'I'm sorry!' She felt a desperate urge to escape suddenly, and turned ready to flee, but before she could take even one step towards the door, a hand reached out and stayed her, the fingers digging into the flesh of her arm and drawing her back.
'Sarita! Where are you going?'
'I—I don't know.' She stood there in the middle of the big, bright room with him, her eyes carefully avoiding the steady black gaze that watched her, until she could stand it no longer, and looked up at him. 'I didn't mean to pry,' she said, in a soft, unsteady voice, then hastily looked away when a brief smile dismissed the idea.
'You were not prying,' he told her. 'It is merely natural curiosity to want to see the picture, but I do not allow anyone to see my work until it is completed to my satisfaction.'
'Not even Senora Valdaquez?'
She could not imagine what on earth had made her ask him that, and for a moment she saw his mouth tighten ominously, but then he smiled, in a way that confirmed his opinion that her curiosity was natural, though possibly childish.
'Not even Senora Valdaquez,' he agreed quietly. 'Why should you think otherwise?'
'I don't know,' Sally confessed. 'I just thought——'
A long finger ran lightly down her throat to where the low neck of her dress began. 'You think too much, pichon,' he told her softly, and after a second or two, indicated a tall wooden stool that stood on the far side of the room against one wall. 'Now please, will you sit down for a moment? When Ihave set up a new canvas we can begin.'
Sally glanced out at the bright golden evening sun, and frowned. 'Isn't it rather late for trying to paint?' she asked, and he looked down at her sternly, one brow making comment on her remark.
'Do you allow me to know what I am doing, Sarita?' he asked quietly. 'Or do you still presume to tell me how to follow my profession?'
'No, no, of course not,' Sally denied, a flush colouring her cheeks. 'I just-'
'Please—sit down on the stool, si}' Sally walked across obediently and perched herself on the high stool as she had been told, sitting rather primly upright and with her heels hooked on the bar of the stool because she could not reach the floor. Her mind was a strange and disturbing tangle of emotions as she watched him, but what troubled her most was the quickening and irrepressible sense of excitement that fluttered around in the region of her heart and made her feel almost light-headed.
She sat quite still while he moved the partly finished picture of Ines Valdaquez from the easel and stood it carefully against the far wall, then replaced it with a blank canvas. He said nothing while he was so occupied and Sally was left to study every small intimate detail of him with an awareness that seemed to glow warmly in her from head to toe.
Those long, strong-looking hands that she knew could be so gentle, or so ruthlessly hard, were competent and sure as he handled the tools of his profession. The way he held his head, with an almost unconscious arrogance. Even when he was relaxed that arrogance was there, part of the magnetism, like the almost animal-like grace with which he moved. The tall, lean body with its long legs, giving the impression of power for all its grace.
There was a fascination in just watching him that had an evocative, stimulating effect on her senses so that, without realising it, she smiled and leaned back against the wall behind her with her heavy lashes lowered to half conceal the expression in her eyes.
It was several minutes before he finished what he was doing and turned swiftly to look across at her, catching that dreamy, sensuous look in her eyes and the full softness of her mouth. For a moment he held her gaze steadily, responding to what she unwittingly revealed in her eyes, then, suddenly realising, Sally pulled herself up sharply and smoothed down the brief skirt of her frock, her hands trembling and without conscious purpose.
'Que es esto, Sarita?' he asked quietly, and Sally shook her head, without even knowing what it was he asked.
'I was just thinking,' she told him. 'What we call in England, being miles away.'
For a moment he smiled before turning away again. 'I think not, pichon,' he said softly.
Sally felt that curling sensation in her stomach again and tried to assume a slightly bored expression, swinging one foot against the bar of the stool. 'What do I do?' she asked him. 'Do I paint, or do I watch you?'
He looked at her for a moment with a speculative gleam in his eyes, as if he expected her to argue with his decision, whatever it was. 'In view of your efforts to date,' he said at last, 'it would seem rather pointless to ask you to do anything while I watch you and correct you when you go wrong, since you do not take kindly to correction.'
