“I must’ve missed the turn a while back,” Jennifer Miller muttered to herself, as she competently maneuvered her father’s ancient Alfa Romeo around yet another sharp bend. A holdover from dating Todd at the university; a race car driver, who had taught her to drive, and drive well.  She smiled to herself.  Her first lover… she’d been almost glad when that was over, but her driving skills had remained.   She had driven to Málaga from Marbella, where she had been staying with her father for a while.  He had recently acquired a sporty Jaguar, and readily agreed to let her drive the Alfa to her new job.  Once in Málaga, she began to follow the precise instructions the Conde Antonio de Ortega de Andrade y de Valdés had given her by telephone to get to his Castillo. Shortly after leaving the coastal plain of Málaga, she had been driving through undulating country showing Spain’s famous terra rossa — red earth.

            Impatiently, she brushed her sunstreaked, light brown hair back from her face.  Ah, there was a signpost.  When she got close enough, she read ‘Ortega – 7 km’  That was probably the name of the village belonging to the castle.  She had driven through miles and miles of various groves — olives, mostly, some chestnuts, now she saw only vineyards, stretching to the horizon. Did all this land belong to the Conde?  Several abrupt twists later, she saw the castle, still some distance away, high above the village.  She would have a magnificent view of the landscape once she got there.

Feeling dusty and windblown after her long drive, she decided to pull into a parking area in the village, tidy herself up a little.  It was warm for mid-May.  She took a moist towelette to wipe her face and hands, put a little moisturizer on her face, lip gloss on her mouth, and quickly brushed her naturally wavy shoulder-length hair, smiling into the green, long-lashed eyes that stared back at her from the rearview mirror.

“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to meet Conde Antonio,” she sighed, aware that she’d never be calling him by his given name.  She started the car and eased it out of the parking, noticing that this was a well-kept, prosperous-looking village.  Following the main street, which led to the road to the castle, she noticed a sign, HOSPITAL.  Surprising, in a village, even a thriving one.  The Conde evidently cared about his people… 

Gazing up at the castle, a few miles further on, she realized it was much larger than she had imagined, dark and forbidding.   The road climbed, skirting the castle’s west side, with a turnoff to the castle itself.  As she approached, she got a good look at the imposing structure, built of local stone, she had heard.  Double doors of heavy oak reinforced with wrought iron formed the entrance.  The center of the castle seemed to be about two stories high, with a crenellated roofline.  The central part was flanked on both sides by high towers.  At the back of the castle she saw a wing stretching to the east.  There was also a wing at a ninety-degree angle with the east wing, going north.  Just before turning off to the castle, she noticed a wing stretching west. And apparently, another wing going north.  She sighed.  This was a very big castle.  Then, so were the lands that went with it.  Glancing at the gentle slopes on the castle’s east side, she saw terraced gardens, greenhouses, and a small waterfall splashing into a stream at the foot of the hill.  She smiled involuntarily at the charming view.  On the west side there were buildings, stables probably, perhaps a garage?  She hoped so.  She felt sure the Conde would not allow her father’s ancient Alfa Romeo — however well-kept — to be parked on the vast cobbled plaza that led to the steps going up to the entrance doors. 

She parked on the plaza to the side of the wide steps leading to the castle’s imposing entrance.  Now, she saw the entire plaza was ringed by flowerbeds, and there were big pots of bright red geraniums flanking the steps leading up to the portico around the door. 

In spite of her naturally sunny temperament, she was slightly apprehensive about this live-in job — she wasn’t sure what was expected of her — working for a Count… 

Professionally, of course, she was capable of doing any research the Conde wanted, type into his computer whatever he wished.  She had worked for several writers, researching for them, and she felt lucky to have landed this job after her father had invited her to come have a holiday with him at his house at Marbella, where he lived in some style.  A banker turned financial guru, he had an ever-increasing number of devoted subscribers who followed his pronouncements on the money markets avidly and obediently.  She shrugged — finance wasn’t her thing. And she had a feeling she’d be cramping Dad’s style a bit by staying on.  Unless she missed her guess, he and her godmother, the Marquesa de Quintana, had picked up their affaire du cœur again.  It was time to get on with her own life — which seemed to be: working with authors.