Under the Spanish Stars (24 page)

‘You need something to drink.' Salvador walked over to where the small table held water jugs and glasses. Filling one, he walked back and handed it to Katarina, who took it with thanks. Guilt tugged at her for her not being truthful with her best friend.

‘You've been working too hard,' he said.

‘I'll be fine. It's just a seasonal bug, that's all.' She took another sip and forced a smile.

‘As long as you promise to rest afterwards.' He squeezed her arm and he sauntered over to talk to Elena. Charlotte's chest felt hollow. She hated keeping things from him.

Moving over to the table she put down the empty glass.

Raul sidled up, his dark eyes brooding. ‘What did you say to Salvador?'

‘Nothing.'

‘It didn't look like nothing.'

She subtly stepped away, annoyed with the insinuation that she was lying. ‘He is none the wiser, if that's what you're worried about.'

‘Good. We can't risk anything going wrong.' Raul's eyes searched hers, his expression softening.

She kept her voice low and glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. ‘Raul, I—'

Federico rushed past them as the curtain opened. ‘Go!'

‘You what?' Raul whispered hoarsely.

‘Get out there! Do it!' Federico flicked his hand towards the stage and
Raul gave her a look that said they'd continue this conversation later.

Raul strode onto the stage with Salvador following and Elena trailing behind. Thankful she and Raul had decided to do the
palo
with the codes first, she breathed in through her nose, held her breath and exhaled slowly. She repeated this a few more times while Raul set the tempo and key for the
tientos
, his fingers magically working the guitar. Salvador started in with the
estribillos
, his deep voice rising to high notes, full of lament that appeared to belong to a man forty years his senior.

Katarina puffed out her cheeks and balled her hands on hips then stepped onto the stage—her life, and countless others, about to change forever.

She made the
llamada
and Raul moved into double-time while she began the footwork, dancing in a way that reflected the solemnity of the
tientos
. She and Raul had decided this was the perfect
palo
to deliver messages as it represented the serious state of the world and people dealing with losses in life, including love and longing for freedom.

Salvador sang the
letra
and after the first line he took a
respira
, a break, while Katarina concentrated on turning, arching her back, and slowly waving her arms. She glimpsed Federico standing on the side of the stage, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed.

Used to eyes following her every move on stage, she worked her body hard, but something felt different. Felt off. Pushing down the paranoia she continued dancing until the sight of the man with the long, dark curly hair sitting in the front row made her falter.

His eyes.

Those small, dark, untrusting eyes stared at her with an intensity that unnerved her. Whenever Katarina danced her senses heightened, her emotions exploded and her ability to read people increased.

This man scared her.

Of course she could just be paranoid and he could be from the Maquis.

Or he could one of Franco's cronies.

She chastised herself for being so fearful—she'd come too far to back out. In honour of her father, in honour of the thousands of innocent souls brutally murdered in the name of Franco, she held her head high and wove her left hand towards the heavens.

She could not mess this up.

Charlotte had endured a restless night, one filled with worry about Abuela and sadness for the strange parting she'd had with Mateo. Her mother had texted earlier saying Abuela had stabilised and that eased Charlotte's mind—a little. A sense of urgency still drove her to getting to the bottom of Abuela's story as soon as possible.

Pushing out a sigh, her thoughts returned to Mateo. She had no idea if he would show up and go through the house with her but if he didn't, well, she'd be okay with it.
What a load of shit!
Absolutely no way would she be all right with Mateo not appearing. He had, after all, become a partner in this mission for Abuela.

Someone banged heavily on her hotel room door.

‘Just a minute!' she yelled, throwing the sheets back and jumping out of bed. Quickly stripping off her nightgown and throwing on jeans and a shirt, she padded over to the door and peered through the peephole. The second she saw his dark eyes under a veranda of black lashes, her heart melted.

‘
Buenos días
.' His voice was muffled by the door.

‘
Buenos días
,' she replied, clutching her hands in front of her chest.

‘Could you let me in,
por favor
?'

‘Yes, yes, of course.' Unlatching the chain and twisting the lock, she held the door open as Mateo walked in, hands in pockets. When he turned to face her, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

‘Have you slept at all?' she asked, concern flooding through her. His actions last night hadn't left her angry; she understood that unbottling years-old emotions could cause varied reactions and escaping into the night just happened to be Mateo's.

‘I am sorry.' His voice was low, heavy with sadness.

‘You don't need to be. You had a lot going on.' She glanced at his hand, wanting to place hers in his and give it a reassuring squeeze.

‘I needed the space. I needed …' Mateo frowned, as if trying to line up his thoughts. Finally focussing on her, he said, ‘It was wrong of me to leave when you were caring and understanding.'

‘Mateo …' She stepped forward and reached for his hand, no longer afraid.

‘There is something else you need to know.'

‘Okay.' She moved back so she could see his face fully.

‘I have not been with any women since Alicia. I have not been interested. Then I met you.' His lips slowly turned into a smile that gave her goosebumps. ‘I do not know what it is, Charlotte Kavanagh, but your presence makes me very happy.'

She stared up at his dark eyes.

‘Really?' Her voice raised an octave.

‘You find this hard to believe?' Mateo knitted his eyebrows.

‘Why wouldn't I? Look at you.' She waved her hand over his body in the manner of a game show hostess. ‘You're handsome, charming, play guitar with incredible zeal … what female would not want to be with you?'

