The Marques

By Petra Webb

When Amanda Maine comes to Southern Spain fleeing a failed affair and a bad case of artist’s block, the last thing she expects to find is two handsome alpha males vying for her attention. The first, Alvaro Montoya de la Fuente, is an arrogant, horse-breeding, aristocrat with a reputation as a womaniser. The second, Alex Van der Freis, is a Dutch Diamond merchant with a Porsche and a yacht berthed in Puerto Banus. And although Amanda’s aim has been simply to get together a portfolio so that she can mount an exhibition of her work in the Autumn, she soon finds herself torn between the charming, generous northerner and the passionate but totally unsuitable Spaniard. However this is the least of her worries because her life is turned upside down when she is involved in a scam that could cost her not only her freedom but even her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha Lee
• Release date: Oct 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370802074

Petra Webb

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Petra Webb

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright Samantha Lee, 2016. All Rights Reserved.

The right of Samantha Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Prologue

Amanda had only been in Andalucia for a week and a half and already her life had changed out of all recognition. For one thing she was actually painting again. Blocked for months, devoid of enthusiasm, unable to produce one single saleable canvas and rapidly running out of money, it was her tutor at the weekly ‘life drawing’ class, which she took in a church hall in Highgate in order to ‘keep her hand in’, who had suggested that she make the move. Big hearty Brenda, who painted landscapes as large and lively as herself and who doled out advice whether it was asked for or not. Amanda had known her for just over two years and under her tutelage had done some really good work before the split with Eric had reduced her to a jelly and nipped her creative efforts in the bud.

What you need is a change of scene, Brenda had told her firmly, over a post class coffee. "Somewhere that has no memories. Somewhere where you’ve never been with that unfaithful swine. Somewhere where there’s no chance of you bumping into him with her."

Like where? Amanda stirred her coffee morosely. I’m so broke I couldn’t afford a weekend in Skegness at the moment. And don’t for heaven’s sake suggest I go to my mother’s. Having her tell me to forget all this nonsense about painting and get a sensible job is bad enough over the phone. Quizzing me face to face about when I’m going to find a nice normal man and settle down and provide her with grandchildren, would just about finish me off.

Think laterally, my dear, said Brenda. You’ve got a flat in Hampstead, right? A small flat admittedly but property in NW3 is at a premium. And people will always pay for space. You could let your place for three or four months and move to the south of Spain for the summer. What you’d make on the rent would keep you in the lap of luxury down there.

You think?

"I don’t just think, I know. New places. New faces. Not to mention that famous Andalucian light. Just the thing to get the creative juices flowing again."

Easy for you to say. It sounds good in theory. But honestly Brenda, I’m so depressed I wouldn’t know where to start.

I’ll tell you where you could start. My mate Julie is coming down from Manchester to work for the BBC on a four month contract. She’s been trying to find somewhere decent to live for ages. The Beeb will cover the expenses and make good any repairs or breakages. Think about it. Seriously. I mean what have you got to lose?

But where would I go?

Good grief girl, do I have to do everything for you? Use your imagination. The world’s your oyster. You couldn’t be more footloose and fancy free. Go anywhere. But just GO. Amanda looked out of the café window, at the rain falling in sheets on the grey pavements. Highgate. Mid June. And people were still wearing macs. She would love to go south to the sun. But she simply didn’t have the energy to get her head together. Didn’t seem have the energy for anything these days.

The flat is a tip, she said, looking for excuses.

Then go home and clean it up, you idiot, said her friend. "I’m not doing that for you."

Amanda began to pack up her painting basket, looking at the half finished sketch she’d done of the bored nude model with the nose ring, tearing it in half, consigning it to a nearby waste paper basket.

Too late now anyway, she sighed. It’ll be impossible to get a place to stay on the Costa del Sol at this time of year. It’s high season.

Who mentioned the Costa del Sol? said Brenda. I’m talking about Spain. Real Spain. You only have to go ten miles inland to find typical villages where life hasn’t changed in a hundred years. Villages with dusty town squares where little old men who speak no English sit in the shade and drink absinthe and play chequers. Peace. Privacy. Romance. Excitement. Either way, inspiration on the hoof. You could get a whole exhibition together by the Autumn. Show it in one of the big Hotels. Make a mint.

