Indiscretion (29 page)

They were sitting a little apart from the other guests, on wide cushions covered with rich embroidery, under an early-flowering
flame tree. The round stage, which had been placed against the garden wall for the performance, was set only a few yards away.

This part of the garden had been cleverly arranged as a picturesque miniature theatre, with rows of straw-bottomed chairs, brightly coloured quilted cushions and leather pouffes stuffed with horsehair. Most of the guests took up their seats with glasses of sherry,
manzanilla
or sangria, which they sipped as they waited for the show to begin.

The music started softly. Alexandra listened to the strumming notes of the guitars and felt as though she were being gently rocked in a hammock.

A gypsy family, seated in a semicircle to one side of the stage, began to clap their hands rhythmically, faster and faster, louder and louder, the rate of the tempo matching the level of sound.

‘Hand-clapping is a most necessary prelude to our singing and dancing,' whispered the
matador
.‘It's the gradual crescendo of clapping that frees all inhibition.' And so it was. Suddenly, as if by magic, the group of dancers, guitar players and singers came to life. They formed a single body, vibrant with a sense of collective excitement.

The first dancer to leap to her feet and occupy the centre of the floor was a young girl. She seemed barely thirteen, a fragile creature in her dress of white muslin spotted with red, a crimson shawl held tightly around her slender shoulders. Her dance was tempestuous. Coiling up and waving the flounces of her skirts, she beckoned to one of the male onlookers sitting on the other side of the stage to join her. All the time, the other members of the family, and some of the audience, stamped their feet, clapped their hands and interjected with cries of encouragement.

Alexandra was mesmerized by this vibrating show, and by the wild music. It seemed to call to something deep within, goading her, playing on all the simmering emotions that she was trying so desperately to hold on to. Beside her, Don Felipe too was clapping to the rhythm, nodding to Alexandra and smiling, but she couldn't bring herself to take part in the revelry, despite the
matador
's encouragement and the elation of everybody around her.

Now, as a second dancer — a man — came into view, the first withdrew to her place. He began a series of jumps, pirouettes and great leaps into the air. Then, throwing his wide-brimmed hat on to the stage, he performed a dance around it that was almost primitive in its ferocity. His frenzied movements had a certain supple grace, echoing the sensuous, pulsating music. The haunting rhythm of his stamping feet was truly contagious.

All of a sudden, Alexandra's natural inhibitions melted, and she found herself being swept away by the spirit of merriment and the orgy of noise. Along with the rest of the audience, who were now on their feet, she leapt up and joined the throng, stamping her feet and clapping her hands. Red-faced, cheeks burning, she cried out ‘
olés
' as though she were a true
gitana
.

Suddenly she felt an arm pulling her into the crowd. She looked up, startled, to see Salvador's face close to hers, his arm now tightly around her waist.

‘
Bailar el flamenco conmigo
, dance the Flamenco with me, Alexandra.' It was a whisper, no more, in her ear — a command, not an invitation — and he drew her in one fluid movement hard against his length. Salvador's eyes, shining almost cobalt-blue in his tanned face, bored into hers. She could feel his heart thundering against her breast, echoing the insistent rhythm of the music and driving the drumming beat through her already electrified body.

‘What are you doing? Let me go,' she murmured, her emerald eyes flashing in a mixture of anger and desire. Her hands pushed against his chest in a half-hearted attempt to free herself. But he jerked her waist even tighter against him, his gaze even more burning. She could feel the contours of his body in such a way that made her throat so dry she had to lick her bottom lip.

‘I said, dance the Flamenco with me,' he growled, his eyes on her mouth.

People were moving around them, skirts swirling, hands and feet clapping and stomping.

‘I can't, Salvador. I don't know how to …'

Alexandra looked at him ablaze, though she was confused and light-headed, her pulse racing; his eyes held her enthralled and she caught her breath as he drew her swiftly among the dancers. He turned her in his arms, holding her against his warm strength, sweeping her away into his almost primitive world of fevered excitement, a world that had been waiting for her all her life.

