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Hannah Fielding

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Beschreibung

A troubled young journalist goes undercover in Spain, and finds her loyalties tested when love and desire unearth secrets she hadn't bargained for. When Luna Ward, a beautiful ice-blonde graduate, is commissioned by a leading New York science journal to investigate the head of a Spanish alternative health clinic, she jumps at the chance. But her life becomes far more complicated once she meets the man she has been tasked to expose. Luna finds Rodrigo de Rueda Calderon to be a brilliant, outspoken oncology specialist with irresistible, dark gypsy looks and a devilish sense of humour. The pair are irrevocably drawn to each other, but how can she give herself up to a passion that threatens to topple all reason? And how could he ever learn to trust the person who has kept her identity from him, even though he has a terrible secret of his own? The lovers unearth dark and brooding dramas in their family histories, binding them together in a web of intrigue that threatens to bring their lives toppling down.

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Praise for Indiscretion (winner of the Gold Medal for Romance at the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards and Best Romance at the USA Best Book Awards):

‘A captivating tale of love, jealousy and scandal.’

The Lady

‘Indiscretion grips from the first. Alexandra is a beguiling heroine, and Salvador a compelling, charismatic hero … the shimmering attraction between them is always as taut as a thread. A powerful and romantic story, one to savour and enjoy.’

Lindsay Townsend, historical romance author

‘Rich description, a beautiful setting, wonderful detail, passionate romance and that timeless, classic feel that provides sheer, indulgent escapism. Bliss!’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘I thought Ms Fielding had outdone herself with her second novel but she’s done it again with this third one. The love story took my breath away … I could hardly swallow until I reached the end.’

Amazon.com review

Praise for Masquerade (winner of the Silver Medal for Romance at the IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards):

‘Secrets and surprises … Set in Spain in the 1970s, you’ll be enveloped in this atmospheric story of love and deception.’

My Weekly

‘Hannah Fielding writes of love, sexual tension and longing with an amazing delicacy and lushness, almost luxury. Suffused with the legends and lore of the gypsies and the beliefs of Spain, there is so much in this novel. Horse fairs, sensual dreams, bull running, bull fighters, moonlight swims, the heat and flowers and colours and costumes of the country. A superb read.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘This was honestly one of the most aesthetically pleasing and sensual books I’ve read in a long time.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘Masquerade contains the kind of romance that makes your heart beat faster and your knees tremble. This was a mesmerizing and drama-filled read that left me with a dreamy feeling.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘This engrossing, gorgeous romantic tale was one of my favorite reads in recent memory. This book had intrigue, mystery, revenge, passion and tantalizing love scenes that held captive the reader and didn’t allow a moment’s rest through all of the twists and turns … wonderful from start to finish.’

Goodreads.com review

‘When I started reading Masquerade I was soon completely pulled into the romantic and poetic way Hannah Fielding writes her stories. I honestly couldn’t put Masquerade down. Her books are beautiful and just so romantic, you’ll never want them to end!’

Goodreads.com review

Praise for The Echoes of Love (winner of the Gold Medal for Romance at the Independent Publisher Book Awards and Silver Medal for Romance at the Foreword Reviews IndieFAB Book Awards):

‘One of the most romantic works of fiction ever written … an epic love story beautifully told.’

The Sun

‘Fans of romance will devour it in one sitting.’

The Lady

‘All the elements of a rollicking good piece of indulgent romantic fiction.’

BM Magazine

‘This book will make you wish you lived in Italy.’

Fabulous magazine

‘The book is the perfect read for anyone with a passion for love, life and travel.’

Love it! magazine

‘Romance and suspense, with a heavy dose of Italian culture.’

Press Association

‘A plot-twisting story of drama, love and tragedy.’

Italia! magazine

‘There are many beautifully crafted passages, in particular those relating to the scenery and architecture of Tuscany and Venice … It was easy to visualize oneself in these magical locations.’

Julian Froment blog

‘Fielding encapsulates the overwhelming experience of falling deeply, completely, utterly in love, beautifully.’

Books with Bunny

Praise for Hannah Fielding’s first novel, Burning Embers:

‘An epic romance like Hollywood used to make …’

Peterborough Evening Telegraph

‘Burning Embers is a romantic delight and an absolute must-read for anyone looking to escape to a world of colour, beauty, passion and love … For those who can’t go to Kenya in reality, this has got to be the next best thing.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘A good-old fashioned love story … A heroine who’s young, naive and has a lot to learn. A hero who’s alpha and hot, has a past and a string of women. A different time, world and class. The kind of romance that involves picnics in abandoned valleys and hot-air balloon rides and swimming in isolated lakes. Heavenly.’

Amazon.co.uk review

‘The story hooked me from the start. I want to be Coral, living in a more innocent time in a beautiful, hot location, falling for a rich, attractive, broody man. Can’t wait for Hannah Fielding’s next book.’

Amazon.co.uk review

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Praise for Hannah Fielding

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

A Letter from Hannah

Q and A with Hannah Fielding

About the Author

Excerpt from Indiscretion

Also by Hannah Fielding

Copyright

Two shall be born, the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues, and have no thought Each of the other’s being; and have no heed;And these, o’er unknown seas to unknown landsShall cross, escaping wreck, defying death;And, all unconsciously, shape every act to this one end: That one day out of darkness they shall meetAnd read life’s meanings in each other’s eyes.

Susan M. Spalding, Fate

Prologue

Manhattan, 2010

Seven storeys below, the steady hum of mid-morning traffic underscored the fading brassy bellow of a fire truck. Not for the first time, Luna compulsively rearranged the papers on her desk into even neater piles, her gaze straying to the view outside, away from the words on her screen. The tall, arched windows of the converted nineteenth-century spice warehouse that was now the office of Scientific US magazine looked out over the smart Hudson Square neighbourhood of Lower Manhattan.

She didn’t like surprises. Her editor, Ted Vandenberg, had looked unusually cagey when he had asked to see her in his office in five minutes and now she was in a state of wary anticipation.

Why had Ted been so frustratingly cryptic?

She glanced at her watch and adjusted the blind to let in a fresh breeze from the open window. In the distance, the New York skyline shimmered in soaring peaks of reflecting glass and steel. The glaring sunlight of this crisp, blue-skied, early-spring day was dazzling, as if designed to confront and amaze the onlooker with the cityscape it illuminated: a vertical poem of proud, titanic proportions.

