With rising anticipation, and ignoring her better judgement, Luna moved along the narrow lane into deeper darkness. The distant music and the rhythmic clapping and tapping of feet came to her in waves; sometimes it seemed nearer, then farther away. A cat crept noiselessly out of the shadows, making her jump, and flashed its phosphorescent eyes before scampering away and disappearing into the small, gated entrance of one of the houses. Suddenly she was aware of the sound of her footsteps on the cobblestones and she felt a frisson of fear. She knew she was being reckless by persevering down this maze of dark alleys but, having gone so far now, she was not about to turn back.
Unexpectedly, at an abrupt bend in the narrow street, the sound of live, full-blooded flamenco music burst out once more, echoing through the night. It came from a nightclub a few yards away, its façade painted with warm sunny colours under the flashing fluorescent sign El Cabo de Oro.
Now, as she approached the tavern, Luna could clearly hear the loud clapping of hands, the olés, and the clinking of glasses. She hesitated outside the bright walls a few moments longer, a curtain of beads the only thing separating her from the exuberant sounds of the show.
Finally, she pushed it aside and went down the few steps leading into the dimly lit room below. Anti-smoking campaigns had obviously not reached this wild little world, she noted, engulfed by the hazy atmosphere.
Here, the cuadro flamenco sat in a semicircle on a platform at the far end of the room with that part open to the night sky. The troupe played its music at a fast tempo, while the audience clapped their hands and stamped their feet in rhythm on the tiled floor with cries of olé to encourage the young dancer. A girl was singing hoarsely, seductively, and her castanets marked their own syncopated rhythm.
Lamps on the red painted walls threw out a warm amber glow, illuminating an assortment of bullfighting posters, advertisements, and photographs of toreros and flamenco dancers. On one side, to the right, stood a long, wooden bar lined with endless bottles of different shapes and colours and topped by a row of gleaming glasses. Tended by a scraggy-looking waiter chewing a quid of tobacco, most of the clientele sat on cane stools along the bar, eating tapas or drinking around low tables made from empty wine barrels. To the left of the stage, an arched roof opened out on to a walled patio, where a small number of people sat drinking and chatting in the balmy evening air.
Luna made her way deeper into the room, looking for a table nearer the patio where she would be less affected by the fug of smoke. The tavern was packed. The audience was mostly men and what women there were, were all accompanied. Luna was the only single woman in the place, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She began to regret her rash decision. Back in New York she had never been to a bar alone, so why had she suddenly decided it was a good idea to do so on her first night in Barcelona? Her pale blonde hair and pearly complexion caused her to stand out starkly against the darker colouring of the Spaniards who filled the club.
There was a drop in the level of noise as she became an object of interest. Men’s eyes were drawn to her like a magnet. Some of them whispered to each other, casting sidelong glances. Women also stared, their eyes narrowing, reflecting quite a different sentiment altogether. The cuadro had stopped playing while the musicians sipped their wine and a new dancer emerged from the background to take over the lead. Luna stood at the side of the seated audience and glanced around.
Maybe I should go back, she thought, feeling distinctly out of place.
And then it happened … their eyes met across the room and held for a long moment. The effect was electric and hit Luna like a bolt of lightning. His gaze, fringed by long black lashes, burned with a fire that scorched her as it moved slowly and deliberately over her face, then her body, with frank admiration, as if drinking in her every feature. Though she could not see the exact colour of his eyes at this distance, she knew they were paler than his tanned complexion – brilliant and alive with passion.
The man before her was mesmerizing in his perfect male beauty. His bold, open stare should have made her want to turn and run but something more powerful than she had ever experienced, a shot of pure adrenaline in her blood, had her rooted to the spot.
In that split second of silent meeting, Luna’s heart seemed to turn over in her breast and her pulse accelerated to a wild beat.
