Betrayed - By Ellie Jones Page 0,3

a shrug. “I can do rumour with the best of them…”

Chapter 2

“The flight is in three hours, Señor Saval. The driver is ready.”

Rafael nodded impatiently. “Gracias, Maria. I won’t be long.”

“Your Papá is adamant I make sure you’re ready on time. Please don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

The door softly closed behind her. The photograph lay on the desk, a nagging ghost from the past, not even a good image, not quite in focus, blurred because she’d been moving, but still evocative. He remembered being annoyed at the time; he’d wanted the picture to be good. She’d teased him too much, been coquettish, and turned repeatedly until he’d taken it anyway.

Damn Papá.

He glanced at his watch. Less than twenty minutes since he’d seen the sun sneak over the Sierra and already a heat haze threatened. Someone had turned on the air-conditioning; one of the staff hoping to get noticed for their efficiency probably. Perhaps he was too cynical, but even enemies behaved like friends when you held power. Sometimes he could hardly tell one from the other… Is that what Eduardo thought about him?

People called Rafael, El Fuego. The press said he destroyed without conscience because he’d closed some unproductive workshops. They called him a boy without pity; they also said he was a boy in grownup’s shoes, a man to be feared. He did nothing to dispel the image. Let them be afraid. Papá didn’t seem pleased with his reputation, but Papá was rarely pleased with anything. It didn’t matter whether it was work, nothing was ever good enough. Papá once said he despaired of him.

Damn Papá.

If Eduardo García had shown interest, he wouldn’t need to put up with Papá’s meddling. He still hadn’t given up on the idea of persuading him to join as a partner. Sometimes Eduardo just liked to prove his supremacy. Looking back, he should have talked to Eduardo’s English wife, Jenny, first. She might have influenced him. She would understand what Raphael meant.

Papá had shoved his nose in at the last minute. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with it until now. He hadn’t even wanted to talk about it. Only now, when it was blatant that they turned out unusual stuff, did Papá want to be involved. Predictably, he wanted the deal carried out his way, not the way Rafael wanted.

He flicked the photograph around again.

He’d first seen her outside the campus at Keele in England. He’d been taking a break, trying to clear his head of fug. The day had been hot, unusual for England.

He’d heard her yelling; there’d been two yobs. To his youthful eyes, she’d looked like a fragile beauty, a goddess to be placed in an ivory tower; yet drunks mauled her.

With deliberation he’d made them hospital cases, no mercy shown, the embryonic El Fuego, perhaps? His nose had been broken for stopping their pleasure but been worth it.

He turned again to the window. Fingers of illumination snaked over the sierras. Above the tree-line, jagged rocks snarled like teeth in the early light. Lower, where sun had not reached, snatches of smoke curled from fires where workmen burned rubbish.

Two weeks later, after he’d shown her not all males were thugs, she’d shared her bed with him, her first time, she’d later admitted, with embarrassment.

He’d been stupid in those days, would have given her the world if she’d asked. He could conjure up those emotions, even now. She’d been a gift, had taken to sex with feral enthusiasm. He’d wanted to stake his claim on her, but had stood no chance. No one would ever possess her; she’d been as ephemeral as mist.

Rafael stared at nothing. He thought he’d got over her. Seven years should have been enough. Now he wasn’t sure.

Through the window, sun bathed the land to the horizon. He’d grown up with this landscape, always thought it ordinary, yet suddenly it was appealing; the kind of place a man may well lose himself in, instead of doing this crap.

Damn Papá! Why had he turned something simple, into something so difficult?

He straightened his shirt cuffs, knotted his tie, and ran his fingers through his dark hair. He had it styled in Valencia nowadays. She’d once said he looked like a pirate, now people said he was suave.

The door opened quietly and Rafael heard Maria place on the table what he knew would be a steaming Colombian; thick and black just as he liked. Though early, she had insisted on being present to oversee his departure.

“El café negra, Señor.” Maria