The Balfour Legacy

by Various

  ‘Not quite, sir. I believe there’s one more item on the programme. Are you all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ Luis murmured blandly.

  Part of the punishment was bearing the pain alone, in silence. He didn’t have the right to share its burden.

  He settled uncomfortably back as a line of little girls in snowy white tutus filed onto the stage. These ones were younger than the last group, smaller and more intimidated by the presence of the audience. A collective ‘ahhh’ went up from the rows of people behind Luis as they shuffled into position, sucking their fingers and looking out beyond the stage lights with huge, solemn eyes.

  The music began—Dance of the Little Swans. Luis wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the clichéd predictibility of it, or weep for the protracted torment. Instead he arranged his face into what he hoped was an expression of appreciation and watched as the children raised their arms and began to bend their knees in a series of careful pliés.

  One little girl at the back stood still, frozen in anguish. The other children rose up onto their tiptoes and pirouetted shakily, but the only movement she made was that of her wide, terrified eyes which kept darting to the safety of the wings. The girl next to her was unimpressed by her failure to perform and nudged her heartily in the ribs.

  Laughter rippled through the audience. At the front of the stage the other children were stolidly going through their routine, pointing toes, making sweeping movements of their arms and casting occasional furious glances at their classmate at the back. Luis watched her. Maybe it was because he’d just been thinking about his little niece, but something about the girl onstage reminded him of Luciana, even though she looked nothing like her. No doubt a psychiatrist would enjoy explaining that it was just another manifestation of guilt. The child before him had shrunk backwards a little so she was standing outside the spotlight’s glare, but other than that she hadn’t moved, and from his place of honour in the front row he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes and the tremble of her bottom lip.

  And then it struck him. It wasn’t just his tormented mind playing tricks on him; it was her attitude of patient suffering, of dignified misery, that reminded him of Luciana. He had seen the same expression on the face of his little niece, sensed the same silent anguish in her in the little time he’d spent with her, and it had made him feel every bit as helpless as he did now.

  It wasn’t a good feeling.

  A movement in the wings caught his eye. Keeping to the shadows, an older girl ran lightly across the back of the stage and dropped to her knees beside her. For a moment Luis was too relieved to register properly the narrow, very straight back, the glossy dark plait that hung heavily between her shoulder blades, but then she stood again and it was impossible not to notice the length of her extremely shapely legs encased in thick black tights.

  She was wearing a short black skirt and a fitted T-shirt, emblazoned across the back of which were the words Pink Flamingo.

  Ten months ago he had made a vow to his brother and buried his appetite for women and excess alongside Rico in the family vault on Santosa. Now Luis felt his dormant interest flicker almost painfully back to life. Leaning over to Tomás he whispered, ‘Isn’t the Pink Flamingo a gentlemen’s club?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

  No, of course not. But Luis did, and he was intrigued to know what a girl who worked in a lap-dancing club was doing helping out at a children’s ballet show. Bending down, still with her back to the audience, the Pink Flamingo girl took the little dancer’s hand and whispered something in her ear. Relief spread across the small, pinched face as the older girl turned around and began to join in the steps of the dance.

  Deus, she was stunning. Towering above the tiny children on the stage she looked every bit the haughty, graceful swan amongst a gaggle of fluffy, ungainly cygnets. Beside her the little girl who had looked so lost a moment ago was now smiling tremulously, growing in confidence and stature by the second.

  He watched the precise movements of her slender legs, the upright set of her shoulders and head, and felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck. Dragging his gaze upwards to her face he blinked, frowning suddenly and leaning forwards in astonishment and disbelief.

  It was incredible…impossible…

  It was Emily Balfour.

  Chapter Two

  ‘EMILY—are you in there?’

  Kiki’s voice echoed off the tiles in the gloomy ladies’ loo. Slumped against the door of the middle cubicle, Emily gritted her teeth to disguise their chattering and tried to sound normal as she answered.