'I'm not too proud to learn,' Sally objected. 'It's just that I don't like it when you stand over me and tear my work to shreds, at least verbally.'
'As I said,' he averred, 'you do not take kindly to correction.'
'I never did,' Sally told him with her chin in the air, and saw his eyes gleam for a moment before he looked away.
'For the moment you will watch me,' he told her. 'I will try and show you where you go wrong, point out the—pitfalls?—as we go along.'
'I see.'
Her reply was non-committal, but he saw through her apparent unconcern and shook his head. 'I can imagine such an arrangement does not suit you very well,' he told her. 'But it is what I will do. Now— if you will please pay attention.'
Sally got down off the stool, but instead of going across to join him, she walked over to the big window and stood for a moment gazing down at the sea below, already looking dark and indistinct in the dying light, her own spirit as restless as the waves that pounded at the rocks.
'The view is wonderful from up here,' she said, and he looked at her over the top of the easel, his eyes less stern than the lines of his mouth.
'It is,' he said. 'But you are here to learn, nina, not to admire the view.'
She did not immediately move, but spoke again over her shoulder. 'You surely can't do much,' she said. 'It's getting dark already, and the light's going fast.'
'All the more reason for haste,' he told her shortly. 'It is good enough for our purpose, and bright sunlight does not always make the most beautiful pictures.'
'I know, but'
'Sarita!' The black eyes caught and held her gaze as she looked back at him, and he looked at her sternly down the length of his aristocratic nose, his patience gone. 'Come over here and stand beside me,' he told her adamantly. 'Inmediatamente!'
There was no mistaking the gist of the last order, and Sally thought of defying it for a moment, then shrugged and left the sanctuary of the window reluctantly. Standing beside him, she kept her eyes carefully on the canvas in front of him, and refused to meet that implacable gaze so that eventually he shrugged and turned back to what he was doing. 'Now watch me,' he told her.
It was fascinating just to watch him work, the skill and care he brought to even the sweeping strokes of the first few lines were beyond anything she could ever hope to achieve, and she sighed deeply after a moment or two. Mistaking her sigh for boredom, he turned swiftly and frowned at her, 1 bringing his black brows into a straight line above glittering eyes.
'I am sorry if you find this wearying,' he told her. 'But you will nevertheless watch me for as long as I tell you to, senorita. Your father has paid for you to learn to improve your artistic skill, and if you do not mind if he wastes his money, I have more consideration. Now pay attention!'
Sally felt her colour rise, and she curled her hands into fists at her sides, resisting the temptation to hit him only with difficulty. Why, oh, why did he have to be so infuriating, just when she was admiring him too? 'Si, senor,' she said pertly. 'I hear and obey!' Answering him with such mock meekness, she knew, must inevitably bring a response, and she saw from his eyes that she had provoked him to further anger, for they glittered like coals as he turned to her.
'Vaya con cuidado, senorita,' he told her, his voice harsh and barely above a whisper. I do not like to be made fun of, even by a beautiful woman. This arrangement
was made for your benefit, not for mine, although you seem to think it is not so. Why else would I bring you here to my studio, if not to learri about the art you think you know so much more about than I do?'
It was a question designed especially to embarrass her. Daring her to voice the suspicions that had been in her mind ever since she had so reluctantly climbed those narrow stairs to the studio. The words, the steady black gaze and even the way he stood there, so overpoweringly tall and aggressive, it was all aimed at making her feel small and foolish, and Sally had to admit that it succeeded to a large extent.
She felt suddenly very ungrateful and rather childish. 'I'm sorry,' she said meekly, and kept her eyes downcast, adding to her look of apology. 'I—I do appreciate what you're doing for me, Don Miguel. I am grateful.'
'But still suspicious, si?'
'I suppose so.'
She admitted it reluctantly and there was silence for a moment. A taut, meaningful silence that she began to find unbearable, then a hand reached out and cupped her chin in its strong fingers, lifting her face to him and sending those uncontrollable impulses surging through her again.