Sounds tempting, said Amanda, unfolding her umbrella. The idea was beginning to take hold.

Of course it’s tempting. If Bobby wasn’t doing his A levels at the moment I’d come with you. Her eyes lit up. Now that I come to think of it, I have an old school friend who got married and moved south a couple of years ago. Claire Darling. She and her husband Mike have opened a Hotel. Some place in the back end of nowhere. Cadiz county. Up in the hills behind Estepona somewhere. She’s always inviting me down.

"Then why don’t you go?"

Because I have a large family and an even larger husband to look after, said Brenda. Unlike you. Otherwise I’d be there. Like a shot. Why don’t I email her? See how the land lies? I’m sure she’d put you up for a few days. Help you find a pad. She’s a nice girl, Claire. Good fun. You’ll like her.

You sound like it’s a done deal, said Amanda, helpless in the face of Brenda’s growing enthusiasm, but interested in spite of herself.

Well why not? said Brenda. What’s stopping you? She scribbled something on the back of a napkin and handed it to Amanda. That’s Julie’s number in Manchester. She’s coming down for the weekend on another flat hunt. Third attempt. Give her a call. Believe me, she’s desperate.

Amanda took the piece of paper gingerly between finger and thumb, looking at it as though it might suddenly bite her.

Go on, said Brenda. Do it now. I’ll email Claire when I get home and let you know what she says about the accommodation situation. Face it, sweetheart. Eric ain’t coming back. Get a life, as they say. Make the call. You know it makes sense.

So Amanda had made the call. And after that everything had just fallen into place. As though the Universe, as well as everyone else, was telling her that this was absolutely the right thing to do. Julie Maidstone from Manchester, having seen some disastrous options during her search for a place to lay her weary head, had taken on responsibility for Amanda’s flat with alacrity, at a price which was eminently acceptable to both of them. She hadn’t even objected to the presence of Delilah, Amanda’s rather temperamental ‘rescue’ cat. And she’d promised to water the plants. In other words it was a win win situation all round.

Chapter 1

Three weeks later, Amanda had touched down at Gibraltar airport and stepped off the plane into a golden day fifteen degrees hotter than it had been at Heathrow. There was a smell of warm earth and diesel oil in the air. And across the Straits, a sky only marginally less blue than the sapphire sweep of the Mediterranean, disappeared behind the brown peaks of the Atlas Mountains. Africa, the dark continent, seemingly hardly more than a stone’s throw away.

True to her promise, Claire Darling was there to meet her, a cheerful redhead in a bright yellow dress, who had hugged her welcome, asked whether she’d had a good flight and helped her load her baggage into the boot of a dusty red Fiat, propping the painting easel on top of a crate loaded with baked beans and Marmite.

Mike’s two vices, she explained. Can’t live without them. Pathetic, isn’t it? And they’re cheaper in Gib than on the coast.

Just whatever turns you on, said Amanda, and then, thinking of Eric and his new love, if those are the only vices he has, you’ll be doing OK.

I’ve got a three or four places lined up for you, Claire said, when they’d eventually cleared customs and had turned left off the main highway onto an arterial road that meandered up into the hills. One’s even got a pool. Depends on how much you want to spend. And whether you want to be on the edge of town or right in the centre.

I’ve come from the centre of town, said Amanda. It would be nice to have somewhere in the suburbs for a change.

Claire laughed, a deep throaty sound. Graziella de la Frontera’s not London, she said. There’s hardly enough of it to have suburbs. Look, that’s it up there.

Amanda followed Claire’s pointing finger to where a small cluster of white buildings stood etched against the horizon. Stark against the now almost purple afternoon sky, they clung to the mountain like icing on top of a birthday cake.

You’ll stay with us tonight, of course, Claire went on. As our guest. Tomorrow I’ll show you the lie of the land.