‘Puedo llevar a la señorita un vaso de sangria y unas tapas? Can I bring the señorita a glass of sangria and some tapas?’ The solicitous voice of the waiter brought Luna back down to earth with a bump. As she hesitated, still a little confused, he smiled at her. ‘I’ve got a free table, down at the front. It’s a hot night and you’ll have a perfect view of the band.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ In a daze she followed the waiter and took her place outside, under the starry sky, as the fiery music started up again.
Luna’s gaze was drawn back to the stage, to that sculpted face.
He was one of the musicians, and a gypsy, she had no doubt. Now he took up a mandolin and began to accompany the two other guitarists and a drummer who was beating a tabla, a type of drum she remembered having seen in Egypt, with an opening at one end. A couple of girls from the audience had joined the cuadro and the dancer on stage. The atmosphere was spontaneous and wild.
From her vantage point, Luna had a full view of her gypsy and she could survey him without it being too obvious. His hair was black, thick and shining, swept back from a broad forehead. The hair was rather long, she noted, but perhaps not that long for a gitano. A few tendrils fell across his brow from time to time as he moved his head to the music. His chiselled features were strong, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose that seemed more aristocratic than gypsy, though this was belied by the crackling aura of raw danger that seemed to emanate from him.
His mouth was wide and inviting, with smooth, slightly bowed lips that prompted illicit thoughts in Luna, thoughts that raced uninvited through her head and made her shiver despite the warmth of the night. Now she could see that the eyes that had met hers with such intensity were blue, a deep, unfathomable blue, like the skies and the seas of his country. Luna wondered at his age: mid-thirties, maybe a little younger.
As the dancer finished her set and retreated, the gypsy stood up, came forward and murmured an announcement of the next song, making a fresh thrill ripple up Luna’s spine at the husky, masculine sound of his voice. He started the rhythmic clapping of a toca de mano, and the waiter went round refilling glasses while the audience joined in, working up to a crescendo of hand-claps until the whole tavern shook with cries of ‘olé’ and ‘anda’.
The gypsy was much taller than Luna had guessed – over six feet, with a perfectly proportioned, lithe body. Wide shoulders and a broad chest, narrow hips and muscled thighs clad in a pair of jeans that hugged his form so well it left little to the imagination. She was aware of his intense magnetism, which was just as powerful as his steely physique. At this distance, she could detect the dark, curling hair lightly covering his chest just visible at the neck of the faded T-shirt he wore with surprising panache.
The muscles of his arms flexed as this time he picked up a guitar and strummed a rapid cascade of chords. He gazed down into her eyes. The dazzling white smile he gave her almost stopped her heart and she lowered her head to hide her confusion.
As the rhythmic clapping subsided, he began to sing. His voice was rich and mellow, warm with vibrant tones and tingling with emotion, beguiling and beckoning like a filtre d’amour that scrambled her thoughts and stirred primitive and alarming desires within her. The music was plaintive and feverish, and as Luna watched his long fingers alternately strum and flick across the strings of his guitar, first lightly and then harder at lightning speed, she found herself wondering how those hands would feel on her skin. His songs were in Caló so she could not understand the words, but she could sense the intensity of feeling that went into the full, vigorous notes and although he sang to the audience, she knew from the sensuous intimacy in his eyes that he was singing for he
r alone.
Luna sat breathless, her gaze fixed on his expressive face, stirred to the depths of her soul.
He was applauded madly as the last notes of his passionate melody faded and his fingers lay still on the guitar. Luna clapped as long and loudly as everyone else. New customers were now piling into the tavern, and she shook herself out of her trance and tried to wrestle back her grip on reality. She glanced at her watch: it was past one o’clock in the morning. The gypsy guitarist was surrounded by fans, young and old, and was obviously enjoying the attention. She must be thinking of getting back, she told herself, her eyes lingering on the broad, muscular back of the guitarist as he headed for the bar. She wondered if she would find a taxi at this hour. After signalling to the waiter she paid her bill, leaving a generous tip.