But here, on the western shore of Manhattan Island, where the fresh waters of the Hudson River met the salt waters of New York Bay, nestled this charming neighbourhood, south of Greenwich Village, a tangle of lower, older buildings and crooked, tree-lined streets. Luna revelled in the chaotic sprawl of its brownstone apartments, bars and jazz clubs, bohemian bookstores and galleries, and how the city’s iconic wooden water towers perched on high rooftops like giant Chinese lanterns. There was something fascinating about its clusters of pedestrians packing every sidewalk, a steady stream of human traffic flowing like water around stones in a burbling brook. To her ears, the familiar sounds of the streets were just as pleasing: a background cacophony of buskers’ music mixed with the tooting horns of yellow taxi cabs and the rumbling of meatpacking vans making their way from the food markets and warehouses of Tribeca and the West Village to restaurants, stores and hotels.

The anonymity of the huge city suited Luna. New York was a place that made her feel comfortable, like a protective cloak offering to cocoon her within its noisy, bustling chaos. Yet for all its reassuring camouflage, sometimes she felt the elemental forces of life were overwhelming. Something inside her was as chaotic as the metropolis outside, bursting to get out, and she fought to contain it every day.

The dream had come again last night. She had woken suddenly, as she always did, clammy and panting, her deafening heartbeat thumping against her ribs, her own pleading voice echoing loudly in her ears. The nightmare hadn’t visited her for a while. She wondered if this time it had been triggered by the intense designer from the art department, who had asked her to have coffee with him; something about his hooded gaze, the intent expression … Luna remembered the panic that had rippled through her at his invitation and now she tried to throw off the feeling of unease that pressed on her mind, combining oppressively with her lack of sleep.

Distractedly, she pushed her long, blonde hair back behind her ears. She was twenty-five but nevertheless still did not feel like a grown woman. Instead, she was trapped in a world of dark, shadowy memories, isolated yet fearing the light. In many ways being alone was safe and so appealing. Why then did this gnawing feeling of restless emotion plague her? It smouldered quietly within her, threatening at any moment to become an all-consuming blaze. On top of that, there was Angelina … She missed her dreadfully.

‘Luna, let’s talk now, shall we?’

Jolted from her troubled thoughts, she looked up. A few feet away, Ted Vandenberg was standing in the doorway of one of the side offices on the open-plan floor. Short and rotund, with a shock of almost white hair, his bright blue eyes twinkled behind circular pale-rimmed spectacles. Half in conversation with a gangling male colleague who was shuffling papers back into a leather bag, he smiled and motioned her over.

‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished with Nate, here.’

Luna composed herself and nodded. ‘Sure. Thanks, Ted.’

She slipped past him into his office. Inside the frosted glass wall of her boss’s inner sanctum, bookcases ran along one exposed brick wall while framed photos lined the white-painted walls. Her eyes scanned the images: covers of old editions of the magazine dating back to the late nineteenth century, journalism awards, colourfully graphic science posters, and black-andwhite photographs of famous scientists. Unlike Luna’s own pristine workspace, here papers littered every surface, and more books were stacked up on chairs or were arranged in precarious towers on the floor.

As Luna cleared a seat and sat down, she spied a folder on Ted’s large, antique mahogany desk and was startled to see her name on it. She glanced nervously back to the empty doorway, still hearing Vandenberg’s voice murmuring outside. Sheets of paper were spilling from the folder’s side and Luna half stood to take a closer look. The edge of the top page revealed a small profile picture of a dark-haired man wearing glasses. Tempted to get a better view of the folder’s contents, she stretched out an arm and had only got as far as touching the edge when the door creaked softly behind her.

‘“Curiosity is one of the most permanent and certain characteristics of a vigorous intellect.” That’s what Samuel Johnson said. Astute man.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Luna said, returning to her seat hurriedly.

Ted Vandenberg walked behind his desk and sank into his chair, grinning at her. Beneath the tufts of white hair was a kindly face with a low brow, short nose and a broad mouth that was prone to break into a toothy smile, making him look somewhat like an animated turtle, Luna always thought. Full of energy, with a buoyant and congenial demeanour, he also had a sharp intellect that she appreciated. In fact, she liked Ted very much, despite his untidy habits and propensity to be late for meetings, qualities that usually irked her in other people.

She shifted in her chair, deliberately not glancing at the folder.

‘That’s what I like to see in a scientist,’ Vandenberg beamed, motioning towards the folder and pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. ‘Curiosity. The best scientists and explorers are like five-year-old children. They never stop asking questions: “Who, what, where, why, when and how?” Curiosity is the well from which we scientists draw our sustenance and energy, Luna, so don’t be afraid to use it.’ He raised his dark, bushy eyebrows. ‘I’ve always thought you had the makings of a first-rate investigative journalist actually. I’m getting ahead of myself, though … How long have you been with us now?’

‘Just over six months.’

What was he getting at? Was he about to say that she was unsuited to the work she’d been assigned? Luna’s large amber eyes studied his face for evidence of any disapproval but he simply smiled back with a similarly appraising look.

He stood up and moved towards a side cabinet. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, coffee would be good, thanks.’

Vandenberg poured steaming coffee from a chrome jug into two mismatched bone-china cups. ‘I took you on because, with first-class honours in Molecular Biology from Princeton, followed by an impressive PhD in Science Communication, you’re a scientist with perfect academic credentials. But it’s more than that. You’re bold, inquisitive and rigorous. In short, if you haven’t yet realized it, you’ve got all the makings of a topnotch science journalist. You were right not to go into research, far too restrictive for you. In the few months you’ve been here, I’ve become convinced you have the kind of investigative instincts I need.’

Luna flushed a little at the compliment, choosing not to say anything, but instead willing him to cut to the chase. Her eyes shone. This was it: the break she’d been longing for.

Vandenberg handed her a cup and sat down. Clasping his hands together, he rested them on his ample stomach. ‘Now you know we credit ourselves with impeccable, unbiased research. I’ve been chewing on this for a few days, as I have a feeling, and I don’t want to speak out of turn here, that you have a personal interest in alternative cancer therapies, possibly even an axe to grind, and this might not make you as unbiased as I’d have liked.’

