Valentina was very aware that something was happening between her and this man, but she did not understand what it was. "I . . . my mother and father were very close. She feels she would know if he were . . . dead. Does that sound like a flimsy reason to you?”
His dark eyes flashed. "Oh, no, senorita. I did not always believe in the power of love, but I do now." At her sharp intake of breath, his eyes flickered. "I will help you find out about your father."
"I have imposed on your kindness long enough. I . . . this isn't your affair. Why should you want to help?"
He crossed his legs and toyed absentmindedly with his spurs, spinning the cylinder so it made a soft, jingling sound—that familiar sound Valentina was beginning to associate with Marquis Vincente. "You have become my business, Senorita Barrett. Anyone who is in trouble and seeks the protection of the Vincente roof will find a friend at Paraiso del Norte. It has always been so, since the first Vincente came to this land."
"Paraiso del Norte. That means Paradise of the North, does it not?"
"Your understanding of Spanish is very good, senorita. I am told, by my mother and sister, that you speak my language well."
"I understand it better than I speak it." Glancing at the fountain rather than into his disturbing eyes, she took a steadying breath. "I thank you for your offer of help, but I will find my father by myself. This is something I have to do for my mother."
"You haven't succeeded thus far," he reminded her. "It is dangerous for a woman to go about this country without proper protection."
"The accident was most unfortunate, but it could have happened to anyone. I will not let a minor accident stop me from searching for my father."
Marquis's eyes rested on the slim curve of her neck and moved up to her rose-petal lips. "You have a strong mind, but you are only a woman."
Valentina's eyes turned to shimmering ice as she swung her face up to him. "You say that I am a woman as if it were some dreaded disease for which I should apologize. The fact that I am a woman is an accident of birth. Because I was born a mere daughter instead of a son, should I care less about my father?"
Marquis's lips parted in an amused smile. "I feel it would have been an unforgivable waste had you been born your father's son. I hope your pride will not stop you from accepting my offered help. I may be able to open certain doors that would be closed to you."
Suddenly she felt deflated. Why was she fighting him? "I am not too proud to take your help, Senor Vincente. I just feel that you and your family have already gone out of your way to help me. After all, I am but a stranger to you.
His eyes caught and held hers for the briefest moment. Lowering her lashes, she stared at his hand that ran caressingly over the wine glass. "Are we strangers, Senorita Valentina Barrett? Do you not feel we have known each other all our lives?"
Was he admitting to the same feelings she was experiencing? she wondered frantically, glancing at him. Hoping her voice would sound natural, she answered cautiously, "I don't know what you mean." She shifted her gaze from his and turned to the fountain. She was sure Marquis had not missed the blush that had rushed to her cheeks.
He was quiet for so long that she turned back to find him studying her closely. "No," he said at last, "perhaps you do not know what I mean."
Valentina was relieved when the Indian maid approached and placed hot chocolate on the table in front of her. Lifting the cup so she would have something to do with her hands, she took a sip and her eyes lit up. "What is the flavor in this chocolate that makes it taste so different?" she asked, glad for any excuse to speak of other things.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes, very much."
An amused smile touched his lips, as if he knew she was purposefully turning the conversation. "You are referring to the canela, or cinnamon, as I believe it would be called in your country."
"I never would have thought to put cinnamon in chocolate. I can't wait to fix this for my mother. She has always been fond of spices."
"Tell me about your life," he said, leaning back in his chair and watching her closely. "What did you do before you came to California?"
Valentina placed her cup on the table and allowed her eyes to move over Marquis. His black leather bolero jacket and tight-fitting black leather trousers outlined his masculine body. Soft, knee-length black boots fit snugly about the calves of his legs. His shirt was white, calling attention to his dark skin.
"There isn't much to tell," she began. "When I was younger, I traveled the world with my parents. As I grew older, my grandmother insisted I stay with her in England and be educated while my parents continued to travel. My grandmother recently died, so I came to California to join my mother and father. On my arrival, I discovered my father . . . missing and my mother in ill health."
