Queen of hearts, p.1
Queen of Hearts, page 1
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
Queen of Hearts
ISBN: 978-1-64890-504-9
© 2022 Elna Holst
Cover Art © 2022 Natasha Snow
Published in June 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers.
Queen of Hearts
From Sappho, with Love #1
Elna Holst
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Chapter One
Playa del Inglés, August, 1972
Dear M + D,
Would you believe that August is actually the hottest month of the year on Gran Canaria? Fiona and I are melting to puddles under the sol, but we’re having a grand time.
Hopefully, this will reach you before we do. Fiona sends her xo’s.
/Your Netty
P.S. Mum, DON’T WORRY! x
PEERING OUT ACROSS the glittering Atlantic, Annette Thornton—or Thorny Netty, as she had been called since childhood—forced herself to quit chewing her biro and return it, with the stamped and addressed postcard, to her drawstring bag. She had noticed a postbox outside a tourist shop on their short walk from the hotel to the beach and had made a mental note to post her card when she made her way back.
Which would be shortly. Even though she knew the only reason their elderly parents had finally caved in and permitted Fiona Thornton, their youngest daughter, aka Fin, to go off on a package holiday to the Canary Islands was that she would be in the company, or rather, under the supervision of her dependable older sister, Netty couldn’t be expected to spend every waking minute of her day babysitting her nineteen-year-old sister.
It was exhausting. They had landed at the aeropuerto two days ago and been at each other’s throats constantly since. Originally, Fin had wanted to go on this trip with Vicky-something-or-other, the latest in a long procession of best pals, a bar-hopper and pleasure-seeker to match Fiona’s own ‘fun-loving’ lifestyle. Netty, for her part, hadn’t wanted to go at all. Fin expected Netty to be grateful, as she was the one who paid for both their tickets out of her Mancunian ice-cream parlour waitress’s salary. As far as Thorny Netty was concerned, Fiona owed her, and then some, for agreeing to come and thereby making this whole escapade possible in the first place.
“You’re a bloody bore, you know that? You always were, and you always will be.” Tears had been glistening in Fin’s much-too-pretty baby blues as she passed her judgement—tears of anger, mainly, but of hurt as well, Netty had to admit to herself as she went back in her mind to the scene of last night when she had point-blank refused to go to another club, or bar, or—God help her—disco.
Sighing, Netty brushed the itchy, sticky sand off her irritated skin. She was sweating like a pig. She was annoyed, uncomfortable, sore-eyed, and sleep-deprived. She was not enjoying herself. And she still had twelve days to go.
Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, Netty stood and scanned the area of the beach for a certain eye-catching shade of peroxide blonde, coupled with a petite yet shapely form in a shockingly revealing spaghetti-strapped bikini. How Fiona had sneaked that particular enhancement to her outrageous travel wardrobe past their mother was beyond Netty. But—as she was well aware—her sister had her ways.
“Fin!” she hollered as she spotted her, deep in conversation with a particularly tan and well-oiled specimen of young, ultra-masculine male. Netty swore under her breath. Trust Fiona. Wherever she bloody well went.
Her baby sister glanced over her shoulder at her but made no move to break away from her new, already fawning admirer. Netty thrust her feet into her sandals and placed the straw hat she had snapped up at a roadside market stall on her head.
“I’m going back to the hotel,” she shouted. “See you back there for lunch, yeah?”
Fin rolled her eyes and waved her away. Mr Macho grinned—spitefully, lasciviously? From this distance, Netty couldn’t tell. She’d had it, though. Kicking at a mound of sand—an infantile gesture, she realised even as she was doing it—she turned and traced her way back to the non-descript block of concrete, the third in a row of dizzyingly similar edifices, that was their base for the upcoming two weeks. Fin could suit herself. See if Thorny Netty cared.
ONLY, SHE DID care. As she stomped her way along the gritty road littered with the debris of busy, carefree tourist hotspots, a dull ache settled in her chest. Her main reason—her very private reason—for being on one of these off-the-African-coast archipelago of Spanish islands, squinting and chafing under the encroaching sun, was that she had dreamt; she had wished; she had hoped—misguidedly, she could see that now—this holiday would somehow magically bring back the easy, close-to-telepathic rapport she and her sister had shared as girls, before school and playmates and scholarly pursuits versus popularity contests had created a divide between them, one which only seemed to expand with each passing year.
Netty adjusted the brim of her hat. Her skin was taking on an angry, hot pink colour that heralded a painful night ahead. She must remember to pick up yoghurt at the mini market: two tubs, enough for Fin as well. The silly goose wasn’t even wearing protective headgear. They would need painkillers, and water too—lots of it.
With near visceral relief, Netty entered into the shade of the lobby. A porter greeted her with a toothy smile, and she offered him a curt nod in acknowledgement, almost tripping over one of the dusty, palmlike plants that were scattered about the place in the process.
The man held out a hand to steady her, gazing quizzically into her eyes.
“No hablo español,” Netty squeaked and scurried off in the direction of the cool metal refuge of the building’s lift system.
