‘What is it?’ Charlotte asked, trying to twist in her seat.

‘Is it just me or . . .’ Marina lifted the painting off the wall – another no-no she didn’t yet know about – and carried it over. ‘. . . Is she me?’

‘Wow! She’s the image of you. Or you are of her, rather.’

‘Aren’t I?’ Marina said in amazement, her gaze travelling over the portrait. The woman was young, with a rope of thick dark hair twisted into an elegant looped braid, a hat angled on her head. She was sitting side-saddle and wearing a magnificent emerald velvet riding habit.

‘She’s so beautiful,’ Charlotte said, admiring the artistry. This was no lucky likeness, the artist had been accomplished, masterful even.

Was that footsteps she could hear?

‘Quick, put it back.’

‘But who is she?’ Marina asked, transfixed.

‘My grandmother.’

The deep voice made them both jump, Marina almost dropping the painting on Charlotte’s lap.

‘Mateo,’ Charlotte faltered, trying to recover herself, mortified to have been caught looming over a painting that should have been hanging in a museum, not being picked off the wall like a Beyoncé poster.

Seemingly from nowhere, Mayra appeared and discreetly took the painting from Marina’s hands, returning it to its rightful position on the wall. Mateo walked into the room, looking imposing in a beige striped seersucker blazer and chinos. He was tanned, elegant, perfectly at home. Of course.

‘Marina,’ he said, holding out a hand and clasping the other around hers. ‘My cousin.’ He stared down at her, a benign smile on his face as he openly studied her, taking in the Mendoza features – heavy, planed bone structure, deep-set eyes. ‘I must say, the likeness is striking. Did my aunt ever mention her mother to you?’

Marina shook her head, dumbstruck and forgetting for a moment to use her voice too. ‘. . . No.’

‘No,’ he nodded, the smile still in place. ‘Well, she was a noted beauty. The most beautiful woman in Andalusia back then, they said.’

Marina looked like a rabbit in the headlights, her smile stuck on as Mateo overwhelmed her. As one of the wealthiest men in the country, his face was instantly recognizable but it was his smooth manners and utmost decorum that were the unexpected extra. Charlotte knew Marina would never have met someone of his calibre before and that to have been his waitress would have been somehow easier than sitting here as his new-found cousin.

‘We weren’t expecting you till the morning . . .’ Charlotte said, rescuing her and wishing she could stand up.

Mayra returned with their drinks, including a martini for Mateo. They each took them and Mateo gestured for Marina to please sit too.

‘. . . Is your father with you?’ Charlotte asked.

‘No, he is coming on with my wife in the morning. One more night’s observation and paperwork.’ He gave a light-hearted roll of his eyes as he crossed his legs, fussing slightly with the crease of his trousers. ‘But I felt I ought to get here as soon as I could. I’ve been very aware that you’ve been gathered here for several days. I hope you won’t think it remiss that we couldn’t get here before now.’