Indiscretion (31 page)

Salvador reached out and gently touched the long chestnut hair that fell over her shoulders in such suggestive disarray. Alexandra looked up at him with wide green eyes where so many mute questions begged to be answered. Her pink lips parted slightly, glistening. He turned away.

‘It's getting late,' he said, discarding his cigarette and crushing it with a sort of pent-up violence. ‘A long journey awaits us tomorrow.'
He lifted her hand, gently turned it over and brushed her palm with his warm lips. Then, closing her fingers slowly over his kiss, he bade her goodnight and started back towards his room.

‘Salvador,' she whispered huskily.

As he turned she saw the fire leap in his eyes; Salvador looked back at her, loving and pleading in an erotic call of desire. He uttered a string of oaths in Spanish. Within seconds, she was drawn towards the warm vigour of his chest. His arms tightened about her and she let out a long, shivering sigh of delight as his mouth claimed hers, scorching, demanding and fiercely masculine. The fury of constrained jealousy and desire, which she knew had gnawed at him through the
corrida
, and been embodied in their sensual dance, was buried in his kiss. She could feel his desperate need and she would be his salvation. He had touched a chord deep inside her. When he held her, or his mouth brushed her lips, it was as though paradise was on her doorstep. The questions warring in her head paled at the searing contact of his skin. Alexandra's arms found their way around Salvador's neck, entwining her fingers in his raven-black hair, and her burning lips gave him the answer he craved.

They were caught up in a dream. She was trembling, slightly delirious. He was breathing rapidly. She could feel the pounding of his heart against her breast, or was it hers that raced at lightening speed? Brimming with love for him, her body ached for this man with such intensity it became a deep pain inside her.

Alexandra's robe slipped off her shoulders and his strong, gliding hands found the curve of her breasts. He cupped them, revelling in the way they hardened under the manipulation of his long, tanned fingers. Toying with them, he teased the little pink peaks between his finger and thumb and they rose, hardening in response, as he led her along the razor edge of desire. She wanted him to possess her, to be inside her, to feel the soft, damp core of her, and she knew he hungered for it too.

His caresses became increasingly urgent, his hands skimming up to her throat and then down again, gliding erotically over each curve of
her body, his kisses almost primitive, branding her with the wild fire that tortured them both. With wave upon wave of pure yearning as never experienced before, she shook and moaned his name again and again as he claimed her heart and soul. Lost to the sensual vibrations in her blood, she gasped with pure pleasure as an urgent longing flooded her loins, the look in her eyes vulnerable with naked desire.

‘Salvador …
Salvador
…'

‘Alexandra, my pure, sweet angel!
Dios mío
… I cannot … I must not … This beast that rages inside me … I must kill it.'

‘But I … There's something in me too and I can't stop it … I've never felt this way about any man before. … There's only you, there's only
ever
been you!'

Her passionate words resonated in the silence of the warm night and had the sobering effect of a cold shower on Salvador. Quickly he moved away, releasing her, his eyes still glazed with need, his body trembling with a powerful desire. He took a few steps backwards, his irises dark and dazed, his face harrowed with pain, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time.

‘I'm sorry,' he whispered low, his voice thick. ‘I'm so sorry,
niña
.
Perdona me querida
, forgive me,
querida
. You are so beautiful, so desirable, I couldn't help myself.' He raised his hand, as if in surrender, and shook his head, then turned abruptly and disappeared into his bedroom.

Alexandra nearly called after him, wanting to stop him, but the sound died in her throat. She pulled her robe back up and clasped it over her chest. Her eyes filled with tears of disbelief. Not for the first time since she had arrived in Spain, she wished for a better understanding of the male species.

Salvador must love her. He couldn't have held her, kissed her and touched her in the way he had done just now if he did not return the passion she felt for him. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of following him into his bedroom, but she knew that was a bad idea. She would have plenty of time to talk to him in the days to come. Reason and exhaustion had won the day.

It had been a long and eventful twenty-four hours. Climbing into bed, she fell into a deep sleep and did not wake up until Esmeralda knocked at her door, late the next morning.