“Señorita!” the porter called, but she would not look back. She would not give him any kind of encouragement. She fled into the nearest lift and, as the doors closed behind her, she pressed the button for the ninth floor and exhaled slowly.
Like everyone else—including their anxious parents—Netty had heard the stories of Good English Girls who came back from exotic travel destinations with lifelong souvenirs germinating in their no longer all that virginal wombs. That wouldn’t be happening to either her or Fin, not if Thorny Netty had any say in the matter.
She smoothed a hand down her gingham shirt and studied her gaunt reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift compartment. Her cheeks glowed. Her light, nearly transparent eyelashes fluttered back at her. It certainly wouldn’t happen to her; that was for sure. Good thing too. She had never experienced even a fleeting attraction to the opposite sex. If she could get away with remaining unmarried, she would be as happy as she expected to be in life. After all, as her tutor at Oxford had told her pointedly on a night when they had shared an out of the ordinary glass of wine after an informal one on one, there were women who…who…who were quite content to be old maids, perhaps gaining employment at local libraries and spending their hours of leisure embroidering christening gowns for the broods of their siblings, or cousins, or passing acquaintances. Netty pushed away the thought of what Ms McKendrick might really have hinted at, refusing to acknowledge the heavy, floaty feeling at the pit of her stomach.
Pulling a hand through her lanky hair, she exited the lift, stepped down the corridor, turned her key in the lock of room 902, and went inside. She tossed her bag on her bed and cursed when she realised she had forgotten all about her postcard. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. Her head was pounding.
Relaxing with a book was out of the question, then. The sentences would only blur together, exacerbating her pain. She might as well make herself useful.
Squaring her shoulders, Netty walked over to the double wardrobe and brought out the ironing board, followed by all the blouses, skirts, and dresses Fiona had found it incumbent on her to bring on a two-week getaway. No point in rifling through her own side of the wardrobe. Netty had ironed her clothes yesterday.
Fin wouldn’t notice—as their long-suffering mother often pointed out, though always with a mild, affectionate glint in her eye—but she probably wouldn’t mind either. Ironing was therapy for Netty. It took her mind off things and made her feel in control. Plus, she took a childish delight in watching the spellworking combination of heat and steel and a sprinkling of water flatten out the most hopelessly wrinkled fabric. This was firmly within her comfort zone.
Except, it was hot work. After half an hour of ironing, when the steam had effectually clouded up the shoebox-size shape of their room, Netty wondered what she had been thinking. Her usually straight hair curled with moisture. Her cotto
Conceding defeat, she set the iron down and opened the door to the balcony. A humid sea breeze greeted her, not cool precisely but, compared to the miasma of the steamed-up room, infinitely refreshing. She went out, undoing the topmost button of her shirt, and leaned over the railing.
“Playa del diablo,” she muttered, dropping her chin to her chest and shielding her eyes against the sun.
Below her, on an adjacent balcony one storey down, a woman was sunbathing in a yellow two-piece bathing suit that left precious little to a much less vivid imagination than Netty’s. The canary-tinted bikini set off the honeyed shade of the woman’s skin—a dark amber, like the runny variety of honey produced from the nectar of wild flowers. Netty’s hand went to her neck. She seemed to have forgotten how to swallow.
The woman stretched on her lounger in an entrancing display of long arms, muscular thighs, and supremely touchable, generous curves. Netty felt dizzy. Her heart thudded in her ears. She was staring—no, she was ogling. She should—
The stranger raised her cat’s-eye sunglasses and squinted up at her. She moved her legs. Netty jumped back, hand in front of her mouth, her stomach lurching with embarrassment and with—with something else—as Fin, ever the one for unerring timing, chose that moment to burst through the door to their room.
“What on earth? What’s going on here?” Fiona stalked towards the balcony as Netty shook her head vehemently, coming in and closing the door with a bang.
“Please.” She sounded breathless. “Not so loud.”
Fin gawked at her. “It’s like a sauna in here! Why did you shut the door? Why are all my clothes out? Why—” Fin made a motion to reach for the handle behind her; Netty slapped her hand away.
“Ow!” Fin cradled her hand to her chest, looking more offended than hurt. “Have you lost your—” Her eyes widened. She touched her wrist to Netty’s forehead. “You haven’t had a sunstroke, have you? Only, you dropped your hat in the lobby. The porter gave it to me.” Fin indicated her bed where Netty’s straw hat was lying, on top of a pile of neatly ironed and folded tops.
“Oh,” Netty said sheepishly. “I… I didn’t notice.”
Fin tutted. “Can I open the door to the balcony now?”