  ‘Yes, I’m here. Won’t be a second.’

  ‘Well, make sure you’re not. You just got yourself a royal audience, honey. The prince is coming backstage and he’s specifically asked to meet you so you’d better get out here quick.’

  Emily opened the door and looked at Kiki with huge, anguished eyes. ‘I can’t, Kiki. Really—I mean, I’m hardly dressed for meeting royalty and I’ve only worked here for a couple of months anyway so—’

  ‘Hey.’ Kiki’s kind face was creased with concern. ‘Forget about what you’re wearing. What’s wrong, baby? You look dreadful.’

  A quick glance at her reflection in the mirror above the sink told Emily that Kiki was absolutely right. Her face, always pale, was now the eerie white of an extra in a vampire movie, a fact which was emphasized by the way her dark hair was held severely back in her plait. She attempted a wan smile. ‘Thanks. I’m fine. It was just being on stage…dancing in front of an audience, with the music and everything, and—’

  Kiki made a sympathetic noise. ‘Nerves, eh?’

  No, Emily was going to say. Not nerves. More an absence of nerves. An absence of anything. She was just going through the motions as if she’d been programmed—why couldn’t she feel it any more?

  ‘Anyway,’ Kiki continued a little breathlessly before she had a chance to speak, ‘the Prince was very impressed. He wants to meet you, and your dance group. I’ve got them all lined up on the stage, and they’re really excited so hurry up.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming.’ Emily ran her hands under the tap and splashed cold water on her face to try to bring some colour to her cheeks. ‘Which prince is it anyway?’ she said into the depths of the basin.

  But it was too late. Kiki had already gone, and the only answer was the bang of the door behind her. Left alone, Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror, not seeing her pinched face but looking instead into the bleakness of a future without dancing. God, less than a year ago when she’d danced the part of Sleeping Beauty in the Royal Ballet School’s final production, no one would have been surprised at the idea of her meeting royalty backstage after a performance. But as a soloist at Covent Garden, not in the capacity of an unpaid teacher in a struggling community arts centre.

  But that had been when she could dance. In the few brief, brilliant months when the technical skill she’d built over all those years of training had come together with something else—the indefinable, dangerous something Luis Cordoba had unlocked in her when his beautiful mouth had covered hers in the darkness beneath the trees.

  She let out a long breath, turning away from the mirror and smoothing her T-shirt down. A lot had happened in a year.

  She pulled open the door and went back to join the children. She’d kicked her shoes off when she went onto the stage and the rough parquet floor snagged at her tights as she hurried back along the corridor. Great, she thought despairingly. That was all she needed. She was so behind with the rent on her horrible bedsit that buying a loaf of bread felt like wanton extravagance at the moment. Tights were as beyond her budget these days as a designer ball gown.

  She ran lightly up the steps to the back of the stage. Beyond the wings she could see her class of little dancers lined up and standing very straight, which, along with the deep rumble of male voices, told her that the royal party was already there. Ducking her head she slipped silently onto the stage and took her place at the end of
the line, glancing along the row of children as she did so.

  Emily’s heart stopped.

  His head was bent as he talked to one of the little girls, the stage lights shining on his broad, perfectly muscled shoulders and picking out the gold strands in his deliciously untidy tawny hair. Her stomach dissolved with horror. Oh, God. It was him. It was really him. The royalty Kiki had been talking about was Luis Cordoba, Crown Prince of Santosa, and he was making his way quickly along the line towards her.