Salvador had left early by train for Granada, where he had to attend to some sudden urgent business, leaving Alexandra and the others to make their own way back to El Pavón. He was running away and there was nothing she could do about it, except be patient and wait for his return.

A
lmost two weeks had gone by since Alexandra and Salvador's romantic tête-à-tête at the Parador de La Luna; a fortnight during which she had barely set eyes on him. Salvador was clearly avoiding her and her wounded pride forbade her from seeking him out. He was often away on business, and when he did show up at the hacienda, he made sure they were never on their own. Alexandra had glimpsed him a few times in the company of Doña Isabel and she knew, like everyone else in the household, that Marujita had access to his apartment. Her stomach gave a sickening wrench every time she thought about it. Was the gypsy girl still his mistress? Did Salvador hold her and caress her, did he kiss her with such tenderness and aching intensity that it made the world grind to a standstill …
as he had with her?

Alexandra's emotions were in riotous disarray. In the days following the trip to Ronda, she had struggled with an onslaught of anger, guilt and confusion. She had let Salvador touch her in a way that no man had ever done. Why had she allowed him to break down her defences again, making her want him with such disconcerting intensity? She tried to blame it on the
sangria
, on the febrile Flamenco dance they had shared at the
corrida
party, and on the frenzied
fiesta
atmosphere; still, deep down she knew that the way she was feeling had nothing to do with all that. She despised herself for letting it happen, but it was time she admitted that whenever she was alone with him, she seemed to act in a way quite foreign to her. When Salvador looked at her, touched her, she felt herself weaken, her mind cloud.

The young man seemed determined to torture them both with this flame of desire that leapt between them, playing a game of cat and mouse with her senses, and then pushing her away. And now a seed had broken open inside her and a reckless hunger had taken root. Salvador's hypnotic grey gaze haunted her mind and his burning touch filled her fevered dreams. Even though what she had told him was perilously close to a declaration of love, again he had walked away.

Alexandra's blood pulsated with a longing she never knew existed, but her feelings were in torment. Her mind seethed with questions. Salvador was an intelligent, educated, energetic man, but when it came to taking control of his destiny he seemed totally overpowered by a dark fatalism. If only she knew how to shake him out of his inertia.

Yet for all her anxiety and confusion, she had never felt so alive. The raw truth of her love burned through her, although she had not been able to say the words to Salvador, and her heart ached with a pain she could hardly bear. Clutching her chaotic emotions tightly to herself, she had escaped into her world of writing, trying to release the storm that raged within her, not knowing how to deal with this impossible situation. At least, for now, she didn't have to deal with Don Felipe coming to El Pavón to renew his attentions, which would only have added to her troubles. The
torero
had been called away on other business and he'd sent her an apologetic letter, promising to visit her at the earliest opportunity on his return.

It was Holy Week. Festivities marking the occasion of
Semana Santa
had already started and would last until Easter Sunday. The walls in the town had been freshly whitewashed, and trellises hung with greenery had been erected and adorned with pink, white and yellow flowers. There was a sense of mounting exhilaration in the air. The streets were thronged with pilgrims wearing long, loose coats and hoods, and everywhere, people seemed to be connected in one way or another with the Easter processions.

Alexandra had read about the magnificent
pasos
, the floats of riotous colour and movement symbolizing the drama of the
Passion, and she was excited at the prospect of travelling to Jerez with the family the next day to witness the de Fallas' tableaux in the procession.

For days now she had helped Doña Eugenia and Esmeralda attend to various wardrobe jobs. Their skilled fingers embroidered Jesus's and the Virgin's vestments that would be displayed in the procession. Meanwhile she and Mercedes mended the penitential hoods and tunics worn by the members of the de Falla Brotherhood. These were dramatic-looking and similar to those that would be worn by many other large Spanish families. The solemn nature of their work seemed to bring an uncharacteristic reticence to Doña Eugenia and Mercedes, though their quietness might also have been due to the prospect of the
Duquesa
's displeasure, should they choose to stir up any unpleasantness. Either way, Alexandra found this close activity tolerable enough, and when she spoke it was largely to Esmeralda. While they worked on the costumes, she thought that her cousin seemed even more tense than usual, but she put it down to excitement at the thought of the forthcoming parade, which promised to be spectacular.