Mateo coughed and a red rash raced up his neck and across his face. ‘I do not have a shortage of women who would like to date me, this is true, and I have tried dating, but no one has made me feel like you do.'

‘I …' What? What should she say? ‘Uh … thank you?'

What the hell?
A gorgeous man says she's the first woman to make him gaga in years and she says,
Thank you? Jesus Christ, Kavanagh!

Mateo scratched his head and looked away. A horrible, sinking feeling grew in her stomach.

‘Mateo …'

‘I must have misread—'

‘You haven't misread anything.' She placed her hands on either side of his face and stood on tiptoes, pressing her lips against his. His body relaxed under her touch and he pulled her against him, his warm, muscular frame making her knees weak, her heart pound. Pushing her gently against the wall, Mateo nuzzled her neck and she savoured each hot, blissful kiss. He gently unbuttoned her shirt, slowly running his fingers
over her collarbone. Trailing his hand down her body, he reached behind and undid her bra strap at the back with ease. As he slid it off she let out a low moan.

They should stop.

This was pointless.

She was probably going all the way back to Australia in the next day or two.

‘Mateo …' She breathed heavily.

‘
¿Sí?
'

‘I …' Words escaped her as she slid her hand under his shirt, her fingers dancing across his smooth, warm skin, revelling in every curve.

Mateo wedged his fingers between her belly and the top button of her jeans. With one deft movement it came undone, just like her willpower.

* * *

Charlotte stood on the doorstep of the Sanchez property, key clutched in her sweaty hand. Staring at the stone step, she wondered how many times her ancestors—great-uncles, great-grandmother, great-grandfather and Abuela—had crossed this threshold. What emotions had echoed down these halls? Had it only been anger? Surely there must have been love. At least between father and daughter. What about her great-grandmother? Did she ever show love for Abuela?

Resting her hand flat against the faded red paint on the door, Charlotte tried to imagine how the conversation unfolded when Abuela had revealed her love for flamenco. Had any of her brothers tried to support her? Or were they too afraid of their mother? What would have happened had Abuela's father been alive? Why did Abuela's mother—biological or not—think it was okay to kick out a family member then leave the country with no chance of being found? What kind of family did that?

My family.

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't possibly imagine the social and political pressures people had to endure, but throwing out a daughter? That was wrong on so many levels. Even though Charlotte's father could be overbearing and demanding, she doubted he would kick her out of the family. For that, she was grateful, even if it made family gatherings uncomfortable at times.

‘Are you ready?' Mateo's warm breath grazed her neck and instantly
gave her flashes of his naked body against hers. As ground-shakingly fabulous as their lovemaking had been, she had to wipe that from her mind for the time being. The solemnity of entering her ancestral home outweighed everything else—for now, at least. Although with Mateo hovering so close, with his freshly showered body and tantalisingly deep voice, she found it hard to concentrate.

‘Charlotte?'

She bit her lip and studied the windows covered with moth-eaten curtains.

‘Charlotte?'

‘Sorry. What did you say?'

He rested a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Are you ready?'

‘Not really.' The sun shone on the key as she willed her mind to get over itself and just open the damned door.

Mateo pecked her on the cheek, saying, ‘
Solo hazlo
.'

Charlotte raised her eyebrows.

‘Just do it.' Mateo gave an encouraging nod and she inserted the thick key into the lock. The progress halted and she jiggled the key around, but to no avail.

‘Please, allow me.' Mateo stepped forward and proceeded to wiggle and twist the key, but it didn't budge. Cursing in Spanish he continued for a few frustrating minutes before finally throwing his arms up in the air. ‘It is a piece of the shit.'

‘Give me another go.' She used her hip to gently nudge him out of the way and gave him a grin. ‘Perhaps it just needs some lovin'.'

She twisted and jiggled the key and worked up a sweat. ‘Bloody thing.'

Taking off her hot pink shoe, she held it in her hand and eyed off the key sticking out. With one eye closed she lined up the heel with the stubborn lock.
Whack!
The key slid in and something hard plopped onto the floor on the other side of the door. A few more twists and the lock clicked open.

She turned and looked at a super-impressed Mateo. She resisted blowing on her knuckles and rubbing them on her chest. Placing her hand on the thick door she used her strength to push it open and stepped into the foyer. A tiny cylinder of wadded up newspaper lay on the floor, directly under the lock.

Picking it up, the paper fell to pieces and landed on the dusty floor.
‘Why would they shove this in the lock?'

Mateo shrugged.

Using the toe of her shoe to dislodge some of the dust, she bent over to wipe away a few layers and expose the parquetry flooring.

‘Wow.' Charlotte's gaze moved around the foyer, taking in the dark red carpet that snaked up the wide staircase. A lone vase sat on the hall table, withered stems resting crookedly against the ceramic.

‘I'm not sure where to start,' Charlotte whispered, not wanting her voice to echo in the vast, deserted expanse. She made her way into a dark room where the air smelt of old books and mould. A faint light shone through threadbare curtains and she gently prised them apart, allowing the sun to fight through the grimy windows as dislodged dust particles floated through the air. A couple of high-backed reading chairs and a writing desk were in front of the windows and, behind her, bookcases lined the wall, their shelves crammed with leather-bound tomes.

Charlotte turned her attention back to the table between the chairs where an open book lay, its yellow pages tattered by time. Carefully picking it up, she studied the fragile spine but the gold lettering had faded. She lifted the book above her head, peