Indiscretion (17 page)

‘That's right.' He gratified her with a brilliant grin. ‘Didn't you know that in Andalucía, love is as inconstant as it is passionate and jealous? A liking for the harem has been handed down to us through centuries of Moorish civilization.'

Alexandra heard the barely concealed relish in her cousin's voice.
I asked for that, and he's enjoying this now
, she thought. All the same, she laughed, hoping it didn't ring as hollow in Salvador's ears as it did in her own. ‘I never know when to take you seriously.'

‘But I'm very serious, dear little cousin.' Salvador's voice was even, an enigmatic smile touching his lips. His eyes had lost their steely edge and had deepened, as they sometimes did, into a Mediterranean blue. Gleaming, they held a hint of mischief as they scanned her face and Alexandra had no doubt that he was laughing at her. ‘The legend tells of how at first Pedro the Cruel fell in love with Doña María Coronel but she was married to another. He condemned her husband to death but promised to spare him if his wife was accommodating. She refused to yield to him and her husband was executed. She sought refuge in a convent but Pedro the Cruel tracked her down. In despair, she burned her own face, thus putting an end to the accursed love that her beauty had inspired. Don Pedro then consoled himself with María de Padilla.'

Alexandra shuddered. ‘What a dreadful story!'

He regarded her provocatively. ‘If the preferred love is unavailable then what can you do but seek out another to soothe your soul?'

‘So much for your famous Andalucían fidelity and passion. Not my idea of romance, I'm afraid.' She tried not to read into his words the whisperings of her own uneasiness: that she was perhaps merely his own diversion, a plaything because Isabel was not available to him.

Salvador, seemingly oblivious to her concerns, simply grinned. ‘Legends blossom spontaneously on our fertile Spanish soil, each one more fantastic than the other. Like I said before, we Andalucíans
do everything with intensity.' He laughed, taking great pleasure in tantalizing her, but Alexandra had given up. She would remain casually detached and not leave herself open to any more of her cousin's teasing banter, she had decided.

They left the café and took a leisurely stroll south through bright, tree-lined streets, eventually arriving at the
Alcázar
. Alexandra was dazzled by this palace straight out of
One Thousand and One Nights
, with its vast rooms covered in glazed tiles. Never before had she seen so many marble columns, arabesques, arcades, galleries and cool, echoing corridors. They walked through the silent gardens covered in clouds of roses, laden with the pungent scents of myrtle hedges and the sweet balmy breath of orange blossom.

‘This is the chamber of “
Las Doncellas
,”' explained Salvador as they were admitted into yet another sumptuously decorated room to the side of a magnificent courtyard.

‘I presume this is the room where ladies received visitors,' she suggested.

Salvador shook his head. ‘No, not exactly.'

She turned to him abruptly and met the cobalt blue eyes regarding her with cool amusement. ‘What then?'

He gave her a wry glance. ‘It is said that every year, as tribute to their victory, the sultans received in this room one hundred captive virgins taken prisoner in each of the Christian cities they conquered.'

Alexandra lifted a quizzical eyebrow, holding his gaze defiantly. ‘Has a liking for this barbaric custom left its trace on the Spanish people as well?'

This time Salvador gave his laughter full rein, delighting in her response. ‘I was in no doubt my independent and emancipated cousin would disapprove of such a custom. Did you know you can be read like a book?'

‘Yes, so they say,' she replied lightly, trying to hide her annoyance at herself for still coming across as transparent and naïve when she had tried to meet him with dignified sarcasm. Once again she had waltzed straight into his trap.

By this time they had come out into one of the formal garden enclosures, constructed in such a way that the occupants could not be overlooked.

‘Who says?' he prompted, imitating her curtness, ‘Your admirers? You're a very lovely young woman and I'm sure you're not short of suitors.' Without missing a beat, he added, ‘Have you left a
novio
back in London?'

Alexandra was taken by surprise. His question was bold and indiscreet. To her intense irritation, she felt herself blushing and looked away so that he could not see her confusion. The open challenge in his voice was baiting her but she refused to rise to it. They were slipping towards dangerous ground; the last thing she wanted was to be quizzed by Salvador about her personal life. In fact, there was not much going on in it, now that she came to think of it — apart from dear Ashley, of course. Anyhow, nothing of the kind he was alluding to. Shut away in a world of her own, she had been too busy writing romantic novels to give much thought to her own emotions in that sphere and, for some reason, she was reluctant to let him know that.

