Dancing in the Shadows (9 page)

It had been a forlorn hope, anyway, in opposition to fact and common-sense. Perhaps there was some good in Michael's coming at that, because his presence would act as a truth serum. Had she ever truly thought that someone as remarkable in every way as Carlos would find lasting happiness with her? He had so much; she had nothing—but her innate honesty and a heart that promised to beat for him long after he'd forgotten the shape of her nose or the pitch of her laugh. She hoped he wouldn't forget too soon the girl who had entered his life by mistake, and for a short while had given it colour. She hoped she had given it colour. She hoped his memory of her lingered on the nice things . . . that it wouldn't be too terribly tarnished by anything Michael might do.

And now she came to the crux of the matter, and although she shaped the thought with extreme reluctance it was one she couldn't back away from. She was touching on the unpalatable and very real fear, the reason she hadn't wanted Michael to find her. He wouldn't be bothered that she had been very ill and that even now her leg supported her for only short distances, except in terms of how
much
it was worth. How much he could squeeze the Ruizs for, and he wouldn't be satisfied with a few weeks' free board and luxurious lodgings, either. He would be very subtle about it, of course. Wording it something like: ‘It pains me to mention this . . . Dorcas is my sister and I must put her interests first.' He would make it sound as though he was acting on her say-so; as if the driving force was her greedy streak and he was crippled with shame to have such a mercenary sister. Only his duty as a brother made it possible for him to broach anything so delicate. Ah yes! that was the keynote. The bedrock of Michael's charm was his delicacy and taste in handling such matters. If she was
unworthy
enough to voice her disapproval he would put on a hurt face and tell her he was doing it for her. Then he would shamelessly hold out his hand for his share of the pickings. A man who couldn't wait for his own grandmother to die to get his hands on her money was capable of anything.

She wanted nothing . . . nothing. She had done what she did for Feli and Rosita spontaneously, without thought of reward. She didn't want to benefit materially. She would tell Michael so at the first opportunity. She would tell him she didn't want him here and that he must go.

Enrique Ruiz was busy with the introductions, keeping up an informative
stream
of chatter as he presented Michael to each person in turn. Now that Dorcas had reached a decision of sorts, she could give her attention to the scene being played before her eyes. She saw Michael as the two mothers must see him. A tall, clean-cut, pleasantly mannered young man, with charm to spare for someone, say, past the first flush of youth. Michael's winning ways delighted Señora Roca. Rose Ruiz looked smug because a compatriot of hers was showing himself up in such a good light.

And now Michael was being presented to Isabel, and it was through Isabel's eyes that Dorcas noticed the fineness and the aesthetic purity of his features. Odd, but although she had always been aware of her brother's good, even exceptional looks, she'd never quite appreciated the medieval page-boy expression, the quality of angelic innocence beneath that crown of golden hair.

It must have been there all the time, that special look. Was that why, since early childhood, she had always lost out in arguments against him? Why, into adolescence and beyond, whenever they appealed to an independent third party, the judgement was never granted in her favour? Because anybody with a face like that couldn't be capable of anything bad.

Eventually, Isabel managed to tear herself from Michael's side to come and sit by Dorcas.
Her
cheeks were as pink as the fall of rose petals dusting a small round table; her mouth was soft in a smile.

‘What a wonderful brother you have, Dorcas. You must be very happy to have him here with you.'

Happy to have him here? What a laugh! Dorcas was still doggedly searching her mind for a lever to get Michael out. But flatly, desperately, because even before she'd broached the subject to Michael she knew a sense of underlying hopelessness. Words would not be strong enough to expel him from the luxury of a style of living that was far removed from anything that either of them had ever before experienced.

She wanted to give the conventional reply. ‘Yes, I'm happy to have Michael here.' But the lie stuck in her throat and so she hoped her smile conveyed much the same message.

Happily, Isabel seemed well satisfied. Something made Dorcas turn her head in Carlos's direction. Carlos was studying her brother. His expression was keenly assessing, but beyond that it was buttoned up and gave no clue to what opinion he had formed.

