Indiscretion (18 page)

Alexandra stared at him, realizing that he had subtly altered the sound of her name. Salvador's voice was low and caressing, making her aware of the deep potential of passion in this man, and she dared not look into his eyes.

‘Music not only requires passion, but practice and dedication,' she countered, trying to steal back some of her composure, ignoring the unnerving fluttering sensation in her chest.

‘And with dedication comes the release of true art, it's true. One day I'll show you the dance of Flamenco and, I guarantee, Alexandra, the Spanish part of you will be ignited.'

‘I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that,' she said, unsure which part of his declaration she was replying to.

‘You must say yes, Alexandra, or I will be forced to pursue you until you do,' he softly told her.

Under his steady scrutiny she became restive and her eyes wavered from his face. She could imagine how it might feel to have Salvador hold her tightly against him as they moved to the pulsating rhythm of the dance. To ease her dry throat she reached for the sangria. ‘Flamenco is the music of the gypsies, I've heard. Is that true?'

‘Some believe they invented it, yes. They have certainly appropriated Flamenco over the centuries and the wild, exciting nature of the music and dancing fits with their mysterious culture.'

‘They sound fascinating, though they do have a notorious reputation worldwide. I've read about some of their more threatening ways, though like most things obscure and little-known, I suppose it's easy to paint a sinister picture and be quick to condemn. Do you know much about them?'

‘A little.' Salvador's expression hardened. She could not read his face as he relapsed into one of his characteristic brief silences, his eyes gazing ahead, absorbed in his own thoughts. He returned to her
and she saw the dark eyes regarding her gravely. She flushed faintly. ‘They're a proud race, with a strong sense of honour … And honour is, after all, one of the most important things that drive us: honour, revenge, love. What else is there?'

Alexandra laughed. ‘Tolerance, decency, beauty … honesty.' The solemn side of his Spanish nature had resurfaced in an instant, and she was trying to bring him back. It had worked and he shot her a provocative smile.

‘Do you find me honest, Alexandra?'

He was doing it again, playing with the sound of her name.

‘I find you completely exasperating.'

‘So you're the honest one, I see.' Salvador threw his head back and laughed delightedly, the gleaming whiteness of his teeth as startling as the cobalt eyes that twinkled at her, animating his coolly handsome face.

Alexandra burst out laughing too and once again found herself totally at ease with this man that she knew so little about. Meanwhile the music had died down to a slow strumming and the chatter from the diners had resumed.

‘Perhaps we should get some fresh air and see more of Seville,' she suggested. ‘There's so much I need to discover.'

‘Of course, and much I have to show you,' said Salvador, and to her astonishment he took her hand and raised it to his lips in the same fleeting way he had done at the harbour. He paid the bill and soon they were back in the bright streets of Santa Cruz.

Later, they strolled through the maze of narrow white streets of this old Jewish quarter, under arcades garlanded with roses and jasmine. They lingered in plazas planted out with flame trees and acacias, and he bought her a superb shawl of thick silk, embroidered with myriad flowers and exotic birds. ‘So that you will think of me every time you wear it,' he said solemnly.

He spoke to her about his childhood, about El Pavón, and his great-aunt, the
Duquesa
, whom he adored. Salvador had come to understand, and even admire, the dowager's quirks and respected
her courage, both during and after the Civil War. It was a courage mixed with subtlety.

‘I realized after the war that my great-aunt's cautious stance had been very wise,' he told Alexandra.

‘Yes, I can appreciate even more now, having spoken to Ramón, just how terribly dangerous life in Spain has been over the last two decades. Grandmother must have been so brave to get the family through such horrors seemingly unscathed.' Alexandra gazed up at Salvador, frowning in concern.

‘Ah yes. Ramón. He sees the world in such black-and-white terms. And, of course, sometimes he's right. The hatred and thirst for revenge that followed Franco's victory here have made the whole country a dangerous place. The de Fallas are one of the oldest of the noble families. We could have been viewed with suspicion and resentment by so many, but the
Duquesa
has navigated a shrewd path through it all. But let's talk of more cheerful things.' He smiled at Alexandra warmly and brushed his hand along an overhanging branch of bougainvillea above her as they walked. She watched a petal drift slowly to the ground and wondered at Salvador's sense of being a de Falla, and what she'd begun to detect in him: that, just as he'd remarked about her, he yearned for a freedom he didn't have.