  Too quickly. The little dancers bobbed curtsies as he passed them, but he barely glanced at them. Emily had the sensation of standing on the track in the path of a speeding train, knowing that the moment of impact was almost upon her. He wouldn’t recognize her, she reassured herself desperately. Why would he? They’d only met once—and then only for a couple of minutes in a situation which was a world away from this. He must meet thousands of women…kiss thousands of women…

  Someone was speaking. Dimly, Emily registered that it was one of the council members who’d been round to look at the Larchfield premises in expectation of the youth centre’s closure. ‘This is one of the valuable volunteers who bring new experiences into the lives of our young people. Miss Jones is a graduate of the Royal Ballet School.…’

  Like an automaton Emily bent her head and sank down in a curtsy. From an etiquette point of view it was the right thing to do, but more importantly it also gave her a great chance to avoid looking up at the man she’d last seen in the garden at Balfour, when he’d drawn her into the shadow of the trees and kissed her with an arrogance and an expertise which shocked and thrilled and horrified her.

  Call me when you grow up…

  She steeled herself, and looked up.

  The express train hit. For a moment the breath was knocked out of her and it was like falling. Like skydiving into the sunset. And then realizing that you didn’t have a parachute.

  Luis Cordoba raised one fine eyebrow a fraction. Beneath it his eyes were a hard, dull gold. ‘Really, Miss Jones?’

  Oh, God. That sexy accent. Not Spanish—Kiki had been wrong about that. Portuguese. It almost distracted her from the slight emphasis he placed on her name. Or—correction—the random name she’d given when she started volunteering at Larchfield. There was a part of her that had hated the deception and felt that she was betraying the friends she had made by keeping her real identity secret, but the anonymity was like armour. It was her protection and she’d clung to it. And now she felt like she was standing there, naked and wrapped only in the skimpiest of towels, and that the man standing in front of her had hold of the corner and was ready to pull it off her. Just for fun.

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered, looking up into that lean and perfect face, silently begging him not to give her away.

  ‘The Royal Ballet?’ he said softly. ‘And from there you’ve chosen to come here to teach these children instead of concentrating on your own dancing career? Impressively altruistic. Your family must be very proud of you.’

  Only she could hear the hint of challenge in his low, velvety voice. So he did recognize her, and he clearly knew exactly where to insert the knife, how to inflict the deepest wound where it wouldn’t show. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room—the council officials, Kiki, the children getting restless now—on her, but all of them combined were nothing compared to his cool, metallic glare.

  ‘I’d like to think they would be,’ she said breathlessly, and instantly regretted it. The words if they knew hung in the air between them, and she waited for him to say them out loud. But Luis Cordoba didn’t play things the straightforward way.

  He nodded, slowly, and for a long moment his eyes stayed locked with hers. And then his gaze flickered downwards to the Pink Flamingo logo on the front of her black T-shirt.

  ‘It’s good to know that you haven’t given up dancing altogether though,’ he said gravely. A brief smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. ‘Keep up the good work, Miss—?’

  ‘Jones,’ she croaked.

  And then he was being ushered forwards by the council officials, who were no doubt keen to take him outside and show him the all-weather football pitch, a fraction of which had been paid for by a council grant. Out of the arc-light beam of his gaze Emily felt like a puppet that had suddenly had its strings cut. Around her the children relaxed into excited chatter, relieved at being released from the need to be on their best behaviour. Emily felt numb.

  He’d got it all wrong. Bloody T-shirt. She wanted to run after him and grab his arm, force him to turn round so she could explain that she didn’t dance at the Pink Flamingo—she worked behind the bar. He might have awoken something in her when he’d kissed her, but he hadn’t changed her whole personality for God’s sake…

  But he was gone, leaving nothing but a whisper of his masculine, expensive scent in the air. The lights seemed to dim and the shadows around her thicken. It was too late.

  The wolf had slipped back into the forest, and she was safe.

  So why didn’t she feel more relieved?

  ‘Stop the car.’

  Tomás looked round sharply, surprised.

  ‘Sir?’ Luis stared straight ahead, his fingers drumming on the walnut inlay of the door. ‘We’ll wait here for a while, and then we’ll go back.’

  ‘Back, sir?’ Tomás looked alarmed. ‘Why? I thought you’d be keen to leave here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I was. I am. But not without bringing “Miss Jones” with me.’