At this, Luna tried to interrupt, but he raised a hand before continuing.

‘Having said that, Luna, I think a passionate and focused interest is exactly what makes a great article.’

He paused and though the office was cool he wiped his brow with his handkerchief in a habitual gesture. ‘We’re wanting a full-length feature done on The Institute for the Research of Natural Remedies, a not-for-profit organization based in Andalucía. I can tell by your face you’ve heard of it.’

Luna couldn’t help her eyes widening. Of course she had heard of it. Her cousin Angelina had been treated in a place like that in California before she died. At work Luna had always fiercely guarded her private life although she had confided in her boss somewhat when she’d asked for a few days’ compassionate leave to attend Angelina’s funeral. She pressed down her emotions and schooled her features into a look of casual attentiveness.

‘Well, good,’ Vandenberg continued. ‘The Institute is starting to hit the medical press in a big way, with its cutting-edge, although possibly questionable, use of some rather wacky herbal treatments, among other things.’

Luna couldn’t help interjecting: ‘I bet that’s been ruffling a few feathers at some of the pharmaceuticals.’

He smiled and gestured in agreement. ‘Indeed. I was talking about that very thing last night with a couple of big hitters in the business. One of those huge dinner parties in the Upper East Side that Professor Henderson throws for the Science Academy.’

For a moment he looked at her pensively, as if about to say something else.

‘Anyway, Luna, the guy that runs the operation at this Institute, who likes nothing better than thumbing his nose at Big Pharma cheeses, is the one I’d like you to investigate. He’s had all the orthodox medical training, though now he’s “gone bush”, you might say. Thing is, he’s got a brain the size of a bus and he talks a good game. Sounds very credible indeed, a powerful figure. A bit of a playboy too, by all accounts.’

‘What’s his name? Is that him?’ Luna pointed to the page spilling from the folder.

‘He’s called Dr Rodrigo Rueda de Calderón. And yes, there’s some background info for you there too.’

Luna reached for the folder and pulled out the sheets, skimming through the three-page profile on top. It was difficult to tell much from the small photo: though he was clearly younger than she expected, the dark-haired man wearing glasses simply looked groomed and official – hardly the look of a playboy. At first glance the doctor’s qualifications and achievements on his résumé appeared impressive.

‘So …’ Vandenberg looked at her directly, eyes twinkling. ‘Does this sound like your kind of thing? A bit of youthful ambition goes a long way in the world of undercover journalism. My instinct tells me you’ve got what it takes to put in the energy and legwork needed for an assignment like this.’

‘I would have to go to Spain?’

‘Yes, the clinic is in Cádiz. I understand you speak the language fluently too, which is a plus.’

‘For how long?’ Luna was already slightly queasy with trepidation. She hadn’t been back to Spain since she was a child and, even though she had fond memories of the country and its people, she had no desire to reacquaint herself with her Spanish relatives. That aside, there was also the subterfuge the assignment would necessarily entail. Would that sit comfortably with her? Yet this was an opportunity, in more ways than one, not to be dismissed lightly.

‘We were thinking of a month or so. Maybe more,’ affirmed Vandenberg. ‘We’ll apply for an unpaid internship for you, which shouldn’t be too difficult to secure. Get one of our contacts at Princeton to send over your résumé, so the Institute doesn’t find out that you’re working for us. The magazine will cover your expenses.’

Luna’s mind was already formulating the perspectives. ‘So you want a carefully researched exposé of the Institute and its charismatic, rebellious leader?’

‘I expect that’s what we’re looking at, yes.’ Vandenberg dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee and stirred, regarding her. ‘Nothing that might discredit the magazine, though. Proper research.’

‘So you think there’s an added angle here? Pharma companies hacked off with a flaky treatment programme that’s stealing their media space?’

‘There might be a story there. I can’t believe the good doctor is affecting their revenues to any great extent.’

‘I’m presuming the medical establishment has been loudly dismissing his treatments as just another example of pseudoscience?’

‘Of course, but that doesn’t mean your article has to toe the party line. Like I said, unbiased.’ He sipped his drink and chuckled. ‘But no harm in adding a bit of spice to the pot, is there? In fact, your uncle was there last night at the dinner. He has a lot of cash tied up in his research and patents, as you can imagine. Doesn’t take kindly to the herb peddlers who try to pass him on the inside.’ He chuckled again. ‘Actually, it’s usually water off a duck’s back. These guys are normally small fry but there’s a rumour Dr Rueda de Calderón is raising money for trials, which means he might be on to something with one of his treatments. And, as you so rightly pinpointed just now, your uncle is downright ornery at all the press the doctor’s been getting.’

At the mention of her uncle, Luna’s face had become impassive, though her fingers tightened on the papers. She picked up her cup and tried to sound casual.

‘So what is Lorenzo doing in New York?’

‘He’s over from California for a few days before he heads off on his tour of Europe. Impressive man, Herrera. A lot of drive. It’s easy to see how he’s managed to make his pharma company the largest in Spain. He’s really started making his mark over here too. Good luck to him.’

Luna took an overly large sip of coffee, wincing slightly as the heat scalded her tongue. ‘Yes, Uncle Lorenzo has always been single-minded in getting what he wants.’

That’s an understatement, she thought, glad that California was almost three thousand miles away.

She quickly changed the subject. ‘How long do you think it would take to get everything in place?’

A smile spread across Vandenberg’s face. ‘I’ve already made enquiries to fast-track an application to the Institute. You could be in Cádiz this time next week.’

Luna put her cup down carefully on the desk, then looked at him intently for a few moments.

‘Okay, Ted. I’ll do it.’

* * *

A couple of hours later, Luna left the building and headed up Sixth Avenue to her favourite lunchtime deli. She had almost flinched when Ted mentioned alternative cancer therapy. It had been less than a year since Angelina’s death. Only twenty-one, her cousin had been so full of what she wanted to do with her life, her plans for the future. Luna’s grief was still so raw that whenever a recollection hit her, it was like a tooth coming into contact with something ice-cold, a pain that would jab away at her like a knife when she least expected it.

Pulling out her phone, she dialled a number and took a steadying breath. She listened to her aunt’s warm, enquiring voice at the other end.