The four women arrived in Jerez at half past four, just as families were beginning to take up their positions to wait for the procession. Places had been reserved for the de Fallas in the main plaza and they had seats on the corner, giving them an excellent view. Doña María Dolores had remained at El Pavón, the journey considered too arduous at her age; Salvador, Ramón and Don Alonso had left earlier, as they would be taking part in the event.

Coloured folding stools were lined up at the roadside so spectators could rest during the day. Crowds watched from windows and balconies and filled the canyon between houses, leaving a channel just wide enough to allow the passage of the
pasos
, the floats holding the heavy, imposing wooden sculptures depicting scenes from the Passion. Threading their way through the throngs of spectators, hawkers called out their wares: a motley assortment of flags, prayer books and sweets.

The air breathed orange blossom and overhead the sky was azure blue. Tall palms waved gently in the fragrant breeze and their green foliage glinted in the late afternoon sunshine.

As they waited for the procession, Alexandra didn't participate in conversation with the other three; instead, she entertained herself watching the people around her. Holy Week was plainly a time for families. They arrived in small groups of five or six, wearing their Sunday best or a special outfit made for the occasion. Some of the children were dressed as angels, others as Jesus on his way to Calvary, with long purple robes and crowns of thorns. The young women held rosaries and wore black silk dresses, with
mantillas
adorning their heads, gracefully kept in place by large tortoiseshell combs.

Alexandra had nearly worn a similarly beautiful Spanish addition to her own outfit. That morning, after breakfast, she had been asked to join Doña María Dolores in her apartments. The old woman had taken out of the cupboard a
mantilla
in fine black lace, and an exquisite embroidered manila shawl. ‘These belonged to my grandmother,' she told her, smiling. ‘I hope you will enjoy wearing them. It's been a while since I've used them. You will look every bit the Spanish beauty,
mi querida nieta
, my dear granddaughter. A true de Falla
para la Semana Santa
.'

Alexandra had been deeply touched by the dowager's affectionate gesture, but she'd worried that certain members of the family would take umbrage at her having being given yet another precious heirloom, so she had carefully folded them away in her drawer.

At one of the balconies decorated with palms, Alexandra noticed a bevy of young girls in their late teens, dark red carnations in their hair, giggling and whispering. From time to time, they would give out little cries of surprise and satisfaction. Alexandra wondered what was making them so excited, and then she caught sight of one of the girls throwing nuts and sweets into the street, aiming for a group of shy young men gathered outside a tapas bar. When one of the missiles hit its target, the girls cheered and laughed noisily.

‘I've never seen anything like this,' Alexandra told Esmeralda. ‘There must be thousands of people here.'

Esmeralda smiled. ‘Of course,
querida
, everyone comes out for Holy Week, all over Spain but more so in Andalucía.
Semana Santa
has been like this for over four hundred years. It's a very passionate, emotional time for us.' Her features became pensive. ‘We mourn the pain and suffering of Christ but there's joy in the resurrection too.' As she spoke, Esmeralda's eyes moved over the crowd, settling on Eugenia and Mercedes, who were speaking to some strategically well-placed Spanish aristocrats further along their row of seats. She turned to look at Alexandra. ‘You will not fail to be moved by the spectacle, I assure you, Cousin. You are no stranger to passion, I think.'

‘Given my profession, I'd like to think not,' Alexandra answered with a half laugh. Again, she wondered how much Esmeralda knew or guessed about her and Salvador.

Esmeralda fixed Alexandra with a look that seemed to read her mind. ‘If you would allow me to give you one piece of advice,
querida
, stay true to your passion and it will stay true to you.'

Alexandra was about to ask her what she meant when they were interrupted by the sound of drums in the distance, heralding the
pasos
, and so the question died on her lips.

‘Here they come,' Esmeralda whispered as the first marchers appeared. A great murmur stirred in the crowd and those watching from nearby balconies and windows leaned forward to get a better view.

