Indiscretion Page 24

  CHAPTER 8

  That evening at the Casa de Acacias, the home of Doña Isabel on the outskirts of Ronda, a great fiesta was held to celebrate the fifth anniversary of Don Felipe’s debut as a bullfighter.

  After his resounding triumph at La Plaza de Toros that afternoon, some two hundred men and women had come to pay tribute. Their hostess, Doña Isabel, was every bit the glamorous mistress of ceremonies in her dress of purple crepe. The amethyst necklace that adorned her neck reflected in her eyes, making them look deeper and more mysterious. She stood on the landing, at the top of a flight of marble stairs, framed by Don Vincente and her brother, radiantly greeting her guests.

  Alexandra arrived on Ramón’s arm. She appeared almost ethereal in a floating gown of pale green voile, which revealed just the vaguest outline of her graceful form. Her lush chestnut hair, set off by two deep-yellow carnations, was piled high on her head, enhancing the purity of her profile and the elongated line of her delicate neck.

  Don Felipe spotted her as soon as she stepped out of the car. Aware of his unabashed, scrutinizing gaze, Alexandra felt her cheeks burn but, holding her head high, she stared back at him, almost defiantly. However, the velvet-black irises of the matador, for all their ardour, did not have the disturbing power that the steely glitter of Salvador’s eyes always managed to exert over her.

  The thought of Salvador brought a tightness to her chest. He had preceded her in another car with Mercedes and Esmeralda, and no doubt was already at the party. Determinedly, she drove him from her thoughts. Her gloomy Romeo was easily replaceable and tonight she would prove that to him.

  Alexandra reached the top of the steps and was greeted icily by Doña Isabel and most cordially by Don Vincente. No doubt the torero’s sister was even more hostile than usual after her rival had been singled out in that afternoon’s triumphant spectacle. Alexandra managed a dignified smile for the Marquesa and glided swiftly past her to where Don Felipe stood. Slightly embarrassed at his burning stare, which had never once left her face since she climbed out of the car, she was about to congratulate him on his success at the corrida that afternoon when he forestalled her.

  ‘Allow me to express my admiration for the most beautiful and graceful creature that ever moved my soul,’ he said effusively, taking her hand and drawing it slowly and ceremoniously to his lips. Don Felipe looked both magnificent and suave in his elegant dark suit, and Alexandra couldn’t help but feel flattered by his attention. He was an impossibly dashing figure, and such exotic behaviour merely fuelled her heightened sense of romance. She blushed slightly and gently pulled her hand away as other guests behind her hovered keenly to offer their congratulations to the matador. Don Felipe’s eyes continued to burn into Alexandra, but then he tilted his head in a chivalrous nod, allowing Ramón to lead her away.

  She followed Ramón into the mansion, through the vast hallway and on to a terrace that led to the artistically floodlit garden, where the sound of Flamenco guitars mingled with bubbling chatter. A sophisticated array of glamorous men and women strolled to and fro in a rainbow of kaleidoscopic colours and shimmering materials, sipping chilled sangria and fino sherry, and nibbling dainty tapas presented to them on silver platters.

  The cousins found Salvador in the company of Mercedes and the two flirtatious young men who had been part of their small group at the bullfight.

  ‘Ah, there you are at last,’ Salvador said as they joined him. ‘We were wondering where you were.’ Turning to Alexandra, he stared for an instant before giving her an appreciative look. ‘That colour suits you to perfection. How many hearts do you intend to claim this evening, dear Cousin?’ His eyes glittered mischievously though he could see that she was not amused. Flashing her a brief sardonic smile, he added, ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said coolly. ‘I think I’ll wait.’

  ‘I’ve just the drink for the señorita,’ said a voice behind her.

  Alexandra turned and met Don Felipe’s velvety gaze. ‘Sangria is a mixture of fruit and wine, a favourite drink in Spain, and this one is our special Herrera recipe,’ said the bullfighter as he handed her a glass of the rosy-coloured punch. ‘It isn’t a very potent drink, but it quenches the thirst during our hot, sultry evenings.’

  ‘Not very potent? I wouldn’t take much notice of that description if I were you,’ scoffed Salvador. But Don Felipe seemed unfazed by this comment and kept his eyes fixed on Alexandra.