‘Yes, it's so beautiful here.' She lifted her face, basking in the warmth of the sun on her skin, and took in the impossibly azure sky, the riot of colour in the meandering, cobbled street. ‘It's as if this place has been frozen in time for centuries.'

When he didn't answer, she looked sideways and almost blushed as his gaze found hers; the open curiosity of it was so disarming. ‘Yes, beautiful,' he murmured. ‘Andalucía is a blessed place. According to Islamic legend, Allah was asked for five favours by the people of El Andalus — clear blue skies, seas full of fish, trees ripe with every kind of fruit, beautiful women and a fair system of government. Allah granted them all of these favours except the last … on the basis that if all five gifts were bestowed, the kingdom would become an unearthly paradise.'

‘I like that one.' Alexandra was almost vibrating with the excited awareness of him next to her as they walked. ‘Tell me another.'

He told her again of the legends and tales of ancient Spain, which reflected not only the traditions and customs of his country but also, indirectly, his own ideas, his principles, his aspirations, his ideals. Unconsciously he opened up to her and she listened, riveted, her eyes sparkling, drinking in his every word, eager to know more of the man she suspected lay behind those words. He was proud of his aristocratic lineage, mindful of the responsibility his status conferred, and was as deeply rooted in his country as he was in the earth beneath his feet. Yet today, he was like any other young Spaniard, playful and flirtatious, and the way he looked at Alexandra confused her heart and overpowered her body.

She wanted this day never to end. Salvador also seemed relaxed and happy. Passersby smiled, assuming them to be newly betrothed, as Salvador and Alexandra shared lingering gazes and laughed with such carefree spontaneity.

‘I've not stopped talking,' he said at last in a somewhat embarrassed tone. ‘I hope I haven't bored you with my stories.'

‘On the contrary,' Alexandra replied enthusiastically. ‘Your anecdotes are extremely interesting. Besides, you've given me a great deal of material for my book.'

Salvador smiled and glanced at his watch. ‘In that case, you must visit Triana. Without it, your research on this part of the world would be incomplete. Triana is the poor suburb of Seville but I think it's typical of Andalucía. There is no better time to see it than at sunset, when it's packed with every kind of vagabond.'

‘What's so special about Triana?'

‘Triana is the haunt of gypsies, the home of popular song and folklore dancing. In the days of Haroun al-Rashid, it was the scene of magical Zambra festivals where they danced the “Dance of the Moors”. Since then, Seville has become famous for musical culture throughout the Western world, and Triana the heartland of Flamenco. There is no place on earth I can think of where you can see so
many bizarre and exotic characters. They are a different people, the Trianeros, with their unique traditions and a charm and wit all their own,' he added, his face alight.‘They have inspired the great musicians of the world. Rossini's bumptious barber, Bizet's bewitching Carmen and Mozart's frivolous Don Juan … all these characters are here.' Salvador spoke animatedly, his eyes gleaming with a singular fever. He walked at a brisk pace so that Alexandra had to hurry to keep up with his long strides. Once again, he was taking her breath away with his unpredictability. His drive was contagious and she felt her pulse race with unbridled excitement.

‘Have you heard the legend of Triana?'

She laughed. ‘No, Salvador, I think you can guess that I'm ignorant of that one.'

‘Let me enlighten you then,' he grinned at her. ‘Some people say that the goddess Astarte, amorously pursued by Hercules, took refuge at the bank of the Guadalquivir River.'

They stopped to cross the road. ‘The goddess
who
?' Alexandra asked.

‘Astarte, the semitic goddess of fertility.' He looked at her and a tingling heat rushed under her skin. ‘The Greeks knew her as Aphrodite. She was so taken by the beauty of the riverbank that she thought it an ideal place to build a city, hence the creation of Triana. Astarte's dual influence of sexuality and war certainly seeps through the place, if you believe in that sort of thing.'

