The Golden Madonna (4 page)

As she had been told that she had plenty of time before dinner, Sally took a very leisurely bath and lay back amid the fragrant steam of her favourite bath essence. She dried herself on huge soft towels, then scented and talced her body, revelling in the luxury of it. She chose to put on a short, cool lime- green dress that was fairly low cut in the neckline and revealed the smooth creaminess of her neck and shoulders to definite advantage, although she wondered for a brief moment if her seemingly very fussy host would frown over it. The sleeves, at least, he could find no fault with, for they were of soft pleated chiffon and fell from her wrists in a flattering, wing-like softness.

She wore no jewellery, but impulsively plucked one of the red roses that grew over her balcony and tucked it into the loose chignon she made of her long fair hair. The effect, she decided when she looked at herself in a mirror, was satisfyingly cool and very unlike her usual self. It was in fact rather Spanish, she realised with a start, except for her colouring.

Hearing voices in the courtyard below, she left the mirror and hurried over to the wide, curved window and looked down over the intricately carved stone balcony, anxious to see if it was her fellow travellers coming over to join her for dinner.

It took Michael a second or two to spot her up " there on the shadowed balcony, behind a profusion of roses and bougainvillaea, but when he did his lips pursed in a far from silent whistle of appreciation, and he stopped in his tracks to gaze up at her.

'You look gorgeous,' he told her in a stage whisper, at which his companions smiled knowingly. 'I'll see you inside, darling.'

His whistle had attracted the attention of Carlos the manservant too, as he led the party across to the main body of the house, and he too looked up at her. Not for Carlos, however, the crudeness of a whistle, but a deep, meaningful glow in his dark eyes that immediately reminded Sally of Don Miguel's remarks about Spanish men. She hastily withdrew to the shadows of her bedroom and spent a brief, intriguing moment, wondering if the master would be as appreciative as the servant had been.

The dining-room at the Casa de Principes was even more grand than Sally had expected, and she felt that somehow the informal mode of dress adopted by the English party was out of place there. It had, however, evidently been accepted by their host that to be too formal would probably prove discomfiting to a group of artists on holiday, for even Miguel Cordova had merely exchanged the light suit he had worn earlier, for one of very dark grey. The spotless white of his shirt made his dark, arrogant face look even darker.

It was a large room, light and airy, with artificial light from an overhead chandelier boosting the failing daylight that now came in but faintly through the windows, the darkness exaggerated by the windows being set back under those cloister-like arches.

The long table, Sally guessed, must be as old as the rest of the furniture, and equally beautiful in its dark, polished surface. There was a touch of formality in the heavy silverware and the silver bowl of red and white roses that graced the centre of the table, but none in the smile that Dona Alicia gave Sally as she took the seat to her right.

Ines Valdaquez, Sally noticed was seated to the right of their host, at the head of the table, and the thoughtfulness of placing Michael on the other side of her she attributed to Dona Alicia, for surely Miguel Cordova would never have been so considerate.

The Spanish girl appeared more formally dressed than anyone. She wore a black, full-length dress, modestly high at the neck and with long lace sleeves, tight at the wrists. Her blue-black hair was dressed in its smooth chignon still, the severity of the style relieved to some extent by a beautiful tortoiseshell and silver comb that must have been meant for wearing with a
mantilla.

She looked as sulky as she had when Sally first met her, and she wondered if the other woman ever smiled, other than when Miguel Cordova looked at her. Her feelings for him were fairly obvious, although he appeared to treat her with no more than ordinary politeness, and, although she had no way of knowing how recent her bereavement was, Sally wondered if Miguel found her display of adoration distasteful, in view of her mourning garb.

It was the first opportunity Sally had had of talking to Michael since their arrival, and she tried to give him her attention without too pointedly ignoring her hostess. Not that Dona Alicia seemed at all worried by her preoccupation with Michael, for she talked most of the time to Robert Blane, seated on the other side of her, and smiled indulgently when Sally smiled at her, and nodded her head as if in approval.

