The Golden Madonna Page 4

  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.'

  'But you have some reservations?'

  Sally hesitated—this was leading somewhere, she felt sure, but at the moment she could not quite see where. 'I might have,' she admitted cautiously. 'Nothing's perfect, is it? For one thing I feel that I haven't been doing very well with my painting, and after all, that was the prime reason for our coming here. After just over a week, I seem to have got nowhere—-in fact, if anything, I'm far less confident than I was when I arrived, and it seems such a waste of time and money in the circumstances.'

  Michael shrugged: obviously he wasn't concerned about her artistic progress. 'But you are enjoying yourself,' he insisted.

  He was looking at her from the corners of his » eyes, in an oddly sly way that Sally recognised. It meant that he was about to be frank about something, and that she probably would not like what he said. He always gave her that curiously slant-eyed look when he had something pointed to say, and she wondered what it could be this time. It also surprised her, to some extent, to discover how some of Michael's idiosyncrasies irritated her so much more lately.

  'Of course I'm enjoying myself,' she agreed. 'I've certainly no complaints about the house, or these wonderful gardens.' They had just passed through the arched gateway from the patio and were strolling along the steep driveway that led down to the road. There was certainly nothing she disliked out here.

  'Especially the company?' Michael suggested, and Sally turned and looked at him curiously, smiling but uncertain. Something was wrong, and she had a feeling that she was about to find out what it was.

  'I've no complaints about the company either,' she agreed cautiously.

  'Robert Blane in particular!'

  So that was it! She almost laughed to realise that it was merely his jealousy rearing its head again. 'Robert's nice,' she said quietly. 'So are the rest of the group. We're lucky to have found such a compatible party.'

  'I thought you might have found Robert Blane especially compatible,' he told her, and Sally sighed deeply.

  Last night Robert Blane had approached her as they left the dinner table and asked if she would like to walk a little way in the garden with him. He had been quick to notice that Michael was engaged in serious conversation with their host and taken advantage of the fact that Sally was walking on alone.

  Sally had said nothing to Michael about going, but simply walked on with Robert Blane. After all, she was not engaged to Michael, and perfectly free to go walking with whoever she liked. It had been quite late when they came back, admittedly, and she had gone straight up to her room, so that Michael had had no opportunity of speaking to her alone until now. He had probably been brooding on it all day, and now she was expected to explain herself.

  Tonight had been different; there were no other distractions because Miguel Cordova had not been there for dinner. Michael had been able to forestall a repeat performance by Robert Blane, but his show of possessiveness irritated Sally rather than pleased her.

  'I walked a few yards down the drive with Robert last night, if that's what you're getting at,' Sally told him. 'You were otherwise engaged and it looked like being a long conversation. I felt like going for a walk and Robert asked me to go with him, so—I went.'

  'And went straight to your room when you came back,' Michael accused.'That's right, I did!' Sally's blue eyes shone with impatience. She was getting a little tired of displays » of male temperament lately, but Michael was much easier to deal with than Miguel Cordova. 'I was tired and I wanted to get to bed early,' she told him. 'Do you mind?'

  'I mind you going off with Robert Blane,' Michael declared shortly.. 'And I felt such a fool when I asked if anyone knew where you'd got to.'

  'I've no doubt Senor Cordova found it very amusing,' Sally guessed, and from his frown she knew she must be right. 'He's got a sadistic streak, that man!'

  'Oh, what nonsense you talk!' Michael retorted, determinedly aggressive. 'Don Miguel was no more amused than the rest of them. And for God's sake try using his right name for once, darling!'

  'As far as I know I am using his right name,' Sally argued. 'He seems to have a whole string of them. Rosa and the housekeeper call him Don Miguel, Carlos and the other menservants seem to favour a plain 'senor' and Dona Alicia's last name is Val- daquez. I vaguely remember that name among the string of them he told us at the station, although I'm not at all sure of it.'