  She smiled graciously. Ignoring Salvador’s remark, she took a sip of the fragrant punch. ‘This is exactly what I need.’ Childishly, she was enjoying scoring points over Salvador, whose eyes narrowed fractionally at her rebellious expression.

  ‘Since no one seems inclined to introduce us,’ Don Felipe said, studying her intently through his long brown eyelashes. ‘Let me give you a name of my own, a name out of Greek mythology: Aphrodite. This evening, just for me, will you be this Goddess of Love who rose from the waves, white and beautiful as foam, seated in a shell of mother-of-pearl?’

  Alexandra laughed to hide her embarrassment and confusion. ‘I see you’re not only an extraordinary bullfighter but also an accomplished poet.’ She wanted to look away but his disturbing dark eyes were inexorably holding hers, waiting for an answer. At the same time she felt Salvador’s stare boring into her. ‘Yes,’ she heard herself utter, totally hypnotized by this game, ‘for this evening, I shall be happy to be Aphrodite.’

  As she moved off on Don Felipe’s arm, Salvador called after her, ‘Careful, niña, the devil is cunning.’ There was an edge to his voice. He drained his glass, gazing after them with a frown, but Alexandra was already far away, transported into a new world of fantasy to which the God of the Arenas had introduced her.

  Don Felipe did not leave her side for the next two hours. At dinner on the terrace outside, he made sure to invite her to his table. As she knew no one seated around her apart from Don Vincente, who was holding forth to a group of his son’s cronies, the torero monopolized her unashamedly, regaling her with tales of his bullfighting exploits, which to Alexandra seemed indescribably dangerous but also thrilling to hear.

  As they sipped on sangria and ate wonderful food, she found herself responding to his open overtures of interest with shy smiles and flirtatious banter. She began to relax into this rather chivalrous dance they seemed to be engaged in. Occasionally, she glanced over at the facing table, to where Isabel had cunningly steered Salvador as soon as dinner was announced. The Marquesa had been fawning over him in a way that Alexandra was beginning to find faintly ridiculous. If Salvador was intent on indulging such behaviour, then so be it, she thought with mounting irritation. It only made her welcome Don Felipe’s straightforward attentions all the more. Still, frequently she found Salvador’s brooding gaze on her, and despite herself her stomach gave a familiar flutter.

  After dinner, Doña Isabel announced that chairs had been set out in the garden for the entertainment.

  ‘Have you ever seen the Flamenco danced before?’ enquired Don Felipe, as they left the table.

  Alexandra paused, struck for a moment by the memory of the Flamenco music in Seville, before putting it firmly out of her mind. ‘I’ve read about it, and heard the music, but never actually seen the dance performed.’

  ‘The group you are about to watch tonight has among it some of the best Flamenco dancers in Andalucía.’

  Alexandra laughed happily. ‘Then I’ll have been initiated to two of your traditions today. Thank you for making me so welcome.’ Light-headed, merry and carefree, she felt like a butterfly in some enchanted garden, dazed and intoxicated by the flattery of her handsome partner, and in no small degree by having drunk too much of that oh-so-harmless sangria.

  Don Felipe guided Alexandra away from the terrace towards the garden and they walked in silence, savouring the balmy atmosphere of the night.

  ‘Doña Alexandra, what do you think of our country?’ the young man asked suddenly in a tender voice.

  ‘I think I
like it,’ she said in earnest, ‘although I feel a total stranger to its customs and curious traditions. They’re so different to ours in England.’

  ‘In what way?’ He folded his hands behind his back as they strolled across the lawn.

  ‘I find them moving but I can’t always understand them, despite being half-Spanish myself. It’s probably this difference that attracts and yet frightens me at the same time.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Here, everyone lives with such intensity. You’re all so conscious of death that it seems to be the inspiration for living, as though each step you take in life is a step that brings you closer to death. In England we find this attitude strangely disquieting. I suppose because it’s so opposed to our own philosophy.’

