The Golden Madonna Page 5

  'Your first lesson, mi Sarita,' he said softly, and bent his dark head to brush her throat with his lips.

  Sally's heart was beating so fast and so furiously that she had not even breath enough to resist, while some secret part of her admitted to not wanting to resist. It seemed so right, somehow, what she had been waiting for and she closed her eyes as, with a slow deliberation that was in itself exciting, his mouth moved from her throat to a spot below her left ear, then to her neck where the coil of soft fair hair lay. Strong, gentle fingers brushed it aside, caressing her neck as they did so.

  The soft and pretty pink dress slid down her arm, moved by persuasive fingers, and he kissed the smooth skin it had hidden, his mouth warm and sensuous, and evoking such emotions in her as she had never dreamed of with Michael.

  Almost on the point of responding more actively, Sally's senses flicked in panic suddenly, and she made a small, soft sound of protest, putting her hands flat against his chest. But the exulting sense of excitement that coursed through her like fire would not so easily be stilled, and she yielded again as his mouth came down over hers and stifled the whisper of sound she made.

  Ironically it was the fierceness of his kiss, the hard demanding pressure of his mouth on hers that reminded her sharply of his reason for playing this incredible scene. He had spoken of himself as her teacher, with the intention of showing her what she might expect if she was ever foolish enough to stray down into the village alone at night. Teaching her a lesson about Spanish men, and betraying that innate streak of cruelty again.

  'No!' She managed to free her mouth at last, and brush a hand fiercely across her lips as she looked up at him. her eyes bright and curiously luminous in the moonlight. 'No! Please let me go!' Her hands beat at his chest fiercely, and she squirmed in the grip that still held her tightly.

  He eased his hold on her a little, but did not let her go completely, and the black eyes glowed like, live coals as he looked down at her. 'Ah!' he said softly. 'I think you find your lesson a little too much for you, mi pichon. Am I right?'

  'Oh, you despicable—unscrupulous'

  'No!' A hard note crept into the quiet voice, and the fingers holding her arms increased their grip. 'You sit by the roadside in the moonlight, senorita, waiting for someone to come along, or deciding whether you should go down into the village and see for yourself what my countrymen are like when they see a beautiful woman. You cannot claim to be I'innocente, after such an obvious expedition!'

  'I claim nothing!' Sally cried desperately, shaking her head and very close to tears. She felt weak and trembly and suddenly chill, as if that warm, exciting feeling had gone, and left her drained of emotion. 'I just walked down the road a little way and sat here, looking at the sea. I—I wasn't waiting for anyone.'

  The way her voice shook dismayed her, and also she sounded so much as if she was apologising, when she had really no cause to. For a moment he said nothing, but stood and looked down at her steadily, the tightness about his mouth gradually easing.

  'But someone came, nevertheless,' he said quietly. 'And it is fortunate that it was me, Sarita.'

  'Fortunate!' Sally stared at him, the words choking in her throat, then hastily lowered her eyes rather than see the arrogant, calculating look on his face. 'Please let me go,' she begged huskily. 'I'll walk back to the house.' She sounded suddenly weary and she felt sure she would cry before long if he did not go away and leave her.

  'You will come back with me in the car,' he told her, a hand on her arm again making sure she did not escape. 'Have you not yet learnt your lesson, muchacha?'

  'No!'

  'Please do not argue with me!' The grip on her arm tightened, and she cried out in protest as he drew her across the road to where he had left the Mercedes. 'Come!' He opened the door and almost pushed her into the car, and Sally slumped miserably into the seat.

  The moon still shone as big and brilliantly as before. over the glistening ocean, and the stars still promised a thousand romantic dreams, but Sally, keeping as far away from her captor as she could, wished she had stayed and shared the evening with Michael. At least she knew what Michael was all about, and she knew just what her own feelings for him were too. With Miguel Cordova she was painfully uncertain on both counts.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE narrow strip of golden sand looked bright and almost copper-coloured in the hot sun, seemingly endless as it swept off into a hazy infinity, with the soaring skyline of rocks behind it. The craggy, impressive rock face that was dotted here and there with clusters of green, where white villas perched like birds among the lushness of their own gardens. Palms and orange trees, and the kind of massed geraniums and roses that surrounded the Casa de Principes.