They all moved back to the dining room to be with Michael while he ate the meal that had been prepared for him. And now, through Michael, Dorcas's eyes were opened to the beauty of her surroundings. The magic of a rich man's existence.

The
silver and exquisite glassware winked in the gentle glow of candles in well-spaced candelabra. After relishing the food, and the wine that came from a connoisseur's wine cellar, and pronouncing everything perfect, Michael was offered a splendid dish of fruit. Bananas curved to a pineapple shading from yellow to deep orange, in a nest of grapes, nectarines and peaches. Michael made his inspection and asked for a slice of the pineapple which he said looked absolutely delicious. Having no initial shyness to overcome and being of an adaptable disposition, her brother was lapping it all up.

CHAPTER FIVE

There wasn't a moment to lose. If she was to get Michael out she must act quickly, before he grew too accustomed to the elegance and perfection within these lovely walls.

Before going to her room she made a point of asking one of the maids which room Michael had been given. She didn't undress. She sat out on the balcony. The air was cooling on her cheeks. Flower beds and shrubbery alike took on monstrous, leaping shapes in the moonlight. Lights from the villa plunged into the shadowy recesses of the night. She sat, not in peace and tranquillity, but in agitation, nerving herself for the ordeal facing her.

She waited until every light in the villa had been turned out, and still she didn't move, but allowed what she considered to be sufficient time for everybody to have got off to sleep. Michael also, very probably. If so, she would just have to wake him up for the confrontation. Perhaps it would have been kinder in that respect to wait until morning, but that would be just another example of putting off. It now seemed silly and melodramatic to have waited until everybody was asleep. Although it would have been a natural thing to do, she hadn't wanted the fuss of accompanying her brother to his room when
he
retired. This way had seemed better, although now she suspected she had been giving way to delaying tactics. If she waited until morning, her resolution would have faltered still further.

She stole along the gallery, her heels making the faintest whisper as she moved past closed doors. As she stopped at the right door she took a deep breath before closing her fingers round the knob. She hoped Michael hadn't locked his door. She didn't want to knock and run the risk of attracting unwanted attention. It yielded and she was inside.

Her brother had left the shutters open and so the room wasn't in total darkness. Cautiously negotiating the pieces of furniture, she crossed to the bed. Her fingers stroked its flatness and her forehead was just beginning to pleat at the puzzle of it when a voice, male, but definitely not Michael's voice, said from the depth of an armchair: ‘Would you mind telling me what you are doing in my room?'

Dorcas spun round to face—of all people—Carlos. Her mouth flew open in shock; she couldn't speak until she'd swallowed rapidly for several seconds. Even then all she managed was a croak.

‘Would you believe looking for my brother?'

She looked small and innocent and no one could have disbelieved.

Carlos chose to raise a doubting eyebrow. ‘Really! Do you think I've got him hidden in
the
wardrobe?'

‘Don't be ridiculous!' She bit hard on the inside of her cheek. ‘It's perfectly obvious I've mistaken the room. I am looking for my brother.'

‘And if he catches you here, he'll be looking for me. Pistols at dawn.'

Her chin lifted. She could feel her cheeks growing blotchy, and sighed on the relief that it was too dark for him to see this.

He conceded: ‘I suppose anyone who can wander into the wrong garden can also blunder into the wrong bedroom.'

The gentle quality of his teasing relaxed her. ‘I'm glad it's your bedroom.'

‘Are you?' He sounded amused.

‘Yes.' Her nod was emphatic. ‘I don't have to explain to you what I wanted to see Michael about.'

‘A pity. I rather hoped you would. It must be something pretty important that it won't keep until morning.'

‘I thought it was.'

‘But not any more?'

‘I can't tell you.' Her fingers twisted nervously. ‘Please don't probe because at this hour one is usually at a low ebb. I might just be tempted to tell. And you are the last person I should confide in.'