Mistaking her silence for resentment, Salvador laid a hand on her arm. ‘Are you angry, Alexandra?' Placing two fingers under her chin, he turned her face towards him. His voice was soft and velvety, startling her out of her absorption. The steely-grey eyes fastened on to hers and she stared curiously into them. There was a compelling power there that made her forget her irritation and misgivings. He smiled at her uncertain expression.

‘What are you afraid of?' he asked gently, echoing her earlier thoughts. She swallowed hard, transfixed by his nearness. Though his skin was smooth, underneath the golden tan she could make out the faint shadow of tomorrow's stubble. The set of his jaw and the line of his mouth appeared softer than they had in the moonlight, the night of the masked ball. His head bent towards hers, his mouth a breath away from her parted lips. She caught an expression in his eyes, vital and aware, as they took in the whole of her face. A current passed
between them in the warm rose- and jasmine-scented air. It came like a gentle tremor, as though the invisible magnets of fate were drawing them together, building and engulfing them in a tidal wave, to drag them down into its depths, in a sea of unknown feelings.

The moment was transient. Without warning, he let go of her arm and turned away, once more unreachable. Alexandra stepped back too, her eyes clouding with confusion, unsure of what to feel. For a short while, the two of them stared out at the stunning gardens but Salvador's aloof manner didn't last for long. Regaining his good humour, he galvanized Alexandra, despite herself, into a different mood.

‘And now, let's have lunch. I'm sure you're as hungry as I am,' he cheerfully declared.

He took her to the old Jewish quarter of Santa Cruz, a backwater of twisting streets and unsuspected byways, with fine old green-shuttered houses and whitewashed garden walls. At almost every entrance was a wrought-iron lantern; at every window a bow-shaped iron grille moulded with ornate rococo curls. The garden walls were splashed with overflowing vines and through occasional open doorways Alexandra caught glimpses of flagged patios filled with potted plants, copper urns and jugs, and a fountain tinkling in the centre.

They ate a hearty lunch in
Hasta Luego
, a quaint tavern in the middle of the quarter. Salvador knew the owner and although it was already busy, they were given an excellent banquette inside, where it was cool and more private in the pleasantly dim light.

He poured Alexandra a glass of sangria, studying her face and the delight in her eyes as she took in the surroundings, making mental notes to jot down in her notebook later. The tavern held a charming collection of dark mahogany tables and stools, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling; its walls of sherry-coloured panelling were covered with bright paintings and areas of patterned blue-and-white tiles; giant wooden wine barrels were mounted on shelves and displays of enticingly packaged Spanish delicacies were a feast for the eye.

Salvador leaned back in his chair. ‘I've been watching you. You seem fascinated by Spain, Alexandra.'

‘Yes, I suppose I am,' she conceded. ‘My life in England is so very different. Here, there's colour and light and passion. The Spanish have an enviable gift for life and happiness. There seems to be a world of stories on every street corner.'

‘You are a true romantic, a romantic hiding beneath a mask of English worldliness. But then again, every one of us wears a mask of some kind … You believe the best of people, don't you?'

‘Should I not?'

Salvador smiled wistfully. ‘Perhaps. People are unpredictable, the Spanish in particular. Yes, we are driven by our passionate nature but danger is often the bedfellow of passion.'

Was there a glint in his eyes as he had said this, she wondered, or again was it a trick of the light?

She glanced at him. ‘I agree, passion can be dangerous,' she said as casually as she dared, though she could feel her cheeks warming, not purely from the effect of the sangria. It was impossible for her to resist the beguiling nature of his smile. ‘But what do you mean, exactly?'

His voice softened. ‘I mean, Alexandra, that here, things must be done in a particular way. In our country we have customs that are deep-seated and which govern our people, traditions that took root in this land centuries ago, which nothing and no one can destroy. Those ways can imprison us …'

‘Only by choice. Every civilized person has a choice and the freedom to decide their own destiny, don't you think?'

‘How provocative,' he said, as if to himself, ‘a politician as well as a writer and musician. Is there no end to your talents?' He raised dark brows, his eyes sparkling.