Then, on impulse, she took out of her purse a fifty-euro note. ‘Por favor dar a este al guitarrista que acaba de cantar, please give this to the guitarist who just sang,’ she told him.
The waiter grinned broadly. ‘Gracias, muchas gracias, señorita,’ he said, giving a curt bow. ‘But things are only warming up. Are you sure you won’t stay and enjoy the dancing?’
As if on cue, the musicians still on stage took up a fast, syncopated thrumming on their guitars and the whole crowd whooped and broke into wild stamping again.
‘You see, señorita, the night is still young, as they say.’
Luna stood up and smiled, calling on all her self-discipline. ‘Not for me, I’m afraid. But thank you, the music has been wonderful,’ she said, and started to make her way back through the room as the waiter hurried off to deliver her tip.
People jostled past Luna in their eagerness to join the dancing, which by now had spilled out on to the patio. The relentless rhythm of the music seemed to grow louder as if calling her back. And then she looked up at the bar.
He was there with the waiter, who was saying something in his ear and pointing in Luna’s direction. The guitarist ran a hand through his hair and looked at her. He nodded his thanks for the tip, and held up two glasses filled with what looked like fino. A quizzical expression danced in his bright eyes.
Luna’s mouth went dry: he was inviting her to stay. Conflicting emotions flashed through her, none that she could quite grasp but every one of them making her heart pump faster as the music continued to vibrate through the tavern.
Part of her wanted to succumb to the heady atmosphere and wished she could be like all these people – sensual, passionate, uninhibited. But something told her that if she stayed any longer she would be stepping into unfamiliar and dangerous territory, and that unnerved her far too much.
She took a deep breath and smiled back at him, shaking her head apologetically as she kept moving through the crowd. He watched her go and took a swig from one of the glasses, his gaze unwavering.
Luna made her way to the door. She went up the steps and turned at the entrance to catch a last glimpse of the man who had disturbed her equilibrium so powerfully.
Over the heads of those around him, he was still watching her intently. His lips quirked as their eyes fused again. Luna focused her camera on him and clicked, blushing at her own nerve as she did so. Her thoughts in turbulence, she stepped out abruptly into the night.
* * *
The taxi that had picked up Luna on the Plaça del Portal de la Pau sped through the narrow streets towards the hotel. Still intoxicated by the singing, Luna stared out of the window, gazing at the glittering night with eyes scarcely aware of its beauty. After she had left the tavern, the haunting strains of the music had lingered on the still air, threading through the night like a love call as she had made her way back to the square. There was plenty of life on the boulevards even at this hour, but what Luna had found so fascinating earlier, now she hardly noticed. The events of the evening absorbed her whole being.
She closed her eyes, trying to etch on her mind the flamenco singer’s features that were already beginning to fade in her memory. Glad that she was tucked away in the back of a dark taxi where no one could witness her sense of almost teenage foolishness, she scrolled through the photographs saved on her camera and found his picture. Even though it had been taken from afar, the gypsy’s intense and charismatic personality leapt from the device to collide with her emotions. Nothing in her carefully guarded and uneventful life had prepared her for an assault of such concentrated masculinity on her senses.
Luna had an odd realization. Suddenly she was aware of all the things a man and woman do together. For the first time, the fact that she was twenty-five and had never had a lover struck her like a blow to the head.
Sure, she had had plenty of opportunities. Since she could remember, men had looked at her with something more than interest, the very thing that put her off. On a few occasions it had even filled her with nausea and not a little panic. Though she had a natural desire to feel attractive, like any woman, and enjoyed the odd flirtation at parties, sometimes she wished she was just Plain Jane: loved for herself and not as an object to be possessed.
Despite that bruised, fragile place inside her that she hid from the outside world, she had deeply buried yearnings and desires but they were ringed by fear and guilt.