‘Hi Aunt Bea. Yes, it’s Luna. I’ve got something important to tell you.’ Choosing her words carefully, she filled her aunt in on her conversation with Ted Vandenberg.

‘So, you see, this is a chance for us. Maybe there’s something positive we can get out of what happened to Angelina, if only to try to stop other people and their families falling prey to these charlatans,’ she continued, then waited, listening to the trembling voice of her aunt, before replying: ‘Yes, I agree. Clinics like this can’t get away with peddling false hope.

Chapter 1

Northern Spain, a few weeks later

Ten o’clock at night and Barcelona was just coming to life. Luna made her way along the crowded pavement, heading for Las Ramblas, the city’s well-known promenade. A few hours before, the aircraft that had brought her to the ‘Old World’, as some Americans referred to Europe, had landed. The flight had been delayed and the journey had been tiring, but Luna needed to stretch her legs. In New York it would only be late afternoon and she was still wide awake.

When she had arrived at her hotel, the Casa Montaner, Luna had deposited her luggage in the lobby, lit alluringly by the soft yellow and pink glow of Gaudí-inspired lamps. It was an elegant art-nouveau building in the Eixample district, just north of the old part of the city, with marble and stone pillars sweeping up to a vaulted ceiling. Despite the hotel’s welcoming atmosphere, Luna had immediately asked the way to the seafront. The friendly young concierge, recognizing she was American despite her fluent Spanish, had given her clear directions to Plaça del Portal de la Pau and Port Vell, Barcelona’s oldest port.

‘Hay una magnifica estatua de Cristóba Columbu en la plaza, there is a magnificent statue of Christopher Columbus in the square,’ he told her. His appreciative gaze took in Luna’s long, champagne-blonde hair and the amber eyes that shone through a fringe of dark lashes under perfectly arched brows. ‘You’ll find Port Vell at the end of Las Ramblas. It’s a pedestrian-only street with plenty of restaurants and bars. You can’t do better in Barcelona for entertainment. In fact, nowhere in the world are the nights as lively as in our tascas,’ he added with pride. ‘But take care of your wallet, señorita. Hey muchos carteristas en todo, there are many pickpockets around. Late at night, the southern end of the street in particular becomes less respectable, shall we say.’

Luna smiled. She had no intention of taking any unnecessary risks. Besides, she was from New York so she figured she could take care of herself well enough. ‘Thanks for the advice. Is Las Ramblas far?’

‘Diez minutos a pie en la mayoría de los, ten minutes’ walk at the most.’ The concierge pushed the registration book across the gleaming teak desk. ‘May I ask, are you in Barcelona for business or pleasure?’

‘I’m here for the conference tomorrow at the hotel,’ Luna confirmed, signing her name. ‘Then I’m travelling on to Cádiz.’

The concierge nodded politely and offered her a broad smile. ‘Ah yes, a very prestigious speaker, apparently, Professor Goldsmith. Well, have a pleasant evening, señorita, and enjoy your stay with us.’

‘Muchas gracias, you’ve been very helpful.’

It was a fine spring night and the roads were teeming as Luna walked through the Gothic quarter. Curious and exciting smells, not one in particular but a succession of warm and spicy aromas, hung in the still air. She tried to single them out: garlic, seafood, pimientos, saffron, hot oil, fried tomatoes and a host of others that she did not recognize. Occasionally she would catch the scent of flowers from neighbourhood gardens, a heady mix of roses, jasmine and tuberose. There was the unmistakable imprint of city life on every street corner that echoed New York, and yet the sheer exotic, foreign nature of the place was exquisite.

Everybody was out. By the looks of it, the credit crunch had not crushed Barcelona. Shops were still open at this late hour, doing a roaring trade. Restaurants and cafés with bright awnings spilled out on to the pavements. Crowds strolled to and fro at a snail’s pace, refusing to be hurried, seeking bargains and looking at everything. Traffic crawled and fumed, nose to tail along the oneway street, and from time to time Luna would pass a stationary car blasting thumping music out of its open windows. She was in Spain!

She walked with the self-assurance of someone who has grown up before her time. Comfortable in her flat-heeled pumps and stretch-denim jeans that moulded themselves perfectly to the contours of her trim figure, Luna was oblivious to the interest the easy, swinging movement of her hips was attracting. Men’s heads swivelled and their gaze lingered, following her with fascination, but she was immersed in her own thoughts.

She felt light-hearted. More than ever, she knew she had done the right thing. Yes, a part of her had been undeniably reluctant to go to Cádiz in case she should bump into her Spanish relatives yet such was her fascination for Spain it had overcome any other concerns.

And now here she was: Luna Emilia Ward – youngest daughter of Montgomery Ward, the well known American business tycoon, and Adalia Herrera, the beautiful Spanish socialite – back in Spain for the first time since those faraway childhood holidays. That evening, soaking up the unique atmosphere of the city, she wished she’d returned to her native country earlier, that she had been braver and had given in to the complicated tug of her roots.

Even though she was Spanish on her mother’s side, Luna had only been to Spain for short vacations when she was a child. What maternal coldness she had experienced in her early childhood had at least been offset by the joy of those holidays. The memories still glowed warmly inside her like a tiny, unextinguishable flame. They returned to her mind more vividly now than ever: playing in orange groves under the Spanish sun; the white hilltop villages; taking boats out in the perfect azure sea; the haunting sound of flamenco guitars; the endless festivities, and the friendly Spaniards, who were always so passionate about eating, drinking, making music and being happy. Something of the country had embedded itself in her and had slumbered all these years. She had kept up her Spanish, perhaps with the unconscious intention of returning one day.

Her parents had suffered an acrimonious divorce when she was seven. Adalia had taken the daughter from her first marriage, Luna’s half-sister Juliet, with her to Spain, while Montgomery had kept Luna in California. He had immediately packed her off to boarding school but she had, at least, the solace of holidays in California with her paternal grandparents. She also saw her cousin, Angelina, whenever she could. But she had never seen her mother again.

Luna had been twelve when Juliet, who was seven years older than her, died in a car accident while studying at a university on the east coast of America. Adalia, already an alcoholic by then, drank herself to death shortly afterwards. Adalia’s brother, Lorenzo, sought out Luna and, from then on, visited her and Montgomery twice a year in California.