They walked back to the Plaza Hotel where they'd left the car. Something electric had sprung up between them now and the air crackled with tension. They drove down near the
Torre del Oro
, not far from the bridge straddling the Guadalquivir, where earlier they'd parted company with Sarita.

‘We'll cross the bridge on foot.' Salvador got out first and held the car door open for Alexandra. ‘That way you'll have a better opportunity to appreciate the local colour. Besides, no respectable car could survive the trip without damage.' There was an inexplicable look in his eyes as she stood beside him on the pavement. She could feel a strange excitement radiating from him too.

As they approached the bridge, the chorus of voices became almost deafening, some shrill, others boisterous, punctuated by the shaky rattling of carts, the tintinnabulation of tram bells, the flat, repeated cries of street vendors. And over in the distance, on Seville's waterfront, the dismal shadow of the Golden Tower, the old prison watchtower of the Guadalquivir, rose like some baleful omen of misfortune, casting its fiery reflection on the river's shimmering surface in the light of the setting sun.

Alexandra stepped off the pavement and glanced up at the tower, drawn by its threatening beauty. Suddenly a horn blared. She turned her head to see a moped speeding towards her. Frozen, she stared, horrified, at the oncoming bike. The next moment she felt strong arms around her waist, lifting her up and jerking her back to safety.

Salvador caught her as she stumbled against him, her hands gripping his muscular arms to steady herself. His embrace tightened, straining her to him. Her heart was hammering with almost suffocating unevenness. Trembling as much by sudden conflicting thoughts as by her stumbling, she lifted her face to say something and found herself paralyzed by Salvador's intense silvery gaze so close to her own. There was a question in their depths that she didn't understand — that she didn't want to understand — but before she could be sure of his meaning, he curved his hand around her cheek, tilted her chin up and his head lowered to find her mouth. Alexandra closed her eyes, welcoming the shudder of electricity that shook her as their lips touched. He kissed her lightly, softly, meaningfully. She could feel his strong torso pressing against her breasts; his lean, hard body telling her without words how he felt about her.

And now, as Alexandra's arms crept about Salvador's neck, his mouth slowly moved against hers, sensuously to start with before gradually building up into a more purposeful and desperate kiss. As his fire flowed into her, she was seized by a storm of wild feelings. Her innocence feared the strength of her own desire. He was burning through her, like nothing she'd ever experienced before. The power
ebbed away from her mind as her body discovered a life of its own, leaping into flames, and her mouth gradually melted beneath his.

About them, the world seemed to stand still, even though the traffic blared and the pavement thronged with people; they were lost in the crowd, lost in their own crashing sea of emotions. Time hung like a pendulum suspended. Nothing else mattered except the roar of their unleashed desire.

Alexandra's head rebelled against logic and caution. With wanton delight, she gave herself up to the rapturous bliss of the moment, startling that part of her which remained detached, that was watching her behaviour with shocked disapproval.

‘Beautiful
señorita
, handsome
señor
, Paquita will tell you what the future holds for you …' The voice came sharply out of the blue. A gypsy woman of uncertain age, with hooded eyes, hooked nose and unkempt, thick black hair like a witch's, had pushed out of the crowd behind them. Salvador almost leapt back in alarm. The
gitana
grabbed Alexandra's hand but the young woman pulled away, reeling with confusion at this violent interruption, her mind and emotions still caught up in Salvador's passionate kiss.

‘What? Let go of me, I don't want to know,' she cried, glaring furiously at the fortune-teller.

But the harpy took no notice of her objections. ‘Two paths … I see two paths,' she went on in her deep, threatening voice. ‘The first is difficult and tortuous, strewn with thorns and tears, but at the end of it you will find the paradise all young women dream of. The second is straight and easy, strewn with rose-petals and pearls. A cruel deception … a castle built of sand. Careful, my beauty,' she rasped as she drew closer to Alexandra, waving a withered finger at her, ‘do not delude yourself, do not be deceived, the devil is cunning.'