He studied her for a moment in silence, the shadow of her lashes still hiding her expression from him, then he sighed and slid his hand down from her chin to lay with a warm palm on her neck, the thumb moving caressingly on her cheek.
'Asi hermosa,' he said softly.
'Don Miguel' She hesitated, not sure what she wanted to say exactly, only that she wanted to do something to break that sensual feeling of lethargy that threatened to possess her again. 'I—we really can't do much tonight, can we? It's too dark, I mean the light's going, and we'
'Again you try to tell me my business,' he said with a brief tight smile. Then he turned and looked at the dying sun through one of the smaller windows along the side of the big room. 'It is a beautiful evening, Sarita, do you not think so?'
'It is,' Sally agreed, her senses responding all too rapidly to the effect of that light hypnotic caress on her cheek. 'Why—why do you call me Sarita?'
He smiled. 'It is your name,' he told her. 'I use the Spanish, do you mind?'
'No.' She raised her eyes briefly. 'It's rather pretty.'
'It is very pretty,' he agreed softly.
The sunlight was becoming a deeper gold every minute, as the day slid away, and Sally looked at the west windows and laughed, a little wildly, trying to keep common sense uppermost when it was rapidly losing ground. There soon won't be any daylight left,' she said.
'And you are such a little philistine that you think only of bright sunlight to paint your pictures by, hmm?' He pulled her round so that her back was to the evening sky, holding her there, his hands sliding down her arms to clasp her waist and pull her against his body. Every nerve in her responded to the pressure of his hands, and she tried not to want so much that he should hold her in his arms and kiss her as he had done once before.
'I'm not a philistine,' she denied, her head back so that she could look up into his face, the blue of her eyes deep and dark and as provocative as the soft mouth that pouted in mock reproach.
He studied her for a long breathtaking moment in silence, his hands holding her close so that she could feel the warmth of his skin through the light shirt he wore, and the strength of the muscles that strained her to him. 'You would look like a golden Madonna, if I painted you as you are now,' he said, in a voice that shivered through her. 'With your face half in shadow and your beautiful golden hair catching the last of the sun. I will paint you so, Sarita.'
'You—you will?'
The black eyes glistened down at her in the golden light and heavy lashes hid her gaze when he bent his head still lower and brushed his lips against her brow. 'I must,' he said, his voice strangely harsh as if he fought with his own weakness. 'You will be famous, nina. Cordova's Golden Madonna!'
'Miguel!'
He must have felt how she was trembling, for every nerve of her body was aware of the warmth and strength of the arms that held her close, and the steady but more rapid beat of his heart under her hands. A hand moved up and grasped a handful of her hair, pulling her head back. 'For me you will be even more beautiful,' he told her and, even as she closed her eyes to anticipate what he would do, his mouth came down over hers in a kiss that banished every other thought from her head but the desire to surrender completely to the sensuous excitement that engulfed her.
His sudden, almost brutal rejection of her a moment later sent a chill like ice-water over her burning senses and she stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes. Her mouth still burned from his kiss and the impression of his hands must surely be imprinted on her body from the strength of his grip, and yet he was calmly turning his back on her, and smoothing non-existent creases from his impeccable jacket.
'You'
No words came, only a small harsh sound that could have been a cry, and he turned again to face her, his dark face stern and older-looking suddenly. I must apologise for my lapse from good manners,' he said quietly, and Sally shook her head slowly, still not quite believing either that any of it could have happened, or that he could so abruptly bring her back to earth.
'Please don't!'
He was insistent, however, and she kept her eyes downcast, her hands tight together to stop them from shaking, wishing he would do anything other than apologise. 'I do not always remember that the English temperament is unused to our Latin ways. My actions could perhaps be misinterpreted.'
'Oh, please, there's no need to apologise,' Sally said 1 ft a small, cold voice. She felt she had been slapped hard, and there was a heavy chilling sensation in the pit of her stomach. 'I—I understand perfectly .j For a brief moment she raised her eyes, then hastily lowered them again because they were bright with threatening tears and she refused to let him witness that.