  'Miguel Valdaquez Cordova,' Michael quoted precisely. 'The Spanish always tack the mother's maiden name on to the end of their own, and he uses his mother's maiden name for his professional one. It's really quite simple.'

  'And so am I, probably,' Sally retorted. 'And if Don Miguel or Senor Valdaquez, whatever he is, doesn't like the way I address him, why hasn't he corrected me before now?'

  'Too polite?' he suggested, and Sally laughed the idea to scorn.

  'I don't believe that!' she told him. 'In fact I'm only surprised that he hasn't produced it as yet another example of my incompetence.'

  'Maybe he will one day!'

  His good-looking face looked aloof and sulky, and she guessed he was still brooding about last night, and her going off with Robert Blane. She could have quarrelled with him, but it was such a lovely night that she did not feel inclined to quarrel with anyone, least of all with Michael.

  The stars were huge and brilliant in a clear sky, and looked just as if they dipped right down into the sea on the horizon. There was a big yellow moon too, much bigger and brighter than any she had seen at home. From the drive it looked a very long way down to where the Atlantic scattered silver spray over the dark rocks below, and Sally felt a sudden longing for a different kind of situation from the one she found herself in at the moment.

  Bickering with Michael was quite the wrong thing to be doing on a night like this. She should have been feeling dreamy and romantic. Strong arms should have been holding her tightly in the shadow of those sweet-smelling orange trees, and a deep voice whispering in her ear.

  'It's such a beautiful night,' she said softly, half to herself but hoping to instil some of her own feeling into Michael.

  Instead of agreeing with her, however, he merely looked down at their lightly clasped hands and kicked moodily at the bordering flower bed. 'Like it was last night,' he said.

  'Oh, Michael!'

  He looked startled at her vehemence for a moment, realising at last what she had been trying to do, but the damage was done now. 'Darling, I only said'

  'I heard what you said!' Sally told him, her eyes dark in the moonlight, her fair head tilted so that her chin stuck out angrily. 'And I refuse to quarrel with you. It's a beautiful night, and if you won't behave like a civilised human being then I'll walk on my own!'

  'Sally, you can't' he began, but Sally had already shaken off his hand and was running down the steep driveway, like a fleet-footed little ghost in the moonlight, some strange, inexplicable urge driving her on. 'Sally, come back!' His voice sounded jerkily from behind her, as if he too was running, and she increased her pace, unwilling to be caught.

  'Go back!' she called over her shoulder as she ran. I don't want you!'

  'Sally!'

  He called again, but his voice was already fainter as she turned the corner out of the gates and on to a narrow winding road that led up from the valley. She paused for a moment and listened, but heard no sound of his following her, and sighed her satisfaction. The fact that she was quite alone on a lonely road in a strange country did not worry her at the moment—somehow Michael's company was not what she sought tonight.

  It was so quiet and peaceful out here, and yet there was some indefinable something in the air that had been disturbing her peace of mind ever since she came to San Gregorio. An atmosphere as different from the stillness of the English
countryside as it was possible to be.

  Perhaps it was the different, more exotic scents that filled the night air, or that huge yellow moon sitting in a star-bright sky and almost smiling, as if it foresaw so much and remembered so much. There were lights further on, in the valley where the village was, and she guessed there would be music, and probably dancing. Perhaps the beautiful and exciting Andalusian flamenco that Michael had spoken about once. The temptation to go down there and find out for herself was almost irresistible.

  There was something strange and inexplicably restless about her mood tonight, and she found the sensation exhilarating without quite knowing why. Something she had never felt before and which at once thrilled and frightened her a little.

  Her shoes were hardly suitable for walking on the rough, uneven surface of the road and although she barely noticed it at first, after a time she slowed her pace, and finally came to a halt beside a big boulder that looked as if it was balanced precariously above the dizzying drop down to the sea.

  It said much for her state of mind that she did nob' even see the danger of it, but took off her shoes and sat down on the rock. It gave a breathtaking view of the sea and the long, rocky dark way down to it, with a sense of endlessness that was completely in keeping with her mood.