She had dated now and again, and had even had a few crushes but these had been merely flashes in the pan. Disillusioned, she had simply moved on. Luna’s inclination towards solitude meant that her circle of friends was small, but they were close and carefully chosen. She had never understood the need for superficial acquaintances and hated small talk. To her it seemed like nothing but a waste of time.
Many of her close friends had tried to set her up with goodlooking, eligible men, but somehow they always fell short in Luna’s estimation. Perhaps her impossibly high standards were an act of self-sabotage but, even if that were the case, she couldn’t seem to help her reaction. Nonetheless, she persisted in attracting admirers, whether or not she wanted to.
Luna paid off the taxi. The euphoria of the past few hours remained with her, intimate and exciting, while she climbed the steps of the hotel in a daze and crossed the grand lobby. She retrieved her key and went up to her room on the fourth floor. It was only when she switched on the light and the magnificent wrought-iron chandelier flooded the place with its luminous glow that she came back to reality. The room was stylishly moderniste with tall French windows but it now seemed empty and lonely. She threw her shoulder bag on the bed and opened the windows wide to let in the night.
What was this coup de foudre between the gypsy and herself that had struck her so forcibly? It had released emotions in her that were completely unfamiliar and uncontrollable. Always Luna liked to be in control.
Though she scarcely dared to admit it, this gypsy had the features and physique of the man of her dreams – a man whose existence she had given up on as a weak and immature fantasy. The passion he radiated was a compelling magnetism she had secretly searched for all her life. His stare had invaded every fibre of her being. An affinity had established itself between them – a powerful attraction of which he had also been aware, of that she was convinced. It was a strange thing to have one’s entire reality turned upside down as soon as one set foot in a new country. The world would seem a brighter and more exciting place if she thought for one minute that their paths would someday cross.
This admission threw her. She shook her head as if to dislodge the idea, suddenly shocked at the ridiculous sentimentality of it. The man was a complete stranger. What on earth was the use of indulging in romantic hopes when it was unlikely she would ever meet him again?
The chances were nil unless she was to go back to the tavern that night, which, anyway, her pride would prohibit. Anyhow, she was only in Barcelona for another twenty-four hours. Surely he was married – she’d heard that gypsies married young – and even if he didn’t have a wife and half a dozen children, he most certainly had a life in a world so remote from hers that it was naïve to envisage any sort of relationship between them.
A long, shuddering sigh es
caped her as she blinked back the tears that trembled at the edge of her eyelids as she ruthlessly tried to suppress her foolish longing. Love at first sight only existed in romantic novels. She prided herself on being a level-headed scientist and yet tonight she had let herself get carried away like a teenager. The sooner she realized that these emotions were simply prompted by unruly hormones and an unfulfilled need for physical intimacy, the quicker she would rid herself of the hollowness and desolation assailing her.
Though covered with plump cushions, the bed for some reason looked singularly uninviting. She suppressed another unhappy sigh. Anticlimax, she thought. It had been such an exciting night and now she was alone again. She would have a hot bath to unwind and then try to get some sleep.
Luna lay back in the warm water, unable to shake off these bittersweet thoughts despite her self-remonstrations. She was still cherishing the memory of the gypsy’s eyes as he sang to her. In truth, no man had ever succeeded in arousing real desire in her. One boyfriend had angrily called her frigid when she had rebuffed his advances. She’d believed him … until tonight.
If this man, this gypsy, asked her to, she could imagine unashamedly giving herself to him; and she found the whole idea of it reckless in the extreme. The new fever that set her on fire and made every inch of her body pulse with desire for a stranger was more frightening than the prospect of never knowing fulfilment through lovemaking.
Twenty minutes later, she was in bed but not asleep. Her laptop was on her knees and she was reading her emails. One was from Ted Vandenberg, with a list of addresses and telephone numbers of colleagues from the magazine she could contact if she wanted. Then there was one from Aunt Bea, hoping she’d had a good flight and was enjoying Barcelona.
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