  It was all so lovely, though perhaps slightly unreal, and it should have proved a source of inspiration to any artist, Sally thought, but she had sat here now for over an hour, and the canvas in front of her was still maddeningly and dismayingly blank.

  She chewed on the end of her brush, her mouth, slightly pouting, betraying her dislike of the situation. She felt she should have been able to paint as she had never done before, in such surroundings, but far from that being so, she found herself devoid of any kind of inspiration at all.

  In the two weeks since she came to San Gregorio she had done nothing worth mentioning at all. Not that she had ever considered herself any more than a passably good amateur, but at least at home she had been able to produce something that she was not ashamed to show her friends. Two weeks under Miguel Cordova's expert tuition and she had nothing at all to show for it. She had no hesitation, either, of placing the blame for her failure firmly at the feet of her tutor.

  She avoided Miguel Cordova as often as she could, although she was forced to bear his harsh and unrelenting criticism during teaching sessions. It was ridiculous to feel as sensitive as she did, but since that episode when he had found her alone by the roadside and played such havoc with her emotions, she felt unable to face him without wanting to run away and hide.

  He had made it plain enough to her that he considered it no more than a lesson to teach her never to go wandering out alone at night. Nevertheless, she was aware that she had responded to him, if only for a few minutes, with far more lack of inhibition than she should have done.

  As for helping her to improve her painting, from his manner he seemed far more intent on discouraging her, until she had reached the point, only a couple of days ago, when she had been ready to pack up and go home. Only Michael's persuasion had changed her mind, and she thanked heaven that he could not possibly have known what other, more disturbing, factors lay behind her wanting to leave.

  She was sure that Dona Alicia would have regretted her early departure, for the older woman had shown, quite unmistakably, that she liked her, but she would probably have seen the reason for it far more easily than Michael would. Dona Alicia, Sally thought, would know exactly what sort of an effect her son would have on other women.

  No one saw anything of Ines Valdaquez, except at mealtimes, and Sally thanked heaven for it, but she was also feminine enough to speculate on what the Spanish girl's reaction would have been to that incident on the coast road. Ines Valdaquez showed quite plainly, in her manner towards him, that she looked upon Miguel Cordova as something more than just her late husband's cousin; even if she did receive little in the way of encouragement—in public at least.

  It was annoying, Sally thought, how often she found herself thinking about Miguel Cordova, and she frowned now to find herself so preoccupied yet again. No one could deny that he was a brilliant artist, of course, but his manner towards her fellow students and herself was one of such arrogant impatience and barely concealed contempt that she found it very hard to understand why they did not object, as she did herself. Their acceptance of it all only added to Sally's sense of injustice.

  Michael had surprised her by proving quite amazingly knowledgeable about their host, although Sally had hesitated to enquire too closely into the source of hi
s information. He had informed her, only yesterday, that Don Miguel had, during the past few years, numbered several famous beauties among his conquests. Of course Michael had hastened to add, as if it made everything all right, he was always very discreet, and never so obvious as to create a scandal.

  The latter had made Sally smile wryly to herself when she heard it. Perhaps some of those famous beauties too were merely being taught a lesson on the danger of tempting the Spanish male. It was iTi- evitable, of course, that his dark, almost stern, looks would prove irresistible to a good many women. Even his arrogance would probably be in his favour with some.

  His reputation too would be an added attraction and he had been commissioned to paint any number of wealthy and beautiful wives and daughters. His work hung in some of the most luxurious homes in the world, and perhaps it was not surprising that he looked upon the rest of the world with arrogance and the conviction of his own importance.