With one arm still around her waist, he took her other hand and raised it up above their heads. ‘Yes, you can. Follow me, and your instincts.'

Her instincts were telling her that nothing felt so natural and perfect than his body so close to her.

‘Look at me,
niña
,
sólo a mi
. This is a subtle dance, Alexandra … sensuous, passionate but strictly controlled.' His eyes seemed to burn even brighter. ‘First, lift your arms, like an eagle …'

He stepped away from her slightly and she began to mirror his movements, her arms arched above her, head held high to one side.

‘
Sólo sólo a mi, niña
.' Salvador swooped back close to her and his hand moved down the side of her body, making her shudder as an almost angry desire flashed between them, electric and heated.

She could see the pleasure and surprise reflected on Salvador's face when she began to move in perfect accord with him. With proud stamping steps they surrendered themselves to the mounting urgency of the rhythm and the precise evolution of the dance like a thin veil suspended above smouldering fires, threatening to erupt into flames at any moment. The same feeling of intoxication that had gripped Alexandra at the restaurant in Seville was now taking over her whole body as she flung herself wholeheartedly into the passionate
canto hondo
and
canto grande
, the traditional dances of Andalucía. Salvador's dexterous long fingers spun Alexandra away from him and pulled her back, curving her arm high over her head.

From time to time, a sudden drawn-out cry of wild, pure notes filled the atmosphere, and a thrill ran through Alexandra from head to toe. It was an indescribable sensation, enhanced by Salvador's intense blue gaze that never left her face, urging her on, faster
and faster. She was acutely aware of his nearness, of his superb physique, of his magnetism. From time to time, his eyes flickered with an odd expression — it was as much arrogance as desire, this innate part of his proud people, which Salvador personified more than ever when he danced, and which seemed all at once to add to his powerful allure.

And then his expression changed. One moment, he was spinning her round; the next, he held her to him, searching her face as if struggling to say something. Then he was gone, swift and silent, swallowed up by the crowd of shouting, stamping dancers around them.

Alexandra stared ahead of her, disorientated. What had happened? She thought about going after him but at that moment an arm caught her.

‘I lost you in the dancing, Doña Alexandra. Where did you get to?' It was Don Felipe. He was studying her face keenly with a look of concern. His hand still gripped her arm firmly. Something that made her uncomfortable gleamed in his eyes, making her want to pull away, but then it vanished. He released his grip and stepped back.

‘I'm sorry, Don Felipe … As you say, I got lost in the dancing,' Alexandra managed to stammer, still breathless from her unexpected sensual interlude.

‘Flamenco can have an overpowering effect on the uninitiated.' He regarded her pensively.

She added hurriedly, ‘Shall we watch the rest of show? I'm rather hot now and could do with a rest.'

His attentive warmth returned: ‘Of course, Doña Alexandra. You must get your breath back. We cannot have Aphrodite wilting before the evening is through.'

She flashed what she hoped was a winning smile and allowed Don Felipe to guide her back to the front of the audience.

Soon, among the jubilant shouts and stamping of the crowd, a third dancer languidly stirred from the shadows. Then all at once,
springing into life, she took up her position in the centre of the dancefloor. Noble, proud and insolent, she strutted around the stage, just like an exotic bird showing off its plumage. The cascading flounces of her dress moulded the shapely line of her body to perfection and emphasized the curving flow of the dance. Every muscle of her young limbs throbbed, vibrating to the hypnotic magnetism of the rhythm. She kept her eyes closed and in the wan moonlight, her skin, usually a golden copper, seemed to have turned the colour of alabaster. Her movements were composed of sudden transitions, of spasmodic and syncopated gestures. Now and then, she would punctuate them with a long, plaintive cry that cut in piercingly and then continued in a yet more poignant tone.

The dancer's face was not yet in full view, but already Alexandra had guessed that she was the gypsy, Marujita. Instinctively, she looked for Salvador again but he was still nowhere to be seen.

‘Is anything the matter?' enquired Don Felipe, sensing the abrupt change that had come over her.