‘You're laughing at me.'

He grinned. ‘Is it not good to laugh occasionally?' Pausing, he added thoughtfully, ‘We have a great deal in common, you and me.'

‘I cannot think what,' she answered, but was intrigued by his comment.‘We're from unimaginably different backgrounds.' Holding
back from him seemed the sensible thing to do and yet she wanted to draw him on.

‘We are both trapped behind masks, of course. Can you not sense it,
niña
?' There it was again: a glimmer of vulnerability beneath that confident masculinity. ‘You yearn for something you don't have, searching for your identity and maybe even your destiny on this fiery soil of ours. Anyone who has heard you at the piano can see there is something restless and driven in you, another side that longs to take flight. You need to face who you really are, Alexandra.'

She blinked in surprise at his disarming frankness, her eyes questioning his sincerity. It was as if in a moment he had peeled away a layer to expose her vulnerable core. She frowned and looked away. He was dangerous — how fearful and fascinating were the days ahead going to be.

‘Am I such an open book to you?' She tilted her chin a little stubbornly but could not help the thrill coursing through her at the thought of how he had got under her skin. That he could make her feel like this was almost frightening.

‘You must forgive me if I lack your English diplomacy,' Salvador said, smiling at her reassuringly. ‘Unfortunately, we Spanish speak our minds. But you know this, as you are essentially a true Spaniard.'

‘Hardly. I've lived a very English life.' She looked at him and suddenly felt like she had indeed been trapped in a glittering prison ever since she could remember, her eyes closed in the dark, sheltered and closeted from the world.

‘But you were born and nurtured under the Spanish sun, on Spanish soil, for the first years of your life. We are the blood that flows through your veins, Alexandra. The lifeforce of your passions … which you clearly have in abundance,
niña
.'

His gentle tone surprised her and she made no comment. The dark, penetrating gaze held hers for a moment and slowly travelled to her mouth. Alexandra felt almost hypnotized as she tried to decipher its disturbing message. The heat intensified in her cheeks as he continued to look at her with … she dare not believe what he was
mutely telling her. Salvador's raw sexuality was overwhelming. He disturbed and excited her in equal measure; she recognized that now.

A Flamenco guitarist spontaneously began playing at the far end of the restaurant — loud, harsh, with a pulsing under-beat. With his long, unkempt hair, deep-set, jet-black eyes and gaunt face, the man looked like a gypsy. His song had a wave-like dynamic: soaring to passionate heights, dropping to a murmur, rising again. Waiters stopped and clapped softly or rapped their knuckles on tables as the hoarse, melodic voice of the guitarist echoed through the room. Like a drug, it was mesmerizing everyone in the place, including Alexandra. She soon forgot her embarrassment and became transfixed by the musician, letting the sound surge through her body.

It was then that she looked up. Emotion burned in Salvador's face as if a light had been turned on inside him. He sat without stirring, lost; forgetful it seemed of the woman who sat beside him. She felt a sharp desire to touch him, bring him back, slightly jealous of the music that had such power to take him away from her. Still, the plaintive sound of the guitar and the ardent words of the song were enthralling her too. When it stopped, Salvador looked at her, the emotion the song had inspired in him still burning in his eyes.

Alexandra spoke quickly to diffuse the intensity. ‘I've never heard true Flamenco music played live, though I've always wanted to. I find its subjects almost too poignant, love and death.'

‘Love and death are the two overriding Andalucían preoccupations. Indeed, more specifically, they are the two most important experiences of life.'

‘But why couple them?' Alexandra protested. ‘They don't go in pairs. One is the beginning — the
real
beginning — of life, the other is the end.'

Salvador smiled and shook his head at her. ‘Spanish Flamenco is the embodiment of passion. Some people say that music is at its best when wild and unleashed. Flamenco is often like that, heels stamping, castanets clicking, skirts of the dancers whirling … But it was not the case with this singer; he sang a sad love song. Flamenco,
and especially Andalucían Flamenco, is a force of nature … like love. The singer reaches deep down into his soul and that is what makes the notes so, as you say, poignant. What do you make of our Andalucían passion, as a writer, as a musician … or as a woman, Alexandra?'