by Jewel Allen
Even with his blindness, she swore he could see right through her. Maybe it was the intensity of his posture, but he made her feel like he could see through her insecurities.
“I’m sensing that you are uncomfortable,” he said.
Her hands went clammy. “How?”
“Just the way you went silent, now. There are some benefits to being blind.”
“I was thinking of how...never mind, it’s silly.”
“Tell me,” he urged. He waited patiently, like he had the entire day to wait.
Walking with her head bowed down, she didn’t really want to. “Only if you can keep a secret.”
“Oh,” he said, like a satisfied cat. “Tell me.”
“I was thinking how with you, I don’t have to pretend.”
He frowned. “Pretend?”
“To be confident. To be in control.”
“I don’t know how you judge that, but I thought very much that you are a controlling, bossy lady. Barging into my life like that.”
She smiled. “That was part of my job. Seriously, it’s been a while since I’ve let my hair down, so to speak.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine what wild things you expect from this evening.”
She laughed. “Not that way.” And then sobered. “I’ve always measured my worth by how I come across to people. How successful I am in publishing.” She shrugged. “How much my father praised me.”
She was embarrassed with the ache in her voice. But it was what it was.
“You aren’t the only one,” he said.
She studied his face, cool and collected. Yet underneath that controlled veneer, he did seem unsettled too, like a volcano lying dormant.
“You too?” she asked.
“My father, if you want to call him that, raised me only to be his performing monkey.”
His voice came harsh, but only served to soften her heart. “You mean with your art?”
He nodded. “At three, apparently, while the rest of the world’s toddlers were wielding pots and pans and spatulas in the kitchen, I reached for my first paintbrush. They filmed it. It was so darling.”
His expression darkened. “And it was all right, for a few years. I loved to paint. I couldn’t get enough of it. They enrolled me in advanced kindergarten, and even that was insufficient to fulfill my need for art. So they hired the best tutors, sent me to Masters in Madrid. By nine I was painting collections for the royal palace.”
She felt the tension in his arm, from him clenching his fist.
“By then, I was getting commissions and awards, showings at exclusive galleries, patrons who included royals from all over the world. A prince from Dubai bought my entire collection using a proxy buyer, by phone. It was a rather fantastic day.”
Rubbing his beard, he took a deep breath. “Eventually, the luster wore off. I don’t know what happened. I just couldn’t function for days and weeks. I was artistically blocked. But that wasn’t the worst part.”
A grimace took over his face. “My father imprisoned me until I could produce something.”
She sat in stunned silence. She wanted to reach out to him to ease his pain. But she kept her hands to herself.
He turned his face to hers. “I was in that room for four days. I had food and access to a bathroom. But otherwise, I had no human contact. Not if you don’t count the maid who switched out my dishes every so often.”
Alejandro’s voice dulled. “I hated him then. Hated him with a passion that motivated me to amass my wealth. At the soonest opportunity, I divorced my father and declared my emancipation.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Wow.” The image of him, a minor, moving out of his home to be free of his father, was subduing. “Did you move into this castle?”
He shook his head. “That came later.”
A group caroused outside the restaurant, their voices interrupting their conversation. And then it was quiet again. Only their shoes echoed on the sidewalk.
He blinked, then shook his head. “Sorry to burden you with my life details.”
“We’re even now,” she teased. “We should record you next time.”
“If you do that, I will clam up like an oyster.”
“I’ll have to coax the pearls from you.”
He raised his hands and made a snapping movement with his hands. “And I’ll bite off your fingers.”
His hands uncannily caught hers and for one long, sweet, delicious moment, she couldn’t breathe, or think.
Isa’s head reeled from his revelations. She felt like a door just opened, and she could see inside his secret space.
It was an achingly lovely and fragile possibility, like a rose in full bloom.
Chapter Fifteen
Alejandro didn’t know how Horatio pulled it off, but he got them tickets into that evening’s sold out Flamenco performance at the Iberia Flamenco. When they reached the façade, Isa was quiet for a long moment.
“What a beautiful building,” she murmured.
In his mind’s eye, he remembered how it looked in its heyday. Two stories with clay tiles on the roof, the front of the building turning a lovely red at sundown, as patrons lined up outside. A lovely woman, taking tickets, and a fussy matron sizing up everyone and ushering them to seats.
They linked arms and he used that as an excuse to cover her hand with his. Not entirely, but just enough to send little tendrils of pleasure up and down his skin. She didn’t pull away, and it felt almost like their guilty secret, their hands linked but not having an understanding of what was happening between them.
What was happening to them? The devil if he knew.
He just knew that he enjoyed her company. No silly talk like his last girlfriend. Isa fascinated him. She was not only intelligent but compassionate as well. He could tell by her voice, her prompts, as he talked about his childhood. Unlike self-preoccupied Alicia.
The swirl of crowds sucked them in. There was a lot of noise and confusion. He felt like he was in a subway tunnel, with trains rushing past him, making him feel vulnerable.