Amanda looked out at the view, at the sheer drop down into a valley lined with ancient olive trees. She wasn’t a nervous passenger but considering the quality of the road surface, she would have been slightly more comfortable if Claire had slowed down a bit. She was just about to say that she was in no hurry when, rounding a particularly sharp corner, they almost ran into a beautifully appointed pale grey horse with the typical darker grey markings of the thoroughbred Appalachian. As Claire swerved to avoid them, raising a hand in greeting and tooting as she went past, Amanda caught a glimpse of the rider.

He looked pretty much of a thoroughbred too. Straight backed and dressed in the traditional Andalucian riding outfit of a soft white shirt topped by a pale grey suit with a frogged, waist length jacket, cut off trousers and shiny black leather boots, he was almost impossibly handsome. Lightly tanned skin, thick dark hair falling in a wayward curl across his forehead, he rode bareheaded and, as Amanda swivelled her head to get a better look at him from the back window, he raised his riding crop in acknowledgement. It was then that she noticed with a slight shock of surprise, that his eyes, instead of being dark brown as she had anticipated, were actually a bright piercing blue.

The Marques, Claire said, by way of explanation. Alvaro Montoya de la Fuente. Aristocrat. Horse-breeder. Womaniser and occasional drunk. Charm on a stick, my dear. And richer than Croesus. But a double died, four flushed, arrogant son of a bitch if ever there was one. As far as he’s concerned, females are like tissues, to be used once and then discarded.

What a shame, said Amanda, as horse and rider faded into a shimmering mirage in the heat. He looks like such a gentleman.

Yes, well, appearances can be deceptive. Take my advice, Amanda. If you value your sanity and your reputation and your virtue, you’ll want to avoid that man like the plague.

Chapter 2

Amanda fell in love with Graziella de la Frontera at first sight. The white- washed cottages hung with scarlet bougainvilla, the hidden courtyards, the steep cobbled lanes all enchanted her. Situated on the old Moorish frontier of Al- Andaluz, the remains of a ruined castle, built, as were all the Arab strongholds, to give the local Caliph fair warning of any approaching danger and make conquest as difficult as possible for the invader, overlooked the village and had an uninterrupted view down the valley to the sea in the far distance.

The Darlings’ Hotel was situated half way up one of the precipitous ‘calles’, narrow as donkey tracks, the houses leaning inwards to keep out the searing southern sun. Claire pulled up outside the unprepossessing entrance, hooting for someone to come and take the bags while the Fiat clung like a limpet, practically perpendicular to the road surface, scarcely leaving room for a bicycle to get by.

What happens if someone comes down while you’re coming up? Amanda asked, scrambling out as a young man in black slacks and an immaculate white shirt, which only served to emphasise the nut-brown tint of his skin, hurried from the hotel to open the car door for her.

Then someone has to give way, said Claire. And Spaniards never like to give way. They have a saying ‘Viva Yo.’ The direct translation is ‘long live me’ but what it actually means is ‘Me first’. Most people leave their cars in the municipal car-park on the outskirts of town. Far less hassle to walk. Take the bags in will you, Manolo? The senorita is in number 15.

Si senora. The young man, already unloading the luggage, flashed Amanda a ten carat grin before disappearing inside. Slim hipped and broad shouldered, he moved with a dancer’s grace, his black hair, pulled back in a pony tail, glinted in the sun like a well polished riding boot.

No, I don’t choose my staff for their looks, Claire laughed, following Amanda’s gaze. "They all look like that. They’re a handsome bunch, the Andalucians. Why do you think Antonio Banderas had to go to Hollywood? Good looking as he is, nobody would give him a second glance around here. She re-started the engine and put the car in gear. Go on in, she said. Say hello to Mike. He’ll be behind the bar."

Where are you off to? Amanda wanted to know.

To unload the groceries and stash the car. The Hotel’s got an underground car-park but the entrance is in the next street. Don’t ask. This is Spain. They don’t make things easy for you. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.

Once inside, the Hotel opened up and out and back, the narrow entranceway giving way unexpectedly to a wide foyer lined with traditional blue tiles. Dark and cool, with an overhead fan