  ‘What you say is right,’ said Don Felipe. ‘The Spanish confuse life with death, and death with life. Perhaps the key to the soul of our people is to be found in the words of Socrates, who said that “the wise man doesn’t fear death and the pious man doesn’t regard it as a final end. It induces the first to make the most of life and the second to live in hope of a better world. For each, death becomes life.”’ He gazed solemnly up at the night sky as they neared the edge of the garden. ‘We are essentially a religious people, who have learned wisdom by suffering and by our firm trust in fate. It’s the Eastern philosophy of the “maktoub”, what is “written”, bequeathed us by our Moorish ancestors and rooted in our character.’ He smiled, motioning her towards some seats where a few of the guests were beginning to assemble. ‘Do you understand us better now?’

  For the first time that evening Alexandra grew pensive. Don Felipe’s words illustrated so well Salvador’s blind submission to his own destiny. ‘Yes, when you put it like that, it seems easier to accept.’

  ‘Oh, Salvador,’ Doña Isabel’s laughter suddenly resounded a few yards away, ‘how can you think that? But I forgive you because you’re so devilishly handsome,’ she purred.

  Alexandra’s spine stiffened. She didn’t bother to look round at the pair. Why could he not find somewhere else to flaunt his attachment to the Marquesa? She raised her chin. But what did she care? She had the attentions of a man women swooned over and who was certainly the perfect romantic hero. Suddenly her irritation bubbled over. She deliberately touched Don Felipe’s arm and raised her voice a fraction.

  ‘Torero, poet, philosopher … is there no end to your talents, Don Felipe?’

  Don Felipe raised his brows and smiled suavely, pleased at her compliment. ‘I like to think that I have a few more, Doña Alexandra,’ he responded, his eyes intent on her lips.

  Isabel’s laughter could be heard very close now. ‘I’m sure your skills are consummate in all things,’ she found herself saying, adding quickly, ‘Your reflexes in the arena are certainly incredible.’

  ‘Well, today they were challenged more than usual due to one ravishing, tormenting distraction.’

  She felt her cheeks burn, unable to think of a reply. Then Salvador and Isabel stopped in front of them.

  ‘I see you’re enjoying yourself this evening, Cousin.’ There was no mockery on Salvador’s face now; in fact, his expression had taken on more of a scowl, Alexandra noted with some satisfaction.

  She looked at him boldly. ‘Yes, I am, very much, Salvador. Don Felipe here has been wonderful company. The time has simply flown.’

  Salvador’s jaw tightened.

  ‘Felipe, you are incorrigible,’ piped up Isabel, as if Alexandra hadn’t spoken. ‘You really mustn’t neglect your other guests, you know. They’re all here to see you this evening. I’m sure Doña Alexandra is capable of entertaining herself.’ She passed a fleeting glance up and down Alexandra and smiled slyly.

  Alexandra met the other woman’s haughty regard. ‘Of course you are right, Doña Isabel, and I wouldn’t want to keep your brother from his guests. You seem not to have had the chance to speak to anyone else this evening either. Isn’t it terrible to have such good company that we neglect our duties?’

  The Marquesa simply stared. ‘Well, I hardly think—’

  ‘Isabel, I think Alexandra has dado en el clavo, hit the nail on the head,’ interrupted Salvador. He inclined his head towards her, a dangerous light flickering in his dark eyes. ‘Distracting company can often make us neglect what is important. I only hope, my dear Felipe, that you’re looking after my cousin.’ Though, as he spoke, his gaze was still only on Alexandra.

  ‘Amigo, what else would you expect?’ came the torero’s courteous reply. ‘Estar seguro, rest assured your cousin is safe with me.’ As if to emphasize his point, he took Alexandra’s hand and placed it on his arm.

  Salvador’s gaze travelled from Alexandra’s arm to Don Felipe’s face and for a moment something approaching a challenge passed silently between the two men, like the glare of stalking animals.

  ‘Come, Salvador,’ said Doña Isabel fractiously. ‘We really must be finding our seats before the dancing begins.’ She tugged on his arm. He stared for a moment longer at the torero, then nodded brusquely and strode off.

  Don Felipe’s expression changed instantly and he flashed a smile at Alexandra. ‘Doña Alexandra, I’ve reserved a space for us where you’ll have the best view.’

