Witch's Harvest

‘Dell, go home, please!’ Della was trying to push past her, but Abby blocked her way determinedly. ‘Tomorrow everything will be all right again. I—I’ll fix it somehow and …’

‘You’ll fix it?’ echoed Della, rage mingling with astonishment. She took Abby by the shoulders, removing her from her path. ‘What the hell makes you think …’ Her voice froze into silence as she walked into the flat. When she turned back to look at her cousin, the expression of her face made Abby recoil.

‘You mealy-mouthed cow,’ Della said at last, her voice uneven. ‘So this is what’s been going on. You decided to make a grab for yourself. No wonder there was no answer when I called his apartment!’

‘Della.’ Abby’s mouth was dry. ‘This isn’t as it seems …’

But Vasco’s drawl cut across her stumbling. ‘Why bother, carinha? After all, it is exactly as it seems.’ He had discarded his jacket and tie, she noticed dazedly, and undone the buttons of his shirt. He was on his feet, standing hands on hips, regarding Della, his expression enigmatic.

‘Vasco darling!’ Della’s voice throbbed dramatically. ‘How could you do this to me—to us? You knew I was waiting for you in Paris …’

He shrugged. ‘That is not the impression your letter gave,’ he said coldly. ‘In any case, I found your terms unacceptable. You wished to marry a Rio businessman, not an Amazonian cocoa planter. I wish you better fortune in your next foray into matrimony.’

A little muscle jerked in Della’s face. ‘But the wedding’s in two weeks!’

‘It was,’ he corrected with a chill that seemed to penetrate Abby’s bones. ‘I regret the inconvenience the cancellation will cause—unless Senhor Portman can be prevailed on to take my place.’

‘Darling,’ pleaded Della with a sob, ‘Jeremy means nothing to me. I was just saying that—to make you see how strongly I felt …’

‘Then you succeeded admirably,’ Vasco said tersely. His face looked as if it had been chiselled from granite. ‘You have convinced me that there are differences between us which could never be reconciled in marriage.’

‘But you’re being unreasonable,’ Della said rapidly. She was off balance now, really frightened, Abby realised with compassion. ‘I want you—you know that. Perhaps I went too far, but I’m prepared to forgive your little—romp with Goody-Two-Shoes here. Surely you can meet me half-way?’ She gave Abby a look of molten vindictiveness.

Vasco looked at her too, and his voice gentled. ‘Get dressed, querida. I’ve booked a table at a restaurant for our celebration.’

‘What celebration?’ Della almost spat. ‘What the hell’s going on here? Darling,’ she swung back to Vasco, spreading her hands appealingly, ‘I’ve told you—I’ll overlook this. I’ve no doubt the little bitch threw herself at you, and …’

‘You will not speak of my future wife in those terms.’ Vasco’s quiet, even words hit the room like a thunderbolt. ‘Now, it would be better if you left.’

‘Wife?’ Della’s voice was so choked with rage, and other emotions, it was hardly recognisable. ‘My God, you mean you’re actually going to marry this ugly, flat-chested little tart, this bloody little snake in the grass …’

Vasco walked forward and took her by the arm. ‘Allow me to escort you to the street,’ he said coldly. ‘Where your language belongs.’ He glanced back at Abigail. ‘Get dressed,’ he told her again. ‘There isn’t a great deal of time.’