As Luna later saw it, her Uncle Lorenzo, always astute when it came to serving his own interests, had made full use of her father’s business connections during his trips to the West Coast. Lorenzo Herrera owned a pharmaceutical company on the Costa de la Luz in Andalucía that was expanding into the rest of Europe, and his eye was firmly fixed on the US as his new base for Farmacéutica Corporationas. It was this, as much as his efforts at being an influential presence in his niece’s life, that had drawn him to California, though he always maintained he was chiefly there to ensure Luna never forgot her ‘proud Spanish heritage’.

His visits stopped abruptly around the time Luna was entering her teens. She had never found it in herself to accept a single one of her uncle’s invitations to his hacienda in Granada or his house in Cádiz. The very thought of having anything to do with her mother’s family had made her stomach churn. In fact, she ignored Adalia’s homeland altogether, just as her mother had mostly ignored the young Luna for the first few years of her life while in her care. When Luna grew up and started travelling the world on her own, she went to Egypt, Peru and China, never Spain.

It was not that she particularly minded spending most of her time alone while growing up. It meant that she could indulge her burgeoning intellectual curiosity unhindered. Fascinated by the precision and predictability of science and its quest for new discoveries about the universe, at high school her academic achievements soon stacked up, leading to places at Princeton and then Cornell. After that she had her pick of university research posts but, before she had a chance to decide on which offer to take up, Ted Vandenberg called. He’d read an article she’d submitted to his magazine, and now her investigative impulses switched direction. It had taken little persuasion to tempt Luna into journalism at Scientific US.

‘You have a nose for a story, scientific or otherwise,’ Vandenberg had told her.

Now she was to write her first big story for the magazine. Her hard work had paid off. As promised, the magazine had organized an internship. She would be assistant analyst and researcher at El Instituto de Investigación de los Recursos Naturales, The Institute for the Research of Natural Remedies. She gave a shiver of excitement. Tomorrow, after the conference, she would be on a plane to Cádiz, to a strange new life, albeit temporarily.

In Cádiz, she’d be near the sea. Maybe there she would sleep more soundly. Already she could feel an unexpected sense of freedom that seemed to permeate the air around her. Exhilarated by the vibrant surroundings, Luna walked quickly towards the main street, soaking up the atmosphere. She took a right turn and suddenly Las Ramblas was there. For a moment she stood, taking in the scene. The brightly lit promenade, adorned with plane trees, was seething with a river of people.

As she joined the cosmopolitan throng, it felt like all of the action – Barcelona’s entire nightlife – was centred on this wide, tree-lined street, from cosy traditional Spanish bars and restaurants to clubs lit up with neon. The hubbub was indescribable. Although seventies disco had become largely a thing of the past back home, it seemed to thrive in Barcelona and the pulsating music reverberated in the warm night air. Decaying movie houses, abandoned garages and long-closed vaudeville theatres had all been turned into colourful nightlife venues.

Luna could barely take in the staggering parade of diversions. There were booksellers, souvenir stands, flamenco dancers, clowns and acrobats. A dozen street performers, painted bronze or white like statues, wowed the crowds in a fantastic array of costumes, some standing or sitting, others moving in jerky mime. Luna found them somewhat eerie and, unlike other tourists, didn’t stop to take their photograph.

She passed a bank, whose façade was decorated with a huge model of a dragon and an umbrella, the fairy-tale flamboyance of which made her smile. Interrupting her brisk walk, this time she allowed herself a few minutes to pause and take some snapshots of its eccentric charm. Further down, people were having their portraits painted by street artists. A caricaturist approached Luna, offering to draw her. ‘Incluso en la caricatura no seria menos bella, even in caricature you would not look less beautiful,’ he told her. But she merely smiled and shook her head politely. ‘Tal vez en otro momento, maybe some other time,’ she said as she moved on.

The lights turned red when she reached the edge of Plaça del Portal de la Pau. Traffic roared around the colossal, brightly lit Columbus statue, which stood proudly in the middle of the square overlooking the sea. Here, the crowds suddenly thinned and the pavement was almost deserted, except for a group of shell-game touts. They gathered around Luna, jostling for her attention, standing too close: ‘Which shell is the pea under? Where are you heading, señorita?’ The red light flashed to green and, with a sigh of relief, she crossed over to Passeig de Colom and the sea.

Slowing her pace, she glanced around her, wondering which way to go next. The wooden swing bridge of Rambla del Mar was visible ahead, heaving with crowds. Standing under a streetlamp, she pulled a small map from her pocket. Despite the noise on this wide avenue of palm and orange trees, she could hear the vague hissing roll of the Mediterranean as it licked the expansive shoreline and knocked against the smart yachts docked in the marina. Above the yellow glow of the city, the sky was a deep sapphire blue. The playful night breeze lifted Luna’s blonde mane, gentle, constant and cool. The air was sparkling, flavoured with the tang of the sea. Luna inhaled deeply, taking in the freshness of the night air. She passed her tongue over her lips and tasted salt.

Soon she was besieged by hawkers with a variety of cheap wares. She hung on to the small leather shoulder bag swinging freely by her side and clasped it firmly under one arm as she quickened her pace. The concierge at the hotel had warned of pickpockets in this part of the city; if she lost her bag, she would have only herself to blame.

She was about to turn back when she caught strains of music and bursts of clapping coming from a narrow side street to her left. Flamenco music … her favourite.

Luna hesitated, pondering whether to go off in search of it. It wasn’t part of her plan. The distant frenzied notes vibrated on the night air, sending a delicious hum through her body. She had been to a few flamenco shows in Las Vegas and in other parts of the US, but had always wanted to see a live show in Spain. The sensible voice inside her head told her that she would have plenty of opportunity to see flamenco over the coming months, and that it was foolish to follow a whim when she should be getting back to the hotel, but right at that moment Luna was tempted to give in to her curiosity and follow the sound. In fact, something stronger than curiosity beckoned, something more alluring and seductive, that seemed to stir her soul – a call of enchantment drifting through the night air. In answer, she stepped quickly into the alleyway.