From her vantage point, Alexandra had clear sight of the procession as it went by, stepping in time to the tattoo of the drums and the eerie call of trumpets, stopping every hundred yards or so to allow the bearers to rest. The great puppets of Christ and the Virgin Mary had a surreal, life-like appearance, she thought. They seemed to be moving alone, without human help, lifting their arms or nodding their heads slowly, in rhythm with the men who carried them.

‘Here comes our float, Santa María de Concepción,' Esmeralda told her as a dazzling tableau of the Holy Mother came into view.
She was clothed in a blue robe, richly embroidered with gold and silver threads. A great train spread out behind her, falling in harmonious cascades over the back of the
paso
. With a jewelled crown surmounting her face, she looked radiant amid a sea of glowing candles.

As the float reached Alexandra and her party, it paused. The thirty men carrying the load on their shoulders set down their burden, kneeling on one knee as they did so. Heads appeared from beneath the heavy cloak that hung over the
paso,
to claim a drink from the water-carrier.

She immediately noticed Salvador. His pale face glistened with sweat; the skin taut over his prominent cheekbones and his hollow eyes made him appear like a flesh-and-blood embodiment of the wooden figures in the procession, seeming to reflect, like them, the agony of the Passion.

All of a sudden, a drawn-out wailing sound came from out of the crowd, searing the evening air with its harrowing and mournful notes. Alexandra shuddered, startled, and saw several women cross themselves, while others threw themselves on the ground. She had read about these impromptu prayers directed to the Virgin Mary, which could burst forth, uninhibited, from someone in the congregation. She turned her gaze to Salvador. Kneeling there, he looked drawn and exhausted. As she watched him gulp down a draft of water and nod his thanks to the water-carrier, it struck Alexandra how he so epitomized the tragic soul of this fervent people. She wondered if she would ever get used to the colour and drama of Spain. Tragedy, blood and death surrounded her. Yet she could feel that this land had stirred something inside her from its sleep, that was reaching out to the passion of these people and, with a force now gathering momentum, gradually claiming it as her own.

As the shrilling
saeta
drew to an end, a signal was given. The lighted image was moved smartly into position; the bearers returned to their place under the drapes, where they straightened their backs and continued bravely on their way. More floats passed by, and with them
the sound of drums and trumpets, which died away as they moved into the distance. Finally the penitents came — by far the largest group in the procession — a glittering bank of candles, silent, mysterious and solemn. They wore long, loose coats girdled with thick cords, and high-peaked hoods of every colour and description, concealing their identity, save for two holes allowing them to see their way.

It was getting late. The crowds were beginning to show the first signs of weariness. Bread and tortillas had emerged from napkins and baskets; people peeled oranges, bananas and mandarins, or chatted, now and then casting a cursory glance at the show that had been the original purpose of their outing. Children, muffled in great shawls, cried as they tried to stay awake, in spite of the attempts on their parents' part to keep them quiet.

It was time to go back. Doña Eugenia and Mercedes, together with Esmeralda, moved off in the direction of the car in silence, still under the spell of the spectacle they'd just witnessed. Alexandra, hanging back, noticed Esmeralda glance over her shoulder one last time, her eyes deep and melancholy. Wanting to be by herself for a little while, Alexandra started back on her own, blending in with the crowd, her heart brimming with a new fervour.

* * *

It was a beautiful sunny morning, tempered by a breeze blowing from the north, which bore with it the scent of wild flowers and herbs. A week had passed since the Easter festivities. Salvador had remained out of sight for most of that time. He only appeared for meals and still shunned Alexandra's company — always civil, but cool and offhand. Out of pride and a sense of self-preservation, she didn't go out of her way to speak to him either, and largely tried to pretend he simply wasn't there.

One day she was coming back from her daily walk along the avenue of oaks that stretched across the grounds at the back of the hacienda when she caught sight of him. He wore his riding
breeches, an open-neck shirt and polished brown boots. Instead of heading for the stables as was his custom, he strode to the coach house on the opposite side.