‘No, not at all.' She was trying to relax and concentrate on the show, but the spell was broken. Her head was spinning in confusion. She didn't know what to think any more. Preoccupied with the predatory
Marquesa
, she had forgotten the equally threatening presence of the gypsy girl in this complicated situation with Salvador. Right now she felt drained, and she wanted to go home.

Marujita ended her dance to enthusiastic cheers from the audience and, with great relief, Alexandra saw Ramón reappear.

‘Wonderful party, eh,
mi primita
?' From the twinkle in his eye as he grinned at a couple of young women, who were giggling and waving goodbye, Alexandra could see that Ramón had clearly enjoyed his evening.

After they had thanked their hosts and bade them goodnight, Don Felipe accompanied his guests to their car.

‘Will I have the honour of seeing you again?' he asked as he folded Alexandra's hands in his, scanning her face intently through his thick lashes.

She turned to her cousin. ‘I think we're returning to Jerez tomorrow, are we not, Ramón?' she said quickly. Where the intensity of the
torero
's attentions had enchanted her before, now it made her uneasy and she felt pressured.

‘Yes, we leave tomorrow at first light.'

‘Then may I call on you at El Pavón, one day next week? Perhaps you'd be interested in visiting our
bodegas
.' But she ignored his insistence and simply smiled demurely as he put her hand to his lips. ‘Thank you for this marvellous evening, beautiful goddess,' Don Felipe whispered, helping her into the car and closing the door after her. ‘I look forward to seeing you soon,' he called out as they drove off.

Ramón eyed her mischievously. ‘You certainly have made a conquest, Cousin. Quite the charmer, isn't he?'

‘Do I look charmed?' she retorted, nettled by the young man's insinuation.

‘No, you look grumpy, though I can't think why.' He grinned to himself, unperturbed by her mood. ‘But you know what they say … A diplomat should always think twice before saying nothing, so my lips are sealed.'

He raised his eyebrows with a smirk and they drove in silence for a while. Alexandra had not yet recovered her sense of humour and wasn't ready to be teased. She felt quite irritated with the whole world, but mostly with herself.

‘Where are the others?' she asked finally, trying to sound casual.

‘They left before the show finished. I'm afraid it didn't go down well with our hostess, but for once Salvador behaved sensibly. Things could have become rather complicated with that young gypsy hanging around. I'm sure her presence wasn't a coincidence. Did you have a nice time?' His voice softened with sincerity this time. Without waiting for a reply, he added, ‘When I last looked at you, you seemed to have entered the party mood and were enjoying yourself thoroughly.'

‘Yes, it was a good show,' she admitted, forcing some enthusiasm into her voice, but her heart was not in it. The euphoria that had
swept over her during the evening had evaporated, leaving her weary and depressed.

* * *

Set in ten acres of beautiful terraced gardens, the Parador de la Luna was perched on a lush hillside overlooking whitewashed hill towns and the dark El Tajo ravine that cut through the town of Ronda. At the bottom of the gorge, over five hundred feet below, the Guadalevín was a distant slender stream. The ground-floor rooms of the picturesque
posada
opened on to a broad terrace supported by porticoes. A large veranda, shaded by awnings, led off the upper-floor bedrooms; designed to give shelter from the scorching heat, it boasted an intimidating, precipitous view of the surrounding countryside.

The night was hot; a heavy and oppressive Spanish heat. Not a breath of air came down from the Sierras to relieve the atmosphere, and Alexandra was unable to sleep. She felt edgy. Thoughts of Salvador and the young gypsy girl pushed themselves to the forefront of her mind even though she had promised herself to keep them at bay. The prospect of the
Marquesa
's wily designs on Salvador were almost eclipsed by what she knew he had already shared with the
gitana
. Her stomach lurched. Did he care for the gypsy girl? She shook her head as if to rid herself of such a taunting notion.

In the few magical hours they had spent together in Seville, a small, naïve part of Alexandra had thought that she and Salvador would be able to see past their differences, overcome whatever it was that forced him to be so guarded. Now that she knew more about him, she was still no nearer to figuring him out — or understanding what was happening between them.