The sinuous passage was paved with cobblestones and was badly lit. It was empty, save for a few couples that stood in the shadows, absorbed in each other. Both sides were lined with the colourful façades and beautiful wrought-iron balconies of secretive houses, their drawn-down persianas and wooden doors jealously guarding the lives of their owners. Luna wondered about the hidden inhabitants, just as she had done a few years back when gliding in a gondola past the magnificent but eerie shuttered palaces of Venice. Here, just as in the streets of the Gothic quarter, the air was laden with fascinating smells; this time the piquant aroma of cooking mingled with wood smoke and the ozone of the sea.

With rising anticipation, and ignoring her better judgement, Luna moved along the narrow lane into deeper darkness. The distant music and the rhythmic clapping and tapping of feet came to her in waves; sometimes it seemed nearer, then farther away. A cat crept noiselessly out of the shadows, making her jump, and flashed its phosphorescent eyes before scampering away and disappearing into the small, gated entrance of one of the houses. Suddenly she was aware of the sound of her footsteps on the cobblestones and she felt a frisson of fear. She knew she was being reckless by persevering down this maze of dark alleys but, having gone so far now, she was not about to turn back.

Unexpectedly, at an abrupt bend in the narrow street, the sound of live, full-blooded flamenco music burst out once more, echoing through the night. It came from a nightclub a few yards away, its façade painted with warm sunny colours under the flashing fluorescent sign El Cabo de Oro.

Now, as she approached the tavern, Luna could clearly hear the loud clapping of hands, the olés, and the clinking of glasses. She hesitated outside the bright walls a few moments longer, a curtain of beads the only thing separating her from the exuberant sounds of the show.

Finally, she pushed it aside and went down the few steps leading into the dimly lit room below. Anti-smoking campaigns had obviously not reached this wild little world, she noted, engulfed by the hazy atmosphere.

Here, the cuadro flamenco sat in a semicircle on a platform at the far end of the room with that part open to the night sky. The troupe played its music at a fast tempo, while the audience clapped their hands and stamped their feet in rhythm on the tiled floor with cries of olé to encourage the young dancer. A girl was singing hoarsely, seductively, and her castanets marked their own syncopated rhythm.

Lamps on the red painted walls threw out a warm amber glow, illuminating an assortment of bullfighting posters, advertisements, and photographs of toreros and flamenco dancers. On one side, to the right, stood a long, wooden bar lined with endless bottles of different shapes and colours and topped by a row of gleaming glasses. Tended by a scraggy-looking waiter chewing a quid of tobacco, most of the clientele sat on cane stools along the bar, eating tapas or drinking around low tables made from empty wine barrels. To the left of the stage, an arched roof opened out on to a walled patio, where a small number of people sat drinking and chatting in the balmy evening air.

Luna made her way deeper into the room, looking for a table nearer the patio where she would be less affected by the fug of smoke. The tavern was packed. The audience was mostly men and what women there were, were all accompanied. Luna was the only single woman in the place, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She began to regret her rash decision. Back in New York she had never been to a bar alone, so why had she suddenly decided it was a good idea to do so on her first night in Barcelona? Her pale blonde hair and pearly complexion caused her to stand out starkly against the darker colouring of the Spaniards who filled the club.

There was a drop in the level of noise as she became an object of interest. Men’s eyes were drawn to her like a magnet. Some of them whispered to each other, casting sidelong glances. Women also stared, their eyes narrowing, reflecting quite a different sentiment altogether. The cuadro had stopped playing while the musicians sipped their wine and a new dancer emerged from the background to take over the lead. Luna stood at the side of the seated audience and glanced around.

Maybe I should go back, she thought, feeling distinctly out of place.

And then it happened … their eyes met across the room and held for a long moment. The effect was electric and hit Luna like a bolt of lightning. His gaze, fringed by long black lashes, burned with a fire that scorched her as it moved slowly and deliberately over her face, then her body, with frank admiration, as if drinking in her every feature. Though she could not see the exact colour of his eyes at this distance, she knew they were paler than his tanned complexion – brilliant and alive with passion.

The man before her was mesmerizing in his perfect male beauty. His bold, open stare should have made her want to turn and run but something more powerful than she had ever experienced, a shot of pure adrenaline in her blood, had her rooted to the spot.

In that split second of silent meeting, Luna’s heart seemed to turn over in her breast and her pulse accelerated to a wild beat.

‘Puedo llevar a la señorita un vaso de sangria y unas tapas? Can I bring the señorita a glass of sangria and some tapas?’ The solicitous voice of the waiter brought Luna back down to earth with a bump. As she hesitated, still a little confused, he smiled at her. ‘I’ve got a free table, down at the front. It’s a hot night and you’ll have a perfect view of the band.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ In a daze she followed the waiter and took her place outside, under the starry sky, as the fiery music started up again.

Luna’s gaze was drawn back to the stage, to that sculpted face.

He was one of the musicians, and a gypsy, she had no doubt. Now he took up a mandolin and began to accompany the two other guitarists and a drummer who was beating a tabla, a type of drum she remembered having seen in Egypt, with an opening at one end. A couple of girls from the audience had joined the cuadro and the dancer on stage. The atmosphere was spontaneous and wild.

From her vantage point, Luna had a full view of her gypsy and she could survey him without it being too obvious. His hair was black, thick and shining, swept back from a broad forehead. The hair was rather long, she noted, but perhaps not that long for a gitano. A few tendrils fell across his brow from time to time as he moved his head to the music. His chiselled features were strong, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose that seemed more aristocratic than gypsy, though this was belied by the crackling aura of raw danger that seemed to emanate from him.

His mouth was wide and inviting, with smooth, slightly bowed lips that prompted illicit thoughts in Luna, thoughts that raced uninvited through her head and made her shiver despite the warmth of the night. Now she could see that the eyes that had met hers with such intensity were blue, a deep, unfathomable blue, like the skies and the seas of his country. Luna wondered at his age: mid-thirties, maybe a little younger.

As the dancer finished her set and retreated, the gypsy stood up, came forward and murmured an announcement of the next song, making a fresh thrill ripple up Luna’s spine at the husky, masculine sound of his voice. He started the rhythmic clapping of a toca de mano, and the waiter went round refilling glasses while the audience joined in, working up to a crescendo of hand-claps until the whole tavern shook with cries of ‘olé’ and ‘anda’.

