Indiscretion Read online

  Salvador leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve been watching you. You seem fascinated by Spain, Alexandra.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ she conceded. ‘My life in England is so very different. Here, there’s colour and light and passion. The Spanish have an enviable gift for life and happiness. There seems to be a world of stories on every street corner.’

  ‘You are a true romantic, a romantic hiding beneath a mask of English worldliness. But then again, every one of us wears a mask of some kind … You believe the best of people, don’t you?’

  ‘Should I not?’

  Salvador smiled wistfully. ‘Perhaps. People are unpredictable, the Spanish in particular. Yes, we are driven by our passionate nature but danger is often the bedfellow of passion.’

  Was there a glint in his eyes as he had said this, she wondered, or again was it a trick of the light?

  She glanced at him. ‘I agree, passion can be dangerous,’ she said as casually as she dared, though she could feel her cheeks warming, not purely from the effect of the sangria. It was impossible for her to resist the beguiling nature of his smile. ‘But what do you mean, exactly?’

  His voice softened. ‘I mean, Alexandra, that here, things must be done in a particular way. In our country we have customs that are deep-seated and which govern our people, traditions that took root in this land centuries ago, which nothing and no one can destroy. Those ways can imprison us …’

  ‘Only by choice. Every civilized person has a choice and the freedom to decide their own destiny, don’t you think?’

  ‘How provocative,’ he said, as if to himself, ‘a politician as well as a writer and musician. Is there no end to your talents?’ He raised dark brows, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  He grinned. ‘Is it not good to laugh occasionally?’ Pausing, he added thoughtfully, ‘We have a great deal in common, you and me.’

  ‘I cannot think what,’ she answered, but was intrigued by his comment.‘We’re from unimaginably different backgrounds.’ Holding back from him seemed the sensible thing to do and yet she wanted to draw him on.

  ‘We are both trapped behind masks, of course. Can you not sense it, niña?’ There it was again: a glimmer of vulnerability beneath that confident masculinity. ‘You yearn for something you don’t have, searching for your identity and maybe even your destiny on this fiery soil of ours. Anyone who has heard you at the piano can see there is something restless and driven in you, another side that longs to take flight. You need to face who you really are, Alexandra.’

  She blinked in surprise at his disarming frankness, her eyes questioning his sincerity. It was as if in a moment he had peeled away a layer to expose her vulnerable core. She frowned and looked away. He was dangerous — how fearful and fascinating were the days ahead going to be.

  ‘Am I such an open book to you?’ She tilted her chin a little stubbornly but could not help the thrill coursing through her at the thought of how he had got under her skin. That he could make her feel like this was almost frightening.

  ‘You must forgive me if I lack your English diplomacy,’ Salvador said, smiling at her reassuringly. ‘Unfortunately, we Spanish speak our minds. But you know this, as you are essentially a true Spaniard.’

  ‘Hardly. I’ve lived a very English life.’ She looked at him and suddenly felt like she had indeed been trapped in a glittering prison ever since she could remember, her eyes closed in the dark, sheltered and closeted from the world.

  ‘But you were born and nurtured under the Spanish sun, on Spanish soil, for the first years of your life. We are the blood that flows through your veins, Alexandra. The lifeforce of your passions … which you clearly have in abundance, niña.’

  His gentle tone surprised her and she made no comment. The dark, penetrating gaze held hers for a moment and slowly travelled to her mouth. Alexandra felt almost hypnotized as she tried to decipher its disturbing message. The heat intensified in her cheeks as he continued to look at her with … she dare not believe what he was mutely telling her. Salvador’s raw sexuality was overwhelming. He disturbed and excited her in equal measure; she recognized that now.

  A Flamenco guitarist spontaneously began playing at the far end of the restaurant — loud, harsh, with a pulsing under-beat. With his long, unkempt hair, deep-set, jet-black eyes and gaunt face, the man looked like a gypsy. His song had a wave-like dynamic: soaring to passionate heights, dropping to a murmur, rising again. Waiters stopped and clapped softly or rapped their knuckles on tables as the hoarse, melodic voice of the guitarist echoed through the room. Like a drug, it was mesmerizing everyone in the place, including Alexandra. She soon forgot her embarrassment and became transfixed by the musician, letting the sound surge through her body.

