House of Dreams by Brenda Joyce Page A

judgment in her daughter’s reaction to her, too. “He will be thrilled to see us,” she assured herself as much as Alyssa. He would be thrilled, wouldn’t he?
    Alyssa flushed and looked down.
    If Tracey did not know better, she would think that her seven-year-old daughter thought that it was incorrect to appear without an invitation. Had Cass already instilled such values in her? Tracey knocked again, her stomach upset with tension, perspiring now in her short summer skirt and paper-thin cashmere tank top. God, Spain was so hot. But then, she already knew that.
    She glanced at her watch. Antonio should be at home. Classes had been over for one week now, and knowing him, while he would be
immersed in research of some sort or another, at this hour he would be having a late lunch with his son.
    She had never met such a devoted father before. In a way, he was just like Cass.
    It flitted through her mind that they deserved one another. Tracey did not like that thought, not one bit. She reminded herself that Cass was hardly his type.
    There was no answer, and after a few minutes had gone by, Tracey began to realize that no one was home.
    She felt her temper rising, “Just great,” she muttered. “Now what am I going to do? Sit on the floor and wait?”
    â€œMother?”
    For one moment, Tracey had forgotten that Alyssa was standing beside her. “What is it?”
    Alyssa flushed. “I need to use the bathroom.”
    â€œOh, great!” Tracey cried. Now she was regretting the fact that Antonio had never given her a key to his apartment. God knew he should have. She had certainly spent enough time there. And the memories that flooded her, in that instant, were all of their torrid lovemaking. She began to relax. Her wavering confidence began to return. Antonio was a man. A very passionate man. She could manage him, of course she could.
    The elevator whirred behind her, and Tracey spun around, hoping it was Antonio. But his neighbor, a middle-aged woman, stepped from the elevator instead.
    â€œSeñora, buenos dias,” she said, glancing curiously at Alyssa.
    â€œHi,” Tracey said. Then, “Have you seen Senor de la Barca today? Do you know if he’s at his office at the university?”
    Her eyes widened slightly. “Señora, my English no is good. Senor no está en la universidad. Está en Castilla.”
    Tracey didn’t speak Spanish, but she got the gist. “He’s in Castile? In the north? At his country home, Casa de Sueños?” she cried, distraught and disbelieving.
    â€œSí. Senor fue a Castilla.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAhh—went … ayer. Ayer.”
    Yesterday. Antonio had gone to the country yesterday. Tracey just stared, unable to believe her damnable luck.
    Alyssa tugged on her hand.

    Tracey almost snapped, “Not now,” but the older woman was smiling kindly at them both. She inhaled. His country home was an hour north of Segovia. He’d showed her once on a map. What was the name of that little town it was outside of? Damn it! Pedamo, Pedaso, no, Pedraza. Tracey was certain that was it.
    â€œCan my daughter use your bathroom, please? El servicio? Por favor?”
    A moment later Alyssa was entering the woman’s apartment, while Tracey was making plans.
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    The following morning, Cass sat at the desk she worked at in the library. It was covered with books, several of which were open. She was taking notes, but she couldn’t concentrate.
    By now, Tracey and Alyssa should have been in Madrid for several hours. Cass had contacted Mark Hopkins earlier, with great trepidation. He had been extremely closemouthed, but at least he had admitted that mother and daughter had flown abroad the night before. He had not raised the subject of a custody battle, but he had said that he would be in touch.
    Cass shoved the biography of Mary Tudor aside, aware of a headache lingering just behind her