The gypsy was much taller than Luna had guessed – over six feet, with a perfectly proportioned, lithe body. Wide shoulders and a broad chest, narrow hips and muscled thighs clad in a pair of jeans that hugged his form so well it left little to the imagination. She was aware of his intense magnetism, which was just as powerful as his steely physique. At this distance, she could detect the dark, curling hair lightly covering his chest just visible at the neck of the faded T-shirt he wore with surprising panache.

The muscles of his arms flexed as this time he picked up a guitar and strummed a rapid cascade of chords. He gazed down into her eyes. The dazzling white smile he gave her almost stopped her heart and she lowered her head to hide her confusion.

As the rhythmic clapping subsided, he began to sing. His voice was rich and mellow, warm with vibrant tones and tingling with emotion, beguiling and beckoning like a filtre d’amour that scrambled her thoughts and stirred primitive and alarming desires within her. The music was plaintive and feverish, and as Luna watched his long fingers alternately strum and flick across the strings of his guitar, first lightly and then harder at lightning speed, she found herself wondering how those hands would feel on her skin. His songs were in Caló so she could not understand the words, but she could sense the intensity of feeling that went into the full, vigorous notes and although he sang to the audience, she knew from the sensuous intimacy in his eyes that he was singing for her alone.

Luna sat breathless, her gaze fixed on his expressive face, stirred to the depths of her soul.

He was applauded madly as the last notes of his passionate melody faded and his fingers lay still on the guitar. Luna clapped as long and loudly as everyone else. New customers were now piling into the tavern, and she shook herself out of her trance and tried to wrestle back her grip on reality. She glanced at her watch: it was past one o’clock in the morning. The gypsy guitarist was surrounded by fans, young and old, and was obviously enjoying the attention. She must be thinking of getting back, she told herself, her eyes lingering on the broad, muscular back of the guitarist as he headed for the bar. She wondered if she would find a taxi at this hour. After signalling to the waiter she paid her bill, leaving a generous tip.

Then, on impulse, she took out of her purse a fifty-euro note. ‘Por favor dar a este al guitarrista que acaba de cantar, please give this to the guitarist who just sang,’ she told him.

The waiter grinned broadly. ‘Gracias, muchas gracias, señorita,’ he said, giving a curt bow. ‘But things are only warming up. Are you sure you won’t stay and enjoy the dancing?’

As if on cue, the musicians still on stage took up a fast, syncopated thrumming on their guitars and the whole crowd whooped and broke into wild stamping again.

‘You see, señorita, the night is still young, as they say.’

Luna stood up and smiled, calling on all her self-discipline. ‘Not for me, I’m afraid. But thank you, the music has been wonderful,’ she said, and started to make her way back through the room as the waiter hurried off to deliver her tip.

People jostled past Luna in their eagerness to join the dancing, which by now had spilled out on to the patio. The relentless rhythm of the music seemed to grow louder as if calling her back. And then she looked up at the bar.

He was there with the waiter, who was saying something in his ear and pointing in Luna’s direction. The guitarist ran a hand through his hair and looked at her. He nodded his thanks for the tip, and held up two glasses filled with what looked like fino. A quizzical expression danced in his bright eyes.

Luna’s mouth went dry: he was inviting her to stay. Conflicting emotions flashed through her, none that she could quite grasp but every one of them making her heart pump faster as the music continued to vibrate through the tavern.

Part of her wanted to succumb to the heady atmosphere and wished she could be like all these people – sensual, passionate, uninhibited. But something told her that if she stayed any longer she would be stepping into unfamiliar and dangerous territory, and that unnerved her far too much.

She took a deep breath and smiled back at him, shaking her head apologetically as she kept moving through the crowd. He watched her go and took a swig from one of the glasses, his gaze unwavering.

Luna made her way to the door. She went up the steps and turned at the entrance to catch a last glimpse of the man who had disturbed her equilibrium so powerfully.

Over the heads of those around him, he was still watching her intently. His lips quirked as their eyes fused again. Luna focused her camera on him and clicked, blushing at her own nerve as she did so. Her thoughts in turbulence, she stepped out abruptly into the night.

* * *

The taxi that had picked up Luna on the Plaça del Portal de la Pau sped through the narrow streets towards the hotel. Still intoxicated by the singing, Luna stared out of the window, gazing at the glittering night with eyes scarcely aware of its beauty. After she had left the tavern, the haunting strains of the music had lingered on the still air, threading through the night like a love call as she had made her way back to the square. There was plenty of life on the boulevards even at this hour, but what Luna had found so fascinating earlier, now she hardly noticed. The events of the evening absorbed her whole being.

She closed her eyes, trying to etch on her mind the flamenco singer’s features that were already beginning to fade in her memory. Glad that she was tucked away in the back of a dark taxi where no one could witness her sense of almost teenage foolishness, she scrolled through the photographs saved on her camera and found his picture. Even though it had been taken from afar, the gypsy’s intense and charismatic personality leapt from the device to collide with her emotions. Nothing in her carefully guarded and uneventful life had prepared her for an assault of such concentrated masculinity on her senses.

Luna had an odd realization. Suddenly she was aware of all the things a man and woman do together. For the first time, the fact that she was twenty-five and had never had a lover struck her like a blow to the head.

Sure, she had had plenty of opportunities. Since she could remember, men had looked at her with something more than interest, the very thing that put her off. On a few occasions it had even filled her with nausea and not a little panic. Though she had a natural desire to feel attractive, like any woman, and enjoyed the odd flirtation at parties, sometimes she wished she was just Plain Jane: loved for herself and not as an object to be possessed.

Despite that bruised, fragile place inside her that she hid from the outside world, she had deeply buried yearnings and desires but they were ringed by fear and guilt.

She had dated now and again, and had even had a few crushes but these had been merely flashes in the pan. Disillusioned, she had simply moved on. Luna’s inclination towards solitude meant that her circle of friends was small, but they were close and carefully chosen. She had never understood the need for superficial acquaintances and hated small talk. To her it seemed like nothing but a waste of time.

Many of her close friends had tried to set her up with goodlooking, eligible men, but somehow they always fell short in Luna’s estimation. Perhaps her impossibly high standards were an act of self-sabotage but, even if that were the case, she couldn’t seem to help her reaction. Nonetheless, she persisted in attracting admirers, whether or not she wanted to.