  It was then that she looked up. Emotion burned in Salvador’s face as if a light had been turned on inside him. He sat without stirring, lost; forgetful it seemed of the woman who sat beside him. She felt a sharp desire to touch him, bring him back, slightly jealous of the music that had such power to take him away from her. Still, the plaintive sound of the guitar and the ardent words of the song were enthralling her too. When it stopped, Salvador looked at her, the emotion the song had inspired in him still burning in his eyes.

  Alexandra spoke quickly to diffuse the intensity. ‘I’ve never heard true Flamenco music played live, though I’ve always wanted to. I find its subjects almost too poignant, love and death.’

  ‘Love and death are the two overriding Andalucían preoccupations. Indeed, more specifically, they are the two most important experiences of life.’

  ‘But why couple them?’ Alexandra protested. ‘They don’t go in pairs. One is the beginning — the real beginning — of life, the other is the end.’

  Salvador smiled and shook his head at her. ‘Spanish Flamenco is the embodiment of passion. Some people say that music is at its best when wild and unleashed. Flamenco is often like that, heels stamping, castanets clicking, skirts of the dancers whirling … But it was not the case with this singer; he sang a sad love song. Flamenco, and especially Andalucían Flamenco, is a force of nature … like love. The singer reaches deep down into his soul and that is what makes the notes so, as you say, poignant. What do you make of our Andalucían passion, as a writer, as a musician … or as a woman, Alexandra?’

  Alexandra stared at him, realizing that he had subtly altered the sound of her name. Salvador’s voice was low and caressing, making her aware of the deep potential of passion in this man, and she dared not look into his eyes.

  ‘Music not only requires passion, but practice and dedication,’ she countered, trying to steal back some of her composure, ignoring the unnerving fluttering sensation in her chest.

  ‘And with dedication comes the release of true art, it’s true. One day I’ll show you the dance of Flamenco and, I guarantee, Alexandra, the Spanish part of you will be ignited.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that,’ she said, unsure which part of his declaration she was replying to.

  ‘You must say yes, Alexandra, or I will be forced to pursue you until you do,’ he softly told her.

  Under his steady scrutiny she became restive and her eyes wavered from his face. She could imagine how it might feel to have Salvador hold her tightly against him as they moved to the pulsating rhythm of the dance. To ease her dry throat she reached for the sangria. ‘Flamenco is the music of the gypsies, I’ve heard. Is that true?’

  ‘Some believe they invented it, yes. They have certainly appropriated Flamenco over the centuries and the wild, exciting nature of the music and dancing fits with their mysterious culture.’

  ‘They sound fascinating, though they do have a notorious reputation worldwide. I’ve read about some of their more threatening ways, though like most things obscure and little-known, I suppose it’s easy to paint a sinister picture and be quick to condemn. Do you know much about them?’

  ‘A little.’ Salvador’s expression hardened. She could not
read his face as he relapsed into one of his characteristic brief silences, his eyes gazing ahead, absorbed in his own thoughts. He returned to her and she saw the dark eyes regarding her gravely. She flushed faintly. ‘They’re a proud race, with a strong sense of honour … And honour is, after all, one of the most important things that drive us: honour, revenge, love. What else is there?’

  Alexandra laughed. ‘Tolerance, decency, beauty … honesty.’ The solemn side of his Spanish nature had resurfaced in an instant, and she was trying to bring him back. It had worked and he shot her a provocative smile.

  ‘Do you find me honest, Alexandra?’

  He was doing it again, playing with the sound of her name.

  ‘I find you completely exasperating.’

  ‘So you’re the honest one, I see.’ Salvador threw his head back and laughed delightedly, the gleaming whiteness of his teeth as startling as the cobalt eyes that twinkled at her, animating his coolly handsome face.