For a moment, he hated being here. He wanted to turn back and just sit in the car. He wanted to...
“Here,” Isa said, placing his hand on her shoulder and patting it as though to reassure him.
The material of her dress was soft and luxurious. His fingers relished the feel of her warmth on his fingertips. His racing heart calmed and the world righted itself once again. Inside, the commotion abated.
She led him a few steps and stopped, and then situated himself in a chair.
“Have you ever watched flamenco before?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We never did during our trips here. I’m excited to watch this.”
“As you should be.”
To converse, she leaned close to him. Similar to the church, there was hardly any space between them. He draped his arm over the back of her chair, moving so that he could hear her words over the din.
“What is flamenco, anyway?” she asked, her voice washing over him like a hypnotic sound.
“I believe it is named to connote a fiery flame.” He searched in his mind for the memory. “A flame of passion by the Moriscos, the moors, as they mingled with the Andalusians.”
“Have you been here before?” she asked.
“Many times.” The memories returned to him in waves. “I used to sit in the box seat. Do you see that?”
She was silent, and then, “Yes. What a fantastic view that would have been.”
“I wish I could indulge you,” he said, “but to get there we have to climb a set of stairs and I would much prefer to sit here in the lower gallery.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “This is great, right here.”
“I talked your ear off on our way here,” he said. “I apologize.”
“Don’t worry about it. If I’m to help you write your story, I needed some introduction.”
“By the time we get to the bo
ok, you’ll be bored out of your mind,” came his dry retort.
“I don’t think so. I find you fascinating.”
His ears buzzed with pleasure. His cheeks warmed and he reached over and closed his hand over her.
She didn’t pull away.
Not even when the presentation began. In his limited eyesight, he could tell that the lights had dimmed and a softer, more diffused effect was now focused on the stage.
There was movement, and a male voice announcing that night’s program.
Alejandro paid it little mind. He was only aware of Isa beside him, her bare skin smooth under his caress. He wondered if she was looking at him, or at the man on the stage. At any rate, she hadn’t pulled away. Even though he couldn’t see her acquiescence, he could sense her softening. Leaning closer to him. He put his hand around her further, pulling her right next to him.
The magical music of drums, guitar, and voice began, more hypnotic than he’d ever experienced it, because of this lovely woman he held in his arms.
Chapter Sixteen
Isa thought she should really pull out of his grasp.
There was no earthly reason why she should let him touch her. He was perfectly capable of sitting in his chair without her help. But of course that wasn’t the point. His fingertips trailed the bare skin of her arm, heightening the evening’s intoxicating atmosphere.
On the stage, lit by a spotlight, were two men and a woman. The woman wore a long, red velvet dress with a tailored jacket, trimmed in black lace and gold buttons. Her hair had been pulled up in a bun, tucked primly under a little hat. One man stood stage left of the woman. Behind them, the other man settled on a stool and proceeded to play a guitar.
Isa wasn’t sure what was more exciting to her, to see the woman start to move in time to the guitar, or Alejandro holding her close, to his side, his fingertips titillating her skin with every circle.
With difficulty, Isa focused on the show.
The woman stomped her feet to the music. Her shoes looked small, proportionate to her petite frame. She was not young-looking, which surprised Isa. It seemed that for someone trying to perform those strenuous steps on stage, one would need youthful vigor. The lights dimmed in the house, and the spotlight showcased her face, contorted in a tortured emotion.
Alejandro’s other hand traveled from her upper arm, tracing its way down her elbow, to her wrist, before finally covering her other hand with his.
They mustn’t...
Oh, but the sensation thrilled her. Made her blood race and her entire body tingle.
Alejandro leaned closer, his face warm in the crook of her neck, as though he was savoring her scent. She wasn’t used to this kind of dogged pursuit. Spanish men had their stereotype, and he was certainly living up to it. She wondered if he acted this way with most women he got acquainted with, or simply her, Isabella Drake.
Was she overthinking this?
Especially when her brain was obviously refusing to function.
On the stage, the man pursued the woman, caressing her face with his glance. The light focused on them, which left the rest of the room in semi-darkness. Isa didn’t need the light to see that Alejandro sat so close to her. When he pressed his lips against her ear, she trembled.
But he only asked, in that masculine voice that made her stomach flip, “Is this making you uncomfortable?”
Was it? She couldn’t think. She should tell him yes. She should—
“Yes,” she said primly.
He withdrew his hand, his arm, his warmth from her. He took away his other her hand on her lap.
She should exult, and yet...
She only felt a queer disappointment.
The temperature dropped distinctly around her chair. She should tell him something...
Like what?
It was making me uncomfortable, but only if you pulled that tight.
Now she didn’t have to worry about him distracting her. That should be good, right? She could simply focus on the flamenco dancers on the stage. The man was taking his turn on stage, with a rather gymnastic performance of twists and turns at his waist and a march in place. His dark hair fell over his forehead, his clean-shaven jaw rugged and attractive.
Focus on the dancers, Isa. Not Alejandro.