'I am glad you are so understanding, Sarita.' She wished he had not used that particular name, for somehow it made it so much more difficult to remain calm as she so desperately wanted to. The black eyes looked down at her with a hint of curiosity, as if her calmness puzzled him. 'You are very young,' he said, in a voice that threatened her self-control. 'And the fact that I am acting for your father in taking care of you makes my behaviour the more reprehensible. I am sorry.'
A great wave of anger and humiliation swept discretion before it and Sally clenched her hands as she faced him, the glistening tears threateningly close. 'Oh, for heaven's sake don't sound so apologetic !' she told him. in a voice made harsh and dry by the threatening storm. 'I've been kissed before, Don Miguel—and by you!'
'Sarita!'
His voice followed her as she ran blindly from the room and down the narrow, dark stairs, her feet stumbling on the unaccustomed steepness, but he did not follow her, and she tried, as she hurried away, to be more certain that it was relief she felt and not disappointment.
CHAPTER SIX
'AH, Miss Beckett!'
Sally turned swiftly,., jolted out of her daydream, but smiling when she saw who the intruder was. 'Good afternoon, Dona Alicia,' she said. 'It's a beautiful day again.'
Dona Alicia smiled as she nodded agreement. 'You are not yet accustomed to our sunshine, my dear,' she said kindly. 'You do not have so much of it in England, I think.'
'We don't,' Sally agreed with a laugh. 'Although it was lovely when we left England three weeks ago. It was a beautiful spring day.'
Sally had been seated on the patio alone, having refused Michael's invitation to accompany the rest of the party to a bullfight. She had never actually witnessed a bullfight, but her instincts made her reject the idea out of hand.
The patio was pleasantly cool and shaded, and the scent of the hundreds of flowers had a heady effect, as always on her. Dona Alicia came and joined her where she sat on a wrought iron seat under one of the orange trees. As always, Dona Alicia looked tall and elegant in a dress of some dark material, with her greying black hair neatly coiled. She was a kindly, gentle woman, and the wonder to Sally was how she had ever p
roduced a son like Miguel Cordova.
There was no trace of arrogance in Dona Alicia's manner, and she could never be cruel, Sally felt sure, not in the subtle, barely discernible way her son was. 'You do not like the corrida?' she asked quietly, smiling, as if to assure Sally that she would understand her not caring for her country's national sport.
Sally shook her head. 'I've never been to one, actually,' she confessed. 'But I know I wouldn't like it.'
Dona Alicia smiled gently. 'You remind me so much of my mother,' she said. 'Although that is possibly rather an odd thing to say to a young girl. But you understand, I am sure, Miss Beckett. She lived here in Spain for almost fifty-eight years, and she never once attended a corrida. She felt much as you do.'
'Of course, she was English, you said,' Sally remembered. 'Are you very like her, Dona Alicia?'
'Very little, I'm afraid,' Dona Alicia admitted with a light laugh. 'I am very Spanish, except for my blue eyes, of course.' She touched Sally's cheek lightly with a finger tip for a moment. 'I did not even inherit her wonderful English complexion, unfortunately. I often wished that I could have had a daughter as well as a son. so that I could perhaps have passed on some of my mother's characteristics, even though they did not occur in me.' She shook her head, smiling slowly. 'Perhaps, I console myself, Miguel' She broke off and shook her head again.
'I am prone to daydreaming, Miss Beckett, an old woman's pastime.'
'Not always,' Sally argued with a smile. 'I was doing just that when you joined me, Dona Alicia, and please—won't you use my christian name instead of Miss Beckett?'
'But of course I would love to, my dear.' The blue eyes studied her for a moment steadily. 'My son calls you Sarita, I believe, doesn't he?'
Sally looked surprised and a little uneasy for a moment. She had no way of knowing just how much Dona Alicia would approve of her son's familiarity with one of his students. The Spanish could be very formal, she remembered. 'Sometimes,' she admitted warily. 'But I'm afraid that Don Miguel is rather inclined to take his role as father figure a bit too seriously, even though it's a role he took upon himself. He treats me like a little girl.'
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