Marquis's eyes traveled across her face, down her neck, to watch the rise and fall of her breasts. He felt a strange stirring in his blood—a fire that had begun to burn and that would soon be out of control if he did not take care. His heart recognized that this woman would be perfect for him. No woman had ever fired his blood as she was doing. He found himself wondering what it would be like to hold her in his arms, to kiss her soft lips, to allow his fingers to tangle in her golden hair.
Valentina was the antithesis of all other women in his life. Her pale skin was a stark contrast to that of the dark-skinned women of his race. Her golden hair was beautiful to behold, and so very unlike the dark tresses of the other women he had known. He felt he could spend the rest of his life gazing into her silver-blue eyes. She was like poetry—like the beautiful heroine of a romantic ballad. Valentina Barrett was wrapping him in a world of enchantment. He knew that if he never saw her again after this day, he would always keep an image of her in his heart.
Marquis reminded himself that he was betrothed to Isabel and had no right to want this woman. A woman of her obvious good breeding and grace would never be any man's mistress, and that was all he could ever offer her. It was better to put her out of his mind—she wasn't for him. He must steel his heart against her.
"Do you like California, senorita?" he asked, thinking how foolish it was to be making polite conversation when all he could think about was how beautiful she was—how he would like to taste those rosebud lips . . .
"Indeed, I find California wondrous fair. It is a golden paradise. Even the air I breathe seems washed in gold dust."
Marquis was pleased by her assessment of his land. "You have been here such a short while. Do you think with the passing of time you might be disillusioned with California? Do you not miss your home in England?"
How could she tell this man that since landing on the shores of his California she felt as if she were home for the first time in her life? "No, I do not miss England. Wherever my family resides will be home to me." Valentina did not realize how raw her feelings were until the words came spilling out of her mouth. "I just want to find my father so my mother can be happy again—so we can be a family again."
Marquis was quietly studying her. He read the many different emotions that moved across her lovely face: sadness, loneliness, desperation to find her father. Slowly he stood up as if ready to dismiss her. "Let us hope that with the passing of time you will see your mother reunited with your father."
Valentina glanced up at him. "I fear I must impose on your hospitality even farther. As I told you, my mother is ill and I must return to San Francisco as soon as possible. I wonder if you could provide me with transportation?"
"Do you feel that you are well enough to travel such a distance?"
"Yes, I have to be. My mother will be worried about me as it is."
"I shall see that you are safely on your homeward journey in two days' time. By then your ankle will be sufficiently healed."
Valentina could feel Marquis's coolness to her now. It was as if he were deliberately trying to be rid of her. She knew so little about men, and even less about this one. Perhaps he was bored with their conversation and was dismissing her.
She stood and extended her hand to him. "If I don't see you again, let me say how grateful I am to you and your family for taking me in. I shall always remember your hospitality."
He lightly clasped her hand and she felt almost giddy from the contact with his skin. "You will see me tonight. We are having a fandango in honor of my betrothed. You are, of course, to be invited."
Valentina withdrew her hand from his warm grasp. "What is a fandango?" she asked with interest.
"I suppose you would liken it to one of your balls, but a little less formal, with more gaiety. There will be food and dancing."
Feeling she had already taken up too much of his time, she nodded. "I will leave you now. Thank you again, sir."
He flashed her a smile. "If you do not stop saying thank you, I will believe that you have a very limited vocabulary."
Valentina felt the sting of his words. "I . . . yes, of course, you are right. I must seem very boring to you."
"No, not you, senorita. You are eternal springtime— you are all that is good and beautiful in this world—but never boring."
She dropped her eyes, unable to look into the passionate brown depths framed with long, sooty lashes. "If you will excuse me, senor, I have taken up enough of your time. I will return to my room."
She would have turned away, but he reached for her hand and held it tightly. "Are you very sure your ankle is no longer bothering you?"
