unable to use the formal señor as she asked the unpalatable question, and his dark brows ascended with evident impatience.

‘I suggest we go and have lunch,’ he essayed firmly, making no attempt to satisfy her inquisitiveness. ‘I took the liberty of ordering for us both when you were delayed, and the waiter has just signalled that all is now prepared.’

The dining room of the Crillon was all ornate carving and fine lace curtains. The tablecloths were lace, too, and their table was set against the wall, partially concealed by a huge rubber plant. The head waiter himself saw them seated, and after the smoked salmon had been served Domine spent some little time looking about her.

‘It’s very—Victorian, isn’t it?’ she remarked absently, not really thinking to whom she was speaking, and then grimaced when she realised she had his undivided attention. ‘I mean …’ she shrugged awkwardly, ‘all lace curtains and potted palms. Or in this case, a potted rubber plant.’

‘You don’t like it?’ he queried, watching her with an intentness that was unnerving, and she hastened to correct his impression.

‘It’s not that. It’s just—well, different, that’s all.’

‘From reinforced steel and plate glass?’ he suggested drily. ‘Yes, I thought so, too. Although the plant looks out of place to me. I am used to seeing them in the wild. I regret this is a puny thing at best.’

‘You have rubber plants in Peru?’ Domine was interested.

‘Trees, mostly,’ he amended. ‘They grow wild in all parts of South America, most particularly in the rain forests of the Amazon basin.’

‘That’s in Brazil, isn’t it?’ Domine’s geography was not brilliant, but she knew a few elemental facts. ‘Have you been to Brazil?’

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth, increasing the disturbing activity of Domine’s nervous system. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied tolerantly. ‘I have been to Brazil. And to the Amazon basin.’

Domine was fascinated. ‘Have you seen the Angel Falls?’ she asked, resting her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her hands. ‘It’s the highest waterfall in the world, isn’t it? I saw a programme about it on television. It looked beautiful!’

‘It is,’ he agreed quietly. ‘But the falls are not in Brazil. It’s Venezuela you’re thinking of. Not the Amazon at all, but the Churun river.’

‘Is it?’ Domine pulled a wry face. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid geography was not my strong point.’

He shook his head. ‘South America is a long way from Manchester. I doubt, for instance, if I could tell you the source of the river Thames.’

‘I doubt if I could either!’ confessed Domine, with a gurgle of laughter, and for a moment their eyes met without either hostility or antagonism. He smiled, and it was miraculous how much younger he looked, the deeply-etched lines ironed away, his mouth mobile and sensitive. She wanted to go on looking at him, and a crazy impulse made her say: ‘You’re not disliking me so much now, are you, Luis?’ but as soon as the words were uttered she knew she had gone too far.

‘Whether or not I like you, Miss Temple, is not in question,’ he told her severely. ‘I suggest we return to the real reason for this meeting. Have you considered the suggestion I made to you?’

Domine pressed her lips together, irritated by his apparent ability to switch off any human feelings. For a second time she had had a brief glimpse of another side to his character, but he seemed determined not to allow any emotion to colour his judgment.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said now, refusing to be coerced. ‘And my name is Domine, as you know very well. You don’t call Lisel Miss Temple, and yet that’s her name as well.’

He gave her an impatient look, but the arrival of the waiter to clear their plates created a diversion. By the time their chicken casserole had been served, Domine had had time to wish she hadn’t brought Lisel’s name into their conversation, and she applied herself to the meal without expecting any response.

‘I have known—Lisel for a number of years,’ he surprised her by remarking, after the waiter had departed. Filling her glass with the mildly sweet hock he had chosen to go with the meal, he added: ‘I knew her father and her mother, and when they were killed, naturally I did what I could for the child.’

Domine’s eyes were wide. ‘You knew Uncle Edward, then?’

His mouth twisted. ‘As Edward Temple was Lisel’s father, that seems an unnecessary question.’

Domine flushed. ‘I was surprised, that’s all. I shouldn’t have thought Uncle Edward was your type.’ She paused. ‘Mark’s supposed to be very like him.’

‘Really?’ He raised his wine glass to his lips. ‘I find that hard to believe. When I knew Edward Temple, he was not at all like your brother. For one thing, he had abandoned the material world. Money meant nothing to him. He wrote poetry—and he painted; I have two of his water-colours myself. He seemed totally out of touch with your society, as I know it.’

Domine forked a piece of chicken into her mouth before replying. Then, thoughtfully, she said: ‘Perhaps it would be more to the point to say that the material world had abandoned him. My grandfather never forgave him for running away to get married, and I believe he never had a steady job for years. Writing poetry and painting water-colours might be very pleasant, but it seldom pays the bills.’ She produced a smug smile. ‘Grandpa’s words, not mine.’