  She sighed again, resignedly, and looked at the blank canvas in front of her. This was not the first time she had managed to slip off alone to sit on the rocks above the sea, and she expected her tutor's wrath to descend on her any day now. She had managed to give Michael the slip several times lately, and come out here instead of joining the rest of the class.

  Instead of lifting her spirits, however, her truancy had merely added to her low feeling, and she sighed deeply as she stared at the copper-coloured sand and the incredible blue glitter of the sea below her. Her head was bare and the sun was much too hot for even her thick, corn-coloured hair to be any sort of protection, and she knew she was squinting her eyes against it.

  There was a despondent droop about her shoulders too, as she slumped on the little canvas stool with her slim brown legs curled away under it. The brief cotton dress she wore exposed a great deal of golden tanned skin to the scorching sun and she began to wonder if she had been unwise to sit here so long without protection.

  'So, nina. You not only miss my class, you also expose yourself to too much sun!'

  Sally turned sharply at the sound of the familiar voice, and frowned. Miguel Cordova stood behind her, close behind her, bare-headed, his face wearing that stern, dark look that she had learned to know as a prelude to criticism. It dismayed her, too, to feel the way her pulses were racing wildly when she realised she was alone with him again. That irrepressible sense of excitement was running away with her common sense again and she fought against its influence determinedly.

  'I felt like being alone,' she said, hastily on the defensive, and he gave a short laugh.

  'I seem to remember that you told me that once before, nina,' he said.

  'Well, it happens to be true,' Sally insisted, hating him'for reminding her of that time. 'I like being alone sometimes, and it's such a lovely view from up here.'

  'Muy hermoso,' he agreed quietly. 'But you are foolish to sit so long in the sun without a hat.' A hand rested lightly on the crown of her head for a moment, and she started almost nervously at the touch. 'You will become ill if you do not protect your head.'

  Sally glanced up briefly but meaningly at his own black head. 'You never do,' she told him, and he smiled.

  'I am used to the sun, mi pichon,' he said softly. 'You must accustom yourself to it gradually. Do not sit out here again without some protection for your head.'

  It was the implacable way that the order was given that annoyed Sally, and she instinctively lifted her chin in defiance of it. 'I want to get brown,' she informed him. 'That's one reason for coming to Spain, after all. To go back with a good tan.'

  'But not to go down with insolacion, I think,' he retorted impatiently. 'You will please do as I say in future, Sarita, and not be so stubbornly foolish about wearing a hat. Also,' he added, before she could object, 'you are here to improve your talent as an artist. I can well imagine that you find the view from here more inspiring than sitting in on one of my teaching sessions, but it is surely rather pointless for your father to pay for something of which you have no intention of taking advantage.'

  'He'd understand, if he was here,' Sally informed him swiftly, unable to resist the dig. 'He'd realise I had to escape occasionally.'

  'Escape?' He raised a black, expressive brow at the blank canvas before her. 'Escaping seems to have been of little use to you this morning, does it?'

  Sally looked at him, her blue eyes dark with anger and reproach, her fingers tightly clenched on the brush she still held in her right hand. 'I just forgot about the session this morning,' she told him, untruthfully.

  'I see. But not for the first time, I think.'

  Sally made no answer for a moment, but fought with the almost overwhelming variety of emotions that crowded her mind, so chaotically that she could have cried out. Why, oh, why had he had to come and find her?

  'I have been here before,' she confessed at last, unwillingly, and the black eyes seemed to bore into her so that she swept down a curtain of thick lashes to hide her eyes.

  'Why?'

  'Oh—I don't know!' She got up from her stool, shaking her head so that the long hair fell about her face, hiding her expression. 'There just doesn't seem much point,' she went on recklessly. 'Not when I learn nothing.'

  Again a brow expressed more than words, and he frowned. 'So—you feel you have nothing to learn, is that it?'

  'No, of course it isn't,' Sally denied. 'It's just that —I never seem to learn very much when I do come.'

  'And you blame me for that?'