‘Oh?' His tone was faintly piqued.

‘You sound . . . funny. You're not cross with me, are you?'

‘Of
course not! It's your privilege to choose whether to confide or not,' he said crossly. Then he laughed. ‘M'm, yes. I see what you mean. But look, it's my low ebb hour too, and my temptations are every bit as great as yours even though they do follow a different course. I think you'd better go back to your room.'

‘I suppose I'd better,' she said.

She didn't feel in a compromising situation. She felt so safe. She looked up at him with her heart in her eyes, willing him not to send her away. She had never been in love before. She didn't know what to do with it; she didn't know whether to ignore it, or own to it.

If she were honest with herself, she wanted to own to it; she wanted to tell him, as simply as she could, how she felt. But she didn't. She knew it would be silly to let words of love come between them. The love was only on her side. His feelings towards her were physical. By owning her love she would close a door between them. Under that arrogant exterior was a man of deep and honourable convictions. If he was aware of the tender condition of her heart, in future he would refrain from teasing her and sparring with her. Half a loaf was better than none.

Sighing, she bid him a reluctant goodnight, and turned to go to her room.

It wasn't until she was in bed, her knees drawn up to her chin in her favourite thinking position, that it occurred to her that he had
been
fully dressed. She wondered what problem had kept him out of his bed.

Dorcas resolved not to be put off, but to tackle Michael first thing in the morning. Now, more than ever, he must not be allowed to indulge his eye for an easy pick-up. She meant money, but it came to her that the household was rich in pretty maids. Besides her own Teresa, there were girls who cleaned the rooms and served at the table. Although they seemed happy in their work, because of the isolation of the villa they must feel a bit cut off from life. She didn't want Michael to turn a head, and leave a broken heart.

For all her good intentions, that day didn't offer one single moment for the confrontation she dreaded more and more as the minutes ticked off. In deploring the predicament she was in, she didn't regret the circumstances that had led up to it. Given her time again, she wouldn't alter a thing. And yet, a lingering part of her mind strayed back to her happy-go-lucky outlook in the carefree days before Carlos entered her life.

Next day the opportunity she looked for presented itself. She spotted Michael in a quiet corner of the terrace keeping company with nothing more off-putting than a large drink. Yet off-put she was. She walked towards him with a sinking heart.

He observed her from a distance and, as always when she was conscious of being
watched,
her limp—which some days passed unnoticed—was more pronounced.

‘Dorcas the Porkas,' he said. ‘I used to call you that when you were a porky infant. Do you remember?'

She pulled forward a chair and sat down. ‘I remember.' And hated it, she thought.

‘And now you're nothing but skin and bones. And you've got a poorly leg as well. Poor pet. Does it hurt?'

‘No.' It didn't—well, not much. And anyway she wouldn't tell him if it did. Except that physical pain might explain the shadows in her eyes. And under them.

Unexpectedly, Michael reached out and touched the smudged crescents. ‘You don't look too cracky to me. This business has knocked you out more than you think.' Although his glance was not unkindly, it incorporated a shrewd and cunning look that Dorcas shrank back from. Long experience of the workings of her brother's mind clued her what to expect next. Neither did she trust his deceptively soft and friendly mood. ‘I had a long talk with Papa Ruiz yesterday. The old boy thinks highly of you.' Even the expected can be shattering, and Dorcas heard out Michael's verdict with sinking dread. ‘If you play your cards right you could be on a good thing.'

‘What a horrible idea!' she said, letting her outrage rip. ‘I don't want to be on a good
thing.
I feel guilty enough as it is, being kept and not doing a hand's stir in return.'

Her battling reaction came up against a wall of teasing indulgence that Michael erected without effort.

Benignly he said: ‘Never thought to see the day my sister would admit to being a kept woman. Hey!' As Dorcas tensed—‘That was supposed to be a joke. You're not well enough to work.'

‘Don't you think I know that,' she snapped back, burning on Michael's envious cool. ‘What do you think keeps me here?'