  Still with that strangely restless feeling of anticipation making her heart beat at about twice its normal rate, she sat there at the side of the road, wondering what she could do about it. There was a light, warm breeze and it blew fine strands of long fair hair from the Spanish style chignon she was wearing again. Her short, full-skirted dress was a soft rose pink and, almost out of bravado, she had tucked a purple bougainvillaea flower into the chignon. She knew the style suited her and the addition of the exotic bloom gave her an added sense of not being her ordinary self.

  She knew Robert Blane found her attractive, and would have been only too willing to step into Michael's shoes, had Michael given him the opportunity. And yet she was not convinced that it was for Robert's benefit either, that she sought to be so different. Tonight she had felt a cool chill of disappointment when Dona Alicia had apologised for her son's absence, and the implication of that had both puzzled and worried her.

  Miguel Cordova was very talented, very successful and very unlikely to be even remotely interested in a young girl who was foolish enough to be always arguing with him about a subject of which he was an acknowledged master. Further more he was old enough to have appointed himself in loco parentis on behalf of her father, and took the job seriously— almost too seriously.

  She brushed her fingers gently against her cheek and remembered other, long, strong fingers briefly touching her in the same way, shivering at the recollection. But that brief, disturbing touch had been no more than a deliberate taunt, designed to discomfit her, and she had obliged by colouring furiously like a schoolgirl. Miguel Cordova had a streak of sophisticated cruelty that she would be no match for, she felt convinced, and yet that undeniable fascination he exercised refused to be denied.

  It was so warm that not even a warning chill reminded her of how long she had been there, gazing down at the sea. Her shoes clasped in her hand, outlined against the star-bright sky like a slender, fair- haired Madonna at some roadside shrine, she was deep in her own thoughts. It was the sound of an approaching car that brought her back to reality, and she turned her head curiously.

  Headlights flashed intermittently along the steep, winding road up from the valley, and for the first time she felt a vague flutter of unease when she realised how alone she was. She remembered the number of times that Miguel Cordova had hinted about the passionate nature of his countrymen and the possible consequences of her going about alone.She had no way of knowing who or what the driver of the approaching car was, but there was nothing- she could do about it, whoever it was.

  Attempted flight from her seat on the boulder would be less than useless, for she would have no time to go any great distance before the car arrived. The best thing, in the circumstances, was to simply sit tight and hope that she would be either unobserved or taken for a roadside statue.

  The big car flashed past at an incredible speed for such a road, with its headlights glaring, but she had barely time to draw a sigh of relief at its passing before she heard the shriek of tyres on the road's surface, as brakes were applied.

  With her heart thudding urgently at her ribs Sally stayed quite still, scarcely breathing, her fingers curled tightly over her shoes. Holding them like a weapon that she was quite prepared to use, if necessary.

  The car came back in reverse, almost as rapidly as it had passed, and she kept her head determinedly averted while the driver sat for a moment studying her across the width of the road. She looked small and softly pale in the brilliant moonlight, and he smiled to himself as he spoke. 'Un virgen dorada,' Miguel Cordova's quiet voice remarked, and Sally turned swiftly, unsure whether relief or dismay was uppermost in her heart.

  She said nothing, nor did she move, but stayed exactly as she was, perched up there on the big boulder above the sea, with her shoes held tight in her hand, while he got out of the car and came across the road. He, too, was silent for several moments, while he studied her again from the edge of the road, then he came and stood right beside her.

  He stood so close to her that she could feel the smooth texture of his dinner jacket against her bare arm, and inevitably shivered at the contact. There was warmth in the touch and the inevitable reaction from her senses, so that she turned her head again hastily and looked down at the sea. His first words, however, shattered completely, any illusion of intimacy.

  'Are you quite without sense, muchacha?' he demanded. 'Why do you sit up here alone on a deserted road? Are you mad?'