  Despite her proud demeanour in front of Doña Isabel, Alexandra was feeling nervy. She pasted a buoyant smile on her face and, raw with confusion inside, followed him across the grass.

  They were sitting a little apart from the other guests, on wide cushions covered with rich embroidery, under an early-flowering flame tree. The round stage, which had been placed against the garden wall for the performance, was set only a few yards away.

  This part of the garden had been cleverly arranged as a picturesque miniature theatre, with rows of straw-bottomed chairs, brightly coloured quilted cushions and leather pouffes stuffed with horsehair. Most of the guests took up their seats with glasses of sherry, manzanilla or sangria, which they sipped as they waited for the show to begin.

  The music started softly. Alexandra listened to the strumming notes of the guitars and felt as though she were being gently rocked in a hammock.

  A gypsy family, seated in a semicircle to one side of the stage, began to clap their hands rhythmically, faster and faster, louder and louder, the rate of the tempo matching the level of sound.

  ‘Hand-clapping is a most necessary prelude to our singing and dancing,’ whispered the matador.‘It’s the gradual crescendo of clapping that frees all inhibition.’ And so it was. Suddenly, as if by magic, the group of dancers, guitar players and singers came to life. They formed a single body, vibrant with a sense of collective excitement.

  The first dancer to leap to her feet and occupy the centre of the floor was a young girl. She seemed barely thirteen, a fragile creature in her dress of white muslin spotted with red, a crimson shawl held tightly around her slender shoulders. Her dance was tempestuous. Coiling up and waving the flounces of her skirts, she beckoned to one of the male onlookers sitting on the other side of the stage to join her. All the time, the other members of the family, and some of the audience, stamped their feet, clapped their hands and interjected with cries of encouragement.

  Alexandra was mesmerized by this vibrating show, and by the wild music. It seemed to call to something deep within, goading her, playing on all the simmering emotions that she was trying so desperately to hold on to. Beside her, Don Felipe too was clapping to the rhythm, nodding to Alexandra and smiling, but she couldn’t bring herself to take part in the revelry, despite the matador’s encouragement and the elation of everybody around her.

  Now, as a second dancer — a man — came into view, the first withdrew to her place. He began a series of jumps, pirouettes and great leaps into the air. Then, throwing his wide-brimmed hat on to the stage, he performed a dance around it that was almost primitive in its ferocity. His frenzied movements had a certain supple grace, echoing the sensuous, pulsating music. The haunting rhythm of his stamping feet was truly contagious.

  All of a sudden, Alexandra’s natural
inhibitions melted, and she found herself being swept away by the spirit of merriment and the orgy of noise. Along with the rest of the audience, who were now on their feet, she leapt up and joined the throng, stamping her feet and clapping her hands. Red-faced, cheeks burning, she cried out ‘olés’ as though she were a true gitana.

  Suddenly she felt an arm pulling her into the crowd. She looked up, startled, to see Salvador’s face close to hers, his arm now tightly around her waist.

  ‘Bailar el flamenco conmigo, dance the Flamenco with me, Alexandra.’ It was a whisper, no more, in her ear — a command, not an invitation — and he drew her in one fluid movement hard against his length. Salvador’s eyes, shining almost cobalt-blue in his tanned face, bored into hers. She could feel his heart thundering against her breast, echoing the insistent rhythm of the music and driving the drumming beat through her already electrified body.

  ‘What are you doing? Let me go,’ she murmured, her emerald eyes flashing in a mixture of anger and desire. Her hands pushed against his chest in a half-hearted attempt to free herself. But he jerked her waist even tighter against him, his gaze even more burning. She could feel the contours of his body in such a way that made her throat so dry she had to lick her bottom lip.

  ‘I said, dance the Flamenco with me,’ he growled, his eyes on her mouth.

  People were moving around them, skirts swirling, hands and feet clapping and stomping.

  ‘I can’t, Salvador. I don’t know how to …’

  Alexandra looked at him ablaze, though she was confused and light-headed, her pulse racing; his eyes held her enthralled and she caught her breath as he drew her swiftly among the dancers. He turned her in his arms, holding her against his warm strength, sweeping her away into his almost primitive world of fevered excitement, a world that had been waiting for her all her life.