  She shook her head, seeking a way to explain, that would not be a blow to his undeniable pride. 'Oh, how do I know who's to blame?' she asked with a sigh. 'I just know that you discourage me rather than encourage me, and I haven't been able to do anything worthwhile since I came here.'

  'But to learn to do something worthwhile is surely why you are here,' he suggested quietly. 'The idea is for you to learn, muchacha, but you do not like being taught, do you? You do not take kindly to learning, and most especially from me, I think. Is that not so?'

  'No, of course it isn't,' Sally denied, glancing up at the stern, dark face, trying to make him understand. and at the same time wishing he need not stand quite so close, because she could almost feel the warmth and magnetism of him, like an irresistible force.

  His black eyes were almost incredibly brilliant, and they looked down at her as if he guessed exactly the effect he had on her, and wanted to see just how far he could push her. Hastily she shifted her gaze to the far less disturbing subject of the scene below them.

  'Then why do you constantly fight me?' he asked softly. 'Why will you not let me teach you, nina, hmm?'

  Sally kept her eyes on the glittering sea and the sweeping strip of sand that dazzled like beaten gold, her heart thudding wildly in response to the persuasive softness of his voice. 'I do try to learn,' she said, her voice betrayingly unsteady. 'I want to learn, Don Miguel, but'

  'But?' he prompted, and Sally shook her head.

  'I shouldn't have come,' she told him. 'I should never have come here at all.'

  He laughed shortly, and she knew that his pride was resenting her refusal to be persuaded as much as her words. 'It was what I told you when you arrived, if you remember,' he reminded her. 'And for all the good it has done for your work, you would probably have been better not to come.'

  The brutal frankness of his reply made her turn swiftly and eye him with as much anger as reproach. 'Thank you,' she said bitterly. 'At last I know the truth.'

  'I presumed that you wanted the truth,' he told her icily. 'It was of your own choosing, senorita.'

  'And you wouldn't hesitate to tell me, would you?' Sally asked, a catch in her voice. 'It's been very obvious from the start that you didn't like my being here.'

  'That is not true,' he told her shortly, 'and you are well aware of it, Sarita!' She was too slow to realise his intention until those long gentle fingers reached out and brushed caressingly against her cheek again, making her pulses skip wildly as she hastily looked away. 'You know it is not so, amada,'
he said softly.

  Suddenly the villa seemed an incredibly long way off and she swallowed hard on the urgent desire to flee as fast as her legs would carry her. Instead she glanced up at him from under her lashes, and saw the suspicion of laughter that glistened in his eyes.

  'Oh—oh, you—' Her tightly curling fingers snapped in two the slender handle of the paintbrush she held, and she felt the sharp, painful jab of the splintered wood in her flesh, drawing in a sharp breath at the shock of it.

  'Sarita! You have hurt your hand!' He was suddenly and unbelievably anxious, and he pulled open her curled hand with his own strong fingers. 'Splinters can be dangerous, amada—let me see.'

  The pieces of broken wood fell unheeded to the ground as he spread her hand in his, palm upwards, and showing the red and angry marks on her fingers. 'It's nothing,' Sally insisted hastily. 'Only a splinter, I can get it out myself.'

  The minute sliver of wood prickled sharply when he ran a finger over it, and she winced involuntarily. 'Ah!' It might almost have been a sound of satisfaction as he raised her hand to his mouth and placed his lips over the spot, drawing at the fragment, while Sally fought with an ever-increasing sensation of panic.

  With his head bent over her hand, he was only inches away, and she was overwhelmingly aware of the essential maleness of him. Of the warmth of his touch and the pressure of his lips on her palm, of the shadow that those almost feminine-looking lashes made on the brown face. The intimate, warm sense of touch and awareness made her head spin dizzily, and she would have reached out and touched his cheek gently with her finger tips if he had not looked up at that moment and ejected the offending splinter from his mouth before smiling at her.

  'It is gone, nina. Is that better?'

  Sally nodded, not immediately trusting herself to speak. 'Thank you, senor,' she said huskily, at last.