They made quite a handsome couple, in fact, Sally and Michael. Both fair-haired and blue-eyed, they were as typically Anglo-Saxon as their host was typically Spanish, and the contrast to him was most noticeable when he came over to speak to them as they left the dinner table.

Engrossed in some topic with Michael, Sally failed to see him coming and turned swiftly, momentarily startled when he spoke close behind her, his dark head bent over to make himself heard. 'You look most attractive, Miss Beckett,' he told her.

He was closer than she realised, so that when she turned so hurriedly, she found his face within inches of her own and those dark, arrogant eyes met hers full on. Suddenly the neckline of her dress felt even lower than it was, and she put up a hand to touch her shoulder so that an arm covered at least part of the exposed skin.

'I hope my dress isn't too' She left the rest of the sentence unspoken, aware that Michael was looking at her curiously, and that Miguel Cordova was speculating on the reason for her half-apologetic question.

'We do not insist on formality during the time our visitors are here,' he told her gravely. 'That dress is perfect—in every way.'

'Thank you,
senor.'
She sounded deceptively demure, and looked up in time to see one black brow shoot upwards into an expressive arch. 'I wondered, seeing Senora Valdaquez, I mean--'

'My cousin is in mourning.' he informed her, confirming Sally's suspicions. 'Also she is very conventionally Spanish and prefers to dress so.'

'I see—I'm sorry.'

He ignored the sympathy, perhaps sensing that it was more polite than sincere, and stood looking down at her, drawn up to his full height now and towering over her. That mysterious and disturbing aura of maleness setting her pulses racing again and bringing on that curling sensation in her stomach.

'You did not hear what I told the others at dinner, I think,' he said, now including Michael in the conversation. 'We will begin work in the morning, with a supervised session. So that I can see what each of you is capable of.'

'Oh, good!' It was Michael, of course, being so enthusiastic. I confess, I didn't hear you say so before,
senor,
but I was probably talking to Sally at the time.'

'It is possible,' Miguel agreed, and again the black „ eyes turned on Sally. There was a deep, dark glow in their depths and he studied her with an intensity that amounted to insolence, so that Sally felt that small, uncontrollable shiver run over her again. It was almost as if he had touched her in some intimate, caressing way that brought colour to her cheeks. She shivered yet again and, as he had done twice before, she knew that he had sensed her reaction and knew the cause, and he smiled slowly. 'It is to be hoped that your Sally does not prove too much of a distraction from your work,' he told Michael softly, although his eyes were still on Sally. 'It is as well, perhaps, that I shall be demanding most of her time from now on.'

The sun had a soporific effect on Sally and she was feeling pleasantly lethargic as she pored over her canvas, the tip of her tongue just poking out between her lips. A long hand reached over her shoulder suddenly and took the paintbrush from her unresisting fingers, holding it at arm's length for a moment as if it was some repulsive insect. It was turned first in one direction and then in the other before being discarded with an impatient 'tch!' into the box beside her.

Annoyed, not only at the gesture and the interruption, but because it was not the first time it had happed ed during the past two days, Sally looked up and frowned. She knew exactly the expression she would see on Miguel Cordova's face, and the way his black eyes would be challenging her to object to his criticism.

He stood close behind her, a habit he had and which she wished she could break, for he was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body through the thin, sleeveless frock she wore, and the fingers of his left hand brushed against her bare arm as he discarded the brush, making her flinch as if the touch scorched her.

'You are painting a picture, Miss Beckett,' he told her in his quiet but penetrating voice, sounding impatient as usual. 'That brush is suitable only for painting your nails, not for putting paint on to canvas. I have told you before,
muchacha,
do not be afraid of colour.'

'I'm not,' Sally argued, her bottom lip betraying her dislike of the uncalled-for criticism.