  Alexandra burst out laughing too and once again found herself totally at ease with this man that she knew so little about. Meanwhile the music had died down to a slow strumming and the chatter from the diners had resumed.

  ‘Perhaps we should get some fresh air and see more of Seville,’ she suggested. ‘There’s so much I need to discover.’

  ‘Of course, and much I have to show you,’ said Salvador, and to her astonishment he took her hand and raised it to his lips in the same fleeting way he had done at the harbour. He paid the bill and soon they were back in the bright streets of Santa Cruz.

  Later, they strolled through the maze of narrow white streets of this old Jewish quarter, under arcades garlanded with roses and jasmine. They lingered in plazas planted out with flame trees and acacias, and he bought her a superb shawl of thick silk, embroidered with myriad flowers and exotic birds. ‘So that you will think of me every time you wear it,’ he said solemnly.

  He spoke to her about his childhood, about El Pavón, and his great-aunt, the Duquesa, whom he adored. Salvador had come to understand, and even admire, the dowager’s quirks and respected her courage, both during and after the Civil War. It was a courage mixed with subtlety.

  ‘I realized after the war that my great-aunt’s cautious stance had been very wise,’ he told Alexandra.

  ‘Yes, I can appreciate even more now, having spoken to Ramón, just how terribly dangerous life in Spain has been over the last two decades. Grandmother must have been so brave to get the family through such horrors seemingly unscathed.’ Alexandra gazed up at Salvador, frowning in concern.

  ‘Ah yes. Ramón. He sees the world in such black-and-white terms. And, of course, sometimes he’s right. The hatred and thirst for revenge that followed Franco’s victory here have made the whole country a dangerous place. The de Fallas are one of the oldest of the noble families. We could have been viewed with suspicion and resentment by so many, but the Duquesa has navigated a shrewd path through it all. But let’s talk of more cheerful things.’ He smiled at Alexandra warmly and brushed his hand along an overhanging branch of bougainvillea above her as they walked. She watched a petal drift slowly to the ground and wondered at Salvador’s sense of being a de Falla, and what she’d begun to detect in him: that, just as he’d remarked about her, he yearned for a freedom he didn’t have.

  ‘Yes, it’s so beautiful here.’ She lifted her face, basking in the warmth of the sun on her skin, and took in the impossibly azure sky, the riot of colour in the meandering, cobbled street. ‘It’s as if this place has been frozen in time for centuries.’

  When he didn’t answer, she looked sideways and almost blushed as his gaze found hers; the open curiosity of it was so disarming. ‘Yes, beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Andalucía is a blessed place. According to Islamic legend, Allah was asked for five favours by the people of El Andalus — clear blue skies, seas full of fish, trees ripe with every kind of fruit, beautiful women and a fair system of government. Allah granted them all of these favours except the last … on the basis that if all five gifts were bestowed, the kingdom would become an unearthly paradise.’

  ‘I like that one.’ Alexandra was almost vibrating with the excited awareness of him next to her as they walked. ‘Tell me another.’

  He told her again of the legends and tales of ancient Spain, which reflected not only the traditions and customs of his country but also, indirectly, his own ideas, his principles, his aspirations, his ideals. Unconsciously he opened up to her and she listened, riveted, her eyes sparkling, drinking in his every word, eager to know more of the man she suspected lay behind those words. He was proud of his aristocratic lineage, mindful of the responsibility his status conferred, and was as deeply rooted in his country as he was in the earth beneath his feet. Yet today, he was like any other young Spaniard, playful and flirtatious, and the way he looked at Alexandra confused her heart and overpowered her body.

  She wanted this day never to end. Salvador also seemed relaxed and happy. Passersby smiled, assuming them to be newly betrothed, as Salvador and Alexandra shared lingering gazes and laughed with such carefree spontaneity.

  ‘I’ve not stopped talking,’ he said at last in a somewhat embarrassed tone. ‘I hope I haven’t bored you with my stories.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Alexandra replied enthusiastically. ‘Your anecdotes are extremely interesting. Besides, you’ve given me a great deal of material for my book.’