“No!” Netty barred the way, desperation making her shrill. “Please, Fin—”
But there was no stopping her sister, who was all of a sudden grinning and worming her way past Netty like she’d done numerous times, Netty remembered bitterly, when they were kids and she had tried to keep Fiona out of her room. She didn’t even know why it was so important to her that Fin shouldn’t see, shouldn’t be able to tell—but tell what? All that would happen would be that her sister made some inappropriate remark, wriggled her eyebrows, and said something about how it was fortunate (or worse: unfortunate) for this sultry stranger they weren’t two brothers occupying room 902, and Netty—well, she couldn’t bear it, that was all. She couldn’t stomach her sister’s not-very-innocent jocularity while her cheeks, her very insides still burned with—
“What are you hiding out there?” Flinging the door open, Fin practically fell onto the balcony. She twisted and spun, looking in every direction, before her puzzled gaze returned to Netty. “There’s nothing here.”
Risking further humiliation, Netty came out to join her sister, peeping over the railing on her right. Fin caught the direction of her gaze, but it didn’t matter: the breathtaking stranger was gone.
Chapter Two
FRANCISCA CERVANTES WAS not on holiday. She had not been on a holiday for the last twenty years; or maybe, some would argue, she had been on one long, interminable holiday. Starting out in a hotel piano bar in one of the new coastal resorts a stone’s throw from her sleepy home town along the Spanish Costa del Sol, her smoky voice and sensual sex appeal—a little more effervescent but nevertheless present at the age of twenty-two—had quickly turned her into a nightclub entertainer in high demand, touring the seaside establishments from Costa Brava to Fuerteventura and back again, with guest performances in the Americas every other year to spice things up. The dust never settled on Francisca Cervantes. And though she had now reached the grand old age of forty-two, she did not see it doing so anytime soon; not for as long as her voice held and she could keep herself reasonably fit and sane.
Yes, there was the rub, as the Prince of Denmark would put it. Her life, for all its tinsel and glitz, its cushy perks of free room and board, free transports, free days and intense nights, had begun to bore Francisca out of her mind.
She had a handful of friends among the hotel staff at innumerable tourist locations all around the Spanish-speaking world and beyond. She had her aging parents, whom she visited every six months or so, work allowing. She had hook-ups, yes; though less indiscriminate these days, and certainly less frequent. She blamed it on her age—on her body requiring more time to rest, more time to decompress—but really, she was just depressingly, tiresomely bored. Her twenty-year-old self would have thought her loca. Who got bored with being on holiday, even if it was a working one?
Only the woman who’d done it half a lifetime, that was who. Francisca had arrived at the Mundo Azul a week ago, having looked forward to being back on the Canaries, and already she was close to crying with the humdrum routine of it.
Moodily, she stripped off her form-hugging jersey dress and stepped onto her balcony to soak up a bit of the relentless North-African Atlantic sun. She could hear her great-aunt Jacinta clicking her tongue at such foolish behaviour. Who ever heard of spending the siesta actively searching out the blaze when you had access to such unheard-of luxuries as your own room with air-conditioning? Even a child knew better!
“You have been dead these last twenty-five years, Jacinta. When will you stop pestering me with your unasked-for opinions?” Francisca sat on the padded lounger and proceeded to slather herself in sun cream. A faint smile flickered across her lips. Vain or not, she was partial to the way it made her skin gleam.
Pushing her sunglasses down onto her nose, she lay back and exhaled slowly. This was better. Despite the tedium fraying at the edges of her life, at least she could still enjoy the full-frontal assault of the Canarian sunshine. Like a cat, she could lap it up for hours. She placed her arms on the Bakelite armrests. This never got old.
But people did. It wasn’t herself she was thinking about, not primarily; although she knew she was considered middle-aged by now, objectively speaking. She did not feel old. She felt like she had turned thirty yesterday. And twenty-five the day before.
No, what really bored her, or, to be honest, what saddened her was that she had arrived at one of her favourite places to work, only to find one of her favourite persons—her bridge partner for the last decade—had passed on. Oh, he wasn’t dead. But the unassuming head caretaker of the Mundo Azul had finally gone and done what he had warned her he would her last four or five visits: he had taken out his retirement and moved away from Playa del Inglés. She could wring the neck of Enrique Velázquez for ruining one of the few excitements left her. It was rude. It was unpardonable. It was—life.
Building a solid partnership took time—in bridge as in life, she assumed. She’d had precious little experience of the latter, but a good bridge partner… There were so many variables. It was a question of trust. It was a question of discipline. It was a question of hitting it off, of finding the spark, the vibe, the common language. The deeper understanding, and—why was that Inglesa staring at her?
Francisca peeped over the rim of her sunglasses to get a better view of the young woman who stood with her hands gripping the rail of her balcony, one storey up and to the side. Her face was a deep geranium red. Her lips were parted. There was an unconscious tilt to her head—or Francisca thought it was unconscious. The look in her eyes was unmistakable; it was almost painfully raw and unguarded, making Francisca suck in her breath, the small hairs on her arms standing to attention. She raised her sunglasses up her forehead, her lips widening in a grin: her first genuine one since she didn’t know when. She shifted her legs, and the chica’s gaze flicked to them, for a split second, before she looked back at her face, and the reality of what she was doing seemed to catch up with her—she stumbled backwards and out of sight, the noise of the forcefully closed balcony door behind her turning Francisca’s growing mirth into outright laughter.