"The pain is all but gone."
Feeling as if he were losing something very precious and rare, he released her hand and watched her move away. His thoughts turned to his betrothed, Isabel Estrada. She was from a noble Spanish family and with their marriage one of his grandfather's fondest dreams would come true. It was best that Valentina Barrett would soon be leaving. She made him want to forget his obligations to his family. Perhaps tonight he would ask Isabel if they could move up the wedding date to June. He did not trust the way his mind was beginning to work.
Valentina hurried through the archway, down the hallway, and up the stairs. The house was so large—there were so many twists and turns—and she was glad she found her bedroom without getting lost.
Sinking down on the soft bed, she touched her flushed face. Her thoughts were bewildered. In God's name, what was happening to her? Marquis Domingo Vincente had turned her whole world upside down; he had made her aware of the fact that she was a woman, and very aware that he was a man.
7
Valentina could hear the magical sound of violins and Spanish guitars that filled the night air. As she brushed her hair away from her face, her toe tapped, keeping time with the music. Again she was dressed in one of Rosalia's gowns. It was a lovely lavender sprigged muslin with off-the-shoulder ruffles and yards and yards of ruffles on the skirt. Her tiny waist was enhanced by the bell-shaped hoop she wore.
Rosalia had insisted that Valentina wear her hair down. The golden tresses spilled across her shoulders and down her back in a profusion of curls. As they walked into the courtyard where the fandango was being held, they laughed and chatted of nonsensical things young girls talk about when they are together.
The aroma of exotic flowers mixed with the delicious smell of roasting meat. There was a lighthearted festivity in the air. Valentina felt excitement churning through every part of her body. She had the ear of a dancer, and the music was calling to her.
Marquis had been talking to his grandfather when he glanced up and saw Valentina walking down the flowered path. The last dying rays of the sunshine fell on her like a golden halo of light, and Marquis was struck dumb as he watched her. Valentina's whole body appeared to scintillate. Like a diamond in the sun, she absorbed the soft, golden glow. She was so alive, so radiant. He stood transfixed through an endless moment, held by a spell that was broken only when his grandfather spoke.
"Angel de oro."
"Yes, Grandfather," Marquis whispered passionately. "A golden angel."
Isabel was standing by the birdcage talking to Dona Anna and turned to watch the golden-haired woman approach. "Who is that?" she demanded to know.
"She is Valentina Barrett, the one whom Marquis rescued from the overturned buggy. She is nice enough for a foreigner," Marquis's mother observed.
Isabel glanced quickly at Marquis, noticing the way he stared at the woman. Her fingers balled into fists and her nails cut into the palms of her hands.
"Bring this golden girl to me. I want to speak to her," the old grandee told his grandson. "I will see what there is about her that turns the ice in your veins to fire."
Marquis paid no heed to his grandfather's stab at humor. Slowly, like a man in a trance, he walked toward Valentina. His heart was pounding against his ribs and his eyes flashed like wildfire.
As one caught in a dream, Valentina watched Marquis approach. He was dressed in black velvet and moved with the lethal grace of a panther stalking his prey. His soft eyes bore into hers, as if drawing all the secrets from her mind and body. She took a deep breath but was still unable to get enough air into her lungs.
When they stood at arm's length, Marquis bowed without taking his eyes off her. "Until this day, beauty such as yours was only imagined. You have brought it to life this night, Senorita Valentina Barrett."
Rosalia glanced quickly at her brother, wondering if he had lost his senses. Why was he acting the fool? She had never known him to make pretty speeches to a woman. Did he not know that his betrothed was glaring at him from across the garden? The anger in Isabel's eyes was apparent even from a distance.
Valentina felt flushed and feverish. She had no way of knowing it, but her young body was coming to life under the tutelage of dark Spanish eyes. "I do not . . . like such compliments," she said in a breathless voice. "They make me shy and embarrassed."