Luna paid off the taxi. The euphoria of the past few hours remained with her, intimate and exciting, while she climbed the steps of the hotel in a daze and crossed the grand lobby. She retrieved her key and went up to her room on the fourth floor. It was only when she switched on the light and the magnificent wrought-iron chandelier flooded the place with its luminous glow that she came back to reality. The room was stylishly moderniste with tall French windows but it now seemed empty and lonely. She threw her shoulder bag on the bed and opened the windows wide to let in the night.

What was this coup de foudre between the gypsy and herself that had struck her so forcibly? It had released emotions in her that were completely unfamiliar and uncontrollable. Always Luna liked to be in control.

Though she scarcely dared to admit it, this gypsy had the features and physique of the man of her dreams – a man whose existence she had given up on as a weak and immature fantasy. The passion he radiated was a compelling magnetism she had secretly searched for all her life. His stare had invaded every fibre of her being. An affinity had established itself between them – a powerful attraction of which he had also been aware, of that she was convinced. It was a strange thing to have one’s entire reality turned upside down as soon as one set foot in a new country. The world would seem a brighter and more exciting place if she thought for one minute that their paths would someday cross.

This admission threw her. She shook her head as if to dislodge the idea, suddenly shocked at the ridiculous sentimentality of it. The man was a complete stranger. What on earth was the use of indulging in romantic hopes when it was unlikely she would ever meet him again?

The chances were nil unless she was to go back to the tavern that night, which, anyway, her pride would prohibit. Anyhow, she was only in Barcelona for another twenty-four hours. Surely he was married – she’d heard that gypsies married young – and even if he didn’t have a wife and half a dozen children, he most certainly had a life in a world so remote from hers that it was naïve to envisage any sort of relationship between them.

A long, shuddering sigh escaped her as she blinked back the tears that trembled at the edge of her eyelids as she ruthlessly tried to suppress her foolish longing. Love at first sight only existed in romantic novels. She prided herself on being a level-headed scientist and yet tonight she had let herself get carried away like a teenager. The sooner she realized that these emotions were simply prompted by unruly hormones and an unfulfilled need for physical intimacy, the quicker she would rid herself of the hollowness and desolation assailing her.

Though covered with plump cushions, the bed for some reason looked singularly uninviting. She suppressed another unhappy sigh. Anticlimax, she thought. It had been such an exciting night and now she was alone again. She would have a hot bath to unwind and then try to get some sleep.

Luna lay back in the warm water, unable to shake off these bittersweet thoughts despite her self-remonstrations. She was still cherishing the memory of the gypsy’s eyes as he sang to her. In truth, no man had ever succeeded in arousing real desire in her. One boyfriend had angrily called her frigid when she had rebuffed his advances. She’d believed him … until tonight.

If this man, this gypsy, asked her to, she could imagine unashamedly giving herself to him; and she found the whole idea of it reckless in the extreme. The new fever that set her on fire and made every inch of her body pulse with desire for a stranger was more frightening than the prospect of never knowing fulfilment through lovemaking.

Twenty minutes later, she was in bed but not asleep. Her laptop was on her knees and she was reading her emails. One was from Ted Vandenberg, with a list of addresses and telephone numbers of colleagues from the magazine she could contact if she wanted. Then there was one from Aunt Bea, hoping she’d had a good flight and was enjoying Barcelona.

Luna sent a brief reply to her aunt. With it, the reason for her being in Spain returned, bringing back a wave of sadness about Angelina that heightened her pensive mood. Her cousin had been in Barcelona when she was first diagnosed with cancer. Luna could almost picture her now, walking briskly – almost dancing – along the Spanish streets, copper hair swinging in tune with the lilt of her hips. Always laughing, always joking – never really serious about anything, not even her illness at the beginning. To Luna, it had felt as if a light had been extinguished with Angelina’s passing and, since then, she had found the world a darker place.

Sighing, she closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. Enough of these maudlin thoughts … Thinking constantly about the darling cousin who was lost to her, and the gypsy she’d never have, was not going to do her any good. She needed to forget any might-have-beens and start adopting the right mindset for the job that awaited her in Cádiz.

She glanced at her diary. At three in the afternoon she was due to attend the conference at the hotel on orthodox and alternative pain management. Professor Arthur Goldsmith, one of the speakers, was a visiting American from Johns Hopkins University and hailed worldwide as an authority on the subject. Hopefully, it would offer some useful background information before she started at the clinic. In the evening, after the conference, she planned to go to the reception and book signing.

She would be leaving Barcelona the next day.

Her mind flitted back to the bar and the gypsy singer. A surge of regret washed over her again but she steadfastly ignored it.

Finally sleepy, she closed her laptop and turned off the lights. She hoped that tonight she would not dream.

* * *

Luna woke at noon, relieved to have slept deeply. The flamenco singer was still at the forefront of her mind like the lingering refrains of the music she could not forget either.

Rising from her bed, she went to the French windows, full of midday sun, and opened them. The warm rays of spring sunshine poured pleasantly into the room and she stepped out on to the balcony, fascinated by the panoramic view that extended to the horizon like a hazy coloured postcard. The hotel was on the edge of Eixample, a residential part of the city surrounded by magnificent villas and, from her vantage point, she could see their riotous gardens, tall cypresses needling into the blue sky. There were palms along the promenades and, in the side street immediately below, jacaranda trees spread their beautiful branches, laden with purple flowers.

It had not yet been twenty-four hours since she’d arrived in Spain and already she was surprised by how much this country was getting under her skin.

Luna asked room service to bring up some coffee and a bowl of fruit. She had a few hours before the conference started so she sat in an armchair next to the window, savouring a bunch of juicy grapes and drinking her double espresso, flicking through her notes as she did so.

She was looking forward to Goldsmith’s talk. It had meant a detour before flying to Jerez, the closest airport to Cádiz, but she felt it would be worth it. The man was one of the few proponents of alternative medicine that she had any time for, and she had read his book on hypnosis in pain management and thought his arguments persuasive. Coming to Barcelona for the talk had another benefit too: hypnosis, she knew from her folder of notes, was one of the interests of the man she was about to secretly profile.

She flicked through her file on Dr Rodrigo Rueda de Calderón.