Her unruly brain rebelled and instead, she was aware of Alejandro beside her. How he no longer held her, but the imprint of his touch remained on her arm. Isa was grateful that Alejandro couldn’t see that she was still flustered from the contact.
Applause broke out, and there was a little pause before the next number.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Alejandro asked. This time, he stayed far enough away a respectful distance. Again, that silly disappointment beset her.
“Yes, very much so.”
“Good.”
Even with him sitting not quite as close, she still couldn’t ignore his presence. He sat with a coiled power, alert and cocked as though listening to the crowd.
The rest of the flamenco show didn’t flag in energy, to Isa’s surprise. As the song wore on, perspiration began to bead on the female dancer’s forehead. She was probably in her late thirties but had the energy of a woman half her age. At the end of her dance, the tempo built to an astounding crescendo. She stomped and finished with a flourish.
The audience clapped as the lights went up in the house.
“Magnificent,” Isa said.
“Isn’t it?”
Isa and Alejandro stood up. As Isa started to lead Alejandro out of the aisle, he touched her shoulder. Earlier, it had been a simple act of support for him. But now, her pulse leaped where the warmth of his fingertips burned through the fabric of her dress.
“Alejandro Diaz?” a man called out across the room.
Isa turned towards the voice. A man about Alejandro’s age, in his early thirties, was making his way towards them. He glanced curiously at Isa, and then turned his attention towards her companion.
“Hello, Julio,” Alejandro said, his mouth thinning into an impatient line.
“Fancy seeing you out of your self-imposed exile.”
“I hardly consider blindness as self-imposed.”
“My condolences,” Julio said, though his eyes glimmered suspiciously with delight. “Alicia sends her love.”
“Tell your cousin she need not trouble herself.” His hand tightened on Isa’s shoulder. “This is my publisher, Isabella Drake. Isa, this is Julio Lopez. He is an artist as well. Who is always trying to steal from me.”
“Surely you don’t believe the tabloids,” Julio said, sounding unruffled. He flinched as Alejandro marched right up so they were nose to nose.
“I wouldn’t if it weren’t that some people have reported you are copying some of my work.”
Julio’s mouth fell open. “Are you really accusing me of forgery now? That is a low blow.”
“I suppose that my mentee would turn into a snake shouldn’t surprise me.”
Julio’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well. Now we’re threatened by a mentee’s success. Of course we would have similar styles. I have certainly picked up the same style having taken classes from you over the years.”
Alejandro placed a hand on Isa’s back and moved with her, away from Julio.
“Nice to see you,” Julio called out. “Nice to meet you, Isabella.”
Julio smiled like a predatory shark.
Chapter Seventeen
Relief washed over Alejandro as they exited the building. Not just from being away from Julio’s obnoxious presence, but also having space between him and other people. He remained quiet on their way walking back to Reina. He appreciated that Isa respected his need for silence.
“I take it you don’t like that Julio Lopez?” Isa said.
“He’s always been a thorn in my side. I suspect he also set me up on purpose to meet his cousin, Alicia.” He expelled a breath. “She’s my ex.”
“I gathered that much.”
He felt Isa’s hand on his arm. “Wait. This
looks interesting.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the Jewish Quarters.”
“With the kissing alley.”
“Pardon me?”
“There’s an alley in there which is so narrow they call it the Kissing Alley.”
His mind went back to the moment at the church, when he stole a kiss or two before that matrona interrupted them. But he wasn’t about to suggest they go there. It felt like a teenage boy ploy.
“Now you have me curious,” she said.
“Mmm, that’s too bad,” Alejandro said with a straight face.
“You’re not just making it up?”
“Go on,” he said, “google it.”
After a minute, she said, “Yes, it says so right here.”
“Do you want to see it?”
“Just for a minute. Just to look.”
He stifled a smile. “What other reason is there?”
She didn’t answer. He took her arm and she led him, past a noisy tapa bar and pedestrians, servers calling out to entice them to their establishment.
“Here we are,” she said.
She moved away from him, leaving him bereft. He wondered if they were alone or if there were other pedestrians. But then she returned, holding his hands in hers and leading him down.
“All right,” she said, like an eager child. “We have to try it.”
Her touch was playing tricks on his mind. It was as though she had warmed up to him once again. When she had pulled back from him at the flamenco show, he wanted to respect her comfort level. Now she was giving off a different signal.
Not that he minded.
“Try what?” he said.
“See if it is really narrow enough to kiss.”
She still held his hands. He waited. Was she going to initiate the kiss? Or did she expect him to?
She turned him a certain angle, and then she leaned in for a peck on his lips.
Like a match to hay, something hot and fiery combusted in him.
He let her hands go and reached for her, threading his fingers through her hair and pulling her close at the waist.
When she didn’t resist, he dipped his head and kissed her in earnest. A slow, sensuous caress that made her tremble. And then as though he were a man thirsting in the desert, he kissed her. He pulled away and she moaned in protest, but he was only adjusting how he held her. He kissed her again, walking her back until she leaned against the stone wall.