"I would never want to embarrass you, Silver Eyes." He smiled and extended his arm to her. "Come. My grandfather wants to meet you."
Valentina placed her hand on Marquis's arm, and he escorted her across the courtyard. She dared not look into his eyes but glanced instead at the beautiful Spanish woman who was glaring at her. Valentina did not need to be told that the woman was Marquis's intended bride. It was easy to read the jealousy on her face. Her eyes spat fire and her red mouth drew up in a pinched frown to reveal sharp white teeth. Valentina saw hatred come to life with such force that it distorted the woman's lovely face.
Valentina's eyes moved to the younger woman who stood beside Isabel. The poor creature was as ugly as Isabel was beautiful. Her hair was limp and thin and her lip was drawn up in such a way that her protruding teeth were always showing. To Valentina's astonishment, the small woman wore a gown identical to Isabel's, making the stark contrast between the two of them more apparent.
Valentina realized she had been staring and tore her eyes away from the two women. Her glance moved to the white-haired man with dark, shining eyes. No one had to tell her she was standing before the mighty grandee himself. His years of living were carved in his bronzed face. Laugh lines fanned out from his mouth and eyes. The gleam in his eyes told Valentina he had an appreciation for the ladies. Yet the blue veined hand that rested on the handle of his cane trembled with weakness.
"Grandfather, may I present Senorita Valentina Barrett," Marquis introduced them. "Senorita Barrett, my grandfather, Don Alonso Vincente."
"I am pleased to meet you, senor," Valentina stated warmly, feeling the need to dip into a curtsy. She had the impression that she was standing before royalty.
"So," the old man said, speaking in stilted English, "you are the one my granddaughter chatters about incessantly. I was told you have the most extraordinary eyes; I can see my grandson was not exaggerating."
Before Valentina could reply, Isabel and her sister appeared. Don Alonso introduced the sisters to Valentina, but neither Isabel nor Eleanor greeted her in return. Isabel linked her arm through Marquis's possessively while Eleanor stared past Valentina.
Don Alonso was aware of the slight to Valentina and he reached out and took
her by the arm. "I am told you speak Spanish, Senorita Barrett."
"That is true, senor," she said, lapsing into Spanish. "However, as I told your grandson, I understand it better than I speak it."
"I think you are much too modest, my dear," Don Alonso declared. "You speak our language very well. You must have had a remarkable teacher."
She blessed the old man with a smile, knowing he was trying to put her at ease. As she began to lose her nervousness, she found Marquis's grandfather to be charming. "My father was my remarkable teacher, senor. He also taught me French, Italian, and some Cantonese."
Don Alonso patted the chair beside him. "Sit with me, Senorita Barrett; I will hear more about you. I expect to be charmed, since I have never before seen so many accomplishments in one small girl."
Valentina's eyebrow arched and her pupils dilated. "I warn you, Don Alonso, I will not be talked down to just because I am a woman. My father brought me up to believe a person should be respected for his mind rather than his sex."
Don Alonso threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Did you hear that, Isabel? This charming English woman thinks females should be respected for their minds. How about you, Marquis? Could you admire a mind behind a face as lovely as this one?"
Marquis's eyes locked with Valentina's. "Perhaps," he whispered. "One can always find much to admire about the English, Grandfather."
Isabel gave Valentina a look of pure poison. "I believe a strong mind would be very boring in a marriage bed," she observed boldly, a sullen pout on her lips.
If Don Alonso was shocked by his future granddaughter's words, he did not show it, but Rosalia's gasp of dismay could be heard. "I have never found stimulating conversation boring," Don Alonso remarked, "but I have yet to meet the woman who could name the planets ... or play a decent game of chess."
Isabel saw her chance to prove Valentina an imposter. "If Senorita Barrett has such a fine mind, perhaps she can play chess, Don Alonso."
The old grandee's eyes danced merrily. "Do you play chess, Senorita Barrett?"
Golden Paradise (Vincente 1) Page 8