'Then use it boldly,
nina,'
he retorted sharply. 'With some feeling, you are much too afraid of taking chances, too—
timida
!' His long slim hands were used to emphasise his criticism, and as always they fascinated Sally, drawing her gaze and making her silent when she would have argued. He always seemed so much more alive, somehow when he was talking about painting, less formal but no less arrogant. 'Bring colour to your canvas,
nina,'
he told her, his hands sweeping disdainfully in front of her canvas. 'Bring colour as a lover brings gifts to his
enamorada, mi pichon.
Be generous, you are too cautious!'

'It's my English upbringing!' Sally retorted in self-defence. 'We're not a flamboyant race!'

'Madre de Dios!'
he breathed piously, and put a hand to his forehead in a gesture of despair.

They sat, the Avhole group of them, out on the driveway that led up to the house, with the shade of the trees keeping the fierce heat of the sun from being unbearable. The house itself, glimpsed at through the colourful, exotic beauty of the
patio,
was to be their inspiration, and Sally felt sure it would have proved just that, if it had not been for her critical tutor.

The others sat with their heads down industriously, as if they were unaware of the conversation going on behind them, but Sally knew very well that they could hear, and were taking in, every word that was said. Each in turn had been subjected to just such a critical appreciation, and not one of them had made a word of protest. Now it seemed it was her turn.

She looked up at the tall figure towering over her, and frowned. His working garb was much less formal than those meticulous suits she had first seen him in, and made him appear a little more 'arty', but unfortunately no less disturbing.

Light-coloured trousers hugged the lean hips and gave emphasis to the length of his legs, and a white shirt, open well down in the front, showed that the deep golden brown of his face went at least as far as a glimpse of dark hair on the broad chest. The sleeves of the shirt, too, were much more full than the conventional variety and fastened at the cuffs, so that he had a dangerously rakish, almost mediaeval look about him.

She hastily looked back at her painting, and hoped to heaven that he would not recognise the reason for it. 'I needed to use that fine brush for the lines down--'

'Eso es ridiculo!'
he interrupted shortly. 'I think I know best about such things!'

He also seemed to use much more Spanish when he was instructing, Sally had noticed, and added that to her list of dislikes. Mostly, she admitted, because she had almost no knowledge of the language and sometimes suspected that he was being far more rude to her than he would dared have been in English.

'I'm not denying that you know best,' Sally told him. 'I was merely trying to explain my reason for using that particular brush.'

She glimpsed a brief smile when she glanced up at him again, and a second later, whether by accident or design, his hand brushed lightly against her cheek so that she found herself having to resist the urge to respond by laying her face against it. It was possible, of course, that the gesture had been quite accidental, but her own reaction to it both startled and appalled her.

'I do not want explanations,
mi pichon,'
he said softly, adding to her confusion. 'You just do as I say, hmm?'

The long fingers again brushed against her cheek, and she hastily glanced at Michael, wondering what he would do if he realised what was going on behind his back. Nothing, probably, seeing that it was Miguel Cordova, he would simply think she was imagining things.

'It's no use my trying to paint while you stand over me,' she told him, her voice trembling almost as much as her hands were.

'Does it disturb you?' The softly voiced question could have been quite innocent of any but the obvious meaning, but Sally glanced up at him and something in the black eyes made her doubt it.

'I—I just don't like being watched,' she said.

His laugh was low and soft, and it was doubtful if anyone else heard it, but it trickled along Sally's spine like ice-water. 'Then I will leave you,' he said quietly, and moved away towards one of the others, leaving Sally with one hand to her face and her eyes dark and troubled. It was nothing more than that lurking streak of cruelty, she felt sure, that made him behave as he did, and his laughter at her obvious discomfiture had proved it.

'I
WAS
wondering how you like it here after all,' Michael said, and Sally looked up at him curiously.

'I like it quite a lot,' she said. 'Why?'

He shrugged, a brief gesture that barely disturbed the smooth fit of his light jacket. 'I just wondered, that's all. Whether it came up to expectations.'

Sally hesitated to be too frank about Miguel Cordova, knowing how Michael admired him, but at least she could be quite honest about every other aspect of their stay. 'The house is quite beautiful,' she told him. 'And I love the country, as much as I've seen of it so far.'