  'Not at all,' Sally declared, turning a discouraging shoulder to him. She experienced a sense of disappointment, which she hastily dismissed, for it was only what she should have expected from him.

  'Then why are you here?'

  She felt like telling him that it was absolutely no concern of his, but instead she answered him, sounding almost childishly defiant. 'Because I felt like being on my own.'

  His shrug of contempt brushed again on her arm, and she could easily imagine the way his lip was curling. 'You have quarrelled, I suppose,' he guessed. 'I expected something of the sort would happen when I saw you go off with Robert Blane last night. You did it deliberately, of course.'

  It was not a question, it was not even an accusation, just a statement of fact as far as he was concerned, obviously, and Sally turned swiftly to deny it. 'I did no such thing!' she said indignantly. 'How dare you say that?'

  'Because it is true,' he insisted smoothly. 'You must have known that Michael Storer would resent you going off with another man, but it did not stop you from going. You are a coqueta, I think, Miss Beckett.'

  I don't know what that means, but I can guess it's not very complimentary, and I deny it,' Sally declared, and blinked hastily when a glint of white in the brown face revealed a smile.

  'Oh, but you are,' he insisted softly. 'A—a'

  'Coqueta,' he obliged, and smiled again. 'You would call it—a flirt, I think.' - 'I'm not!' Sally denied. 'And anyway, it's nothing to do with you, what I am!'

  'It is if you disrupt my classes with your games,' he said quietly. 'And whether you have quarrelled with your Michael or not, you were extremely foolish to have come so far on your own at night.'

  'I haven't come so very far,' Sally said, and looked at him through her long lashes as she added, 'I had thought of going down into the village.'

  She had been right to guess what sort of a reaction that would have, but she was not prepared for the strength of the fingers that gripped her upper arm so tightly that she cried out in protest. 'You do not mean that,' he said quietly, and she turned, originally to glare defiance, but the expression in the black eyes stunned her for a moment.

  They blazed at her like coals in the bright yellow moonlight so that she stared at him with wide eyes and her li
ps parted in surprise. 'I—I do mean it,' she managed at last, almost choking on the words because the blood was pounding so heavily in her head that she had difficulty in thinking straight. 'I saw no reason why I shouldn't go down there,' she added.

  'If you ever do such a thing, if you even think of going down there alone at night, I will lock you in your room until your father comes to fetch you home,' he told her, and the gripping fingers shook her hard. 'Do you understand me, Sarita?'

  'You have no' Sally began, but he shook her again, and his black eyes seemed to scorch her as they raked over her from top to toe.

  'Do you wish to discover how warm-blooded Spanish men are?' he asked harshly. 'Is that why you were going down there to the village? Is it, Sarita?'

  Sally stared at him, shaking her head, her hands and legs trembling as she saw from the look in his eyes what he meant to do. 'No,' she whispered. 'No, it wasn't that at all.'

  'I think you are lying.'

  Sally tried to look away, but those gleaming black eyes seemed to have hypnotised her and she could only stand there shaking her head slowly back and forth, like someone in a trance. 'No, I'm not lying, I'm not!'He ignored her denial, and reached out with his other hand to take her right arm, pulling her, un» resisting from her perch on the boulder. For a moment he looked down at her in silence, while Sally fought with such a tangle of emotions that she was unsure how she wanted to react. 'If you are so curious, mi pichon,' he said softly, 'it is better I am your teacher, much better.'

  She could not have evaded him, even had she tried, but somehow this seemed to be the moment she had been waiting for all evening. The culmination of that inexplicable sense of exhilaration she had felt ever since she ran away from Michael, and came out here to sit above the moonlit sea—waiting.

  She was trembling like a leaf as he drew her closer, her shoeless height bringing her only as high as the vee of his jacket. His tall figure blocked the moonlight and she instinctively put both her hands to his chest, her open palms feeling the warmth of him through the softness of the frilled dress shirt he wore, spreading her fingers over the strong, steady beat of his heart.