  Salvador smiled and glanced at his watch. ‘In that case, you must visit Triana. Without it, your research on this part of the world would be incomplete. Triana is the poor suburb of Seville but I think it’s typical of Andalucía. There is no better time to see it than at sunset, when it’s packed with every kind of vagabond.’

  ‘What’s so special about Triana?’

  ‘Triana is the haunt of gypsies, the home of popular song and folklore dancing. In the days of Haroun al-Rashid, it was the scene of magical Zambra festivals where they danced the “Dance of the Moors”. Since then, Seville has become famous for musical culture throughout the Western world, and Triana the heartland of Flamenco. There is no place on earth I can think of where you can see so many bizarre and exotic characters. They are a different people, the Trianeros, with their unique traditions and a charm and wit all their own,’ he added, his face alight.‘They have inspired the great musicians of the world. Rossini’s bumptious barber, Bizet’s bewitching Carmen and Mozart’s frivolous Don Juan … all these characters are here.’ Salvador spoke animatedly, his eyes gleaming with a singular fever. He walked at a brisk pace so that Alexandra had to hurry to keep up with his long strides. Once again, he was taking her breath away with his unpredictability. His drive was contagious and she felt her pulse race with unbridled excitement.

  ‘Have you heard the legend of Triana?’

  She laughed. ‘No, Salvador, I think you can guess that I’m ignorant of that one.’

  ‘Let me enlighten you then,’ he grinned at her. ‘Some people say that the goddess Astarte, amorously pursued by Hercules, took refuge at the bank of the Guadalquivir River.’

  They stopped to cross the road. ‘The goddess who?’ Alexandra asked.

  ‘Astarte, the semitic goddess of fertility.’ He looked at her and a tingling heat rushed under her skin. ‘The Greeks knew her as Aphrodite. She was so taken by the beauty of the riverbank that she thought it an ideal place to build a city, hence the creation of Triana. Astarte’s dual influence of sexuality and war certainly seeps through the place, if you believe in that sort of thing.’

  They walked back to the Plaza Hotel where they’d left the car. Something electric had sprung up between them now and the air crackled with tension. They drove down near the Torre del Oro, not far from the bridge straddling the Guadalquivir, where earlier they’d parted company with Sarita.

  ‘We’ll cross the bridge on foot.’ Salvador got out first and held the car door open for Alexandra. ‘That way you’ll have a better opportunity to appreciate the local colour. Besides, no respectable car could surviv
e the trip without damage.’ There was an inexplicable look in his eyes as she stood beside him on the pavement. She could feel a strange excitement radiating from him too.

  As they approached the bridge, the chorus of voices became almost deafening, some shrill, others boisterous, punctuated by the shaky rattling of carts, the tintinnabulation of tram bells, the flat, repeated cries of street vendors. And over in the distance, on Seville’s waterfront, the dismal shadow of the Golden Tower, the old prison watchtower of the Guadalquivir, rose like some baleful omen of misfortune, casting its fiery reflection on the river’s shimmering surface in the light of the setting sun.

  Alexandra stepped off the pavement and glanced up at the tower, drawn by its threatening beauty. Suddenly a horn blared. She turned her head to see a moped speeding towards her. Frozen, she stared, horrified, at the oncoming bike. The next moment she felt strong arms around her waist, lifting her up and jerking her back to safety.

  Salvador caught her as she stumbled against him, her hands gripping his muscular arms to steady herself. His embrace tightened, straining her to him. Her heart was hammering with almost suffocating unevenness. Trembling as much by sudden conflicting thoughts as by her stumbling, she lifted her face to say something and found herself paralyzed by Salvador’s intense silvery gaze so close to her own. There was a question in their depths that she didn’t understand — that she didn’t want to understand — but before she could be sure of his meaning, he curved his hand around her cheek, tilted her chin up and his head lowered to find her mouth. Alexandra closed her eyes, welcoming the shudder of electricity that shook her as their lips touched. He kissed her lightly, softly, meaningfully. She could feel his strong torso pressing against her breasts; his lean, hard body telling her without words how he felt about her.