  Alarm had turned to a mixture of panic and horror on Tomás’s open face now. ‘Sir…if I may say so, that’s not a good idea. The press office…The papers…The purpose of this trip was to put all those stories firmly in the past.’

  ‘They are firmly in the past,’ Luis said with quiet, emphatic bitterness. ‘When was the last time I picked up a girl for a one-night stand?’

  ‘The public have long memories, sir. And those photos of you falling out of nightclubs and groping women in the back of the car still get published regularly. If the newspapers get hold of this…this Miss Jones…’

  Luis smiled. ‘You mean if she were to kiss and tell?’

  ‘Exactly, sir. She could profit handsomely from such a story.’

  ‘My night of passion with the playboy prince?’ Luis suggested mockingly, then shook his head. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘With respect, sir, you don’t know that for sure. Some of these girls have no concept of privacy…’

  ‘With respect, Tomás, I do know it for sure, because I also know that that girl has considerably more to hide than I do. I’m not going to seduce her—I’m going to find out what a nice girl like Emily Balfour is doing in a place like this.’

  ‘Emily Balfour, sir? But I thought her name was—’

  ‘Jones? No. That, Tomás, was Oscar’s youngest daughter. Or the one that used to be his youngest until a subsequent claimant to the position arrived on the doorstep.’ Looking out of the window Luis frowned slightly.

  ‘I’ll ask security to go in and get her, shall I, sir?’ Tomás asked, glancing nervously around. ‘This probably isn’t the best place to hang around.’

  ‘The car is fully bullet-proof,’ Luis reminded him drily. ‘We’re quite safe. And I don’t think she’ll respond well to being hauled out by security. As I recall from last year, Emily Balfour won’t be pushed into doing anything she doesn’t want to.’

  ‘Ah, here she is now, sir,’ Tomás said with evident relief. ‘I’ll just get—’

  But Luis had already got out of the car. Tomás swore with uncharacteristic crudeness, whipping his mobile phone out of his pocket and speed-dialling the head of security in the other car. At times he found the Crown Prince’s lack of regard for protocol and formality refreshing, but mostly it was just a giant pain in the backside. He just hadn’t seemed to grasp that, since his brother and sister-in-law’s shocking deaths, he was the future of Santosa.

  God help them.

  Trying to prepare Luis to take the reins o
f his ailing father was like taking a tiger from the jungle and trying to teach it to jump through hoops. Difficult and dangerous. And, he thought gloomily, if anything went wrong he would be the one to get his head bitten off.

  ‘’Night, Kiki—see you tomorrow!’

  Hastily, not waiting for a reply, Emily slipped out of the door and into the cool, blue evening, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her. Usually she waited while Kiki locked up and the two of them walked part of the way home together, but tonight she just wanted to get out of there and be alone.

  ‘Can I offer you a lift?’

  She jumped, giving a little gasp of shock as a figure emerged from the twilight and stood in front of her, barring her way.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the same husky, amused drawl. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. But I think that just proves my point that it’s really not safe for you to be out on the streets on your own in the dark. It’s just as well I’m not some drug-crazed youth with a gun in his hand.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances, thank you,’ Emily muttered, attempting to slip past him. But he was too quick for her. She bit back another gasp as strong fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks and pulling her back round so she was facing him.

  From the shadows beyond the car someone said something in rapid Portuguese. Luis didn’t turn his head, didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t take his eyes from hers. ‘Sim, obrigado, Tomás.’ he said curtly. ‘This won’t take long.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ she said shakily, ‘because I’m not going anywhere with you. Goodbye…’

  It was said with more hope than conviction. Her heart was hammering out an uneven rhythm against her ribs, her whole body flooded with adrenaline. In the violet dusk his face was indistinct, but she could see the shadows beneath his aristocratic cheekbones and the glitter of his eyes.

  ‘What a disappointment. I saw that Pink Flamingo T-shirt and just assumed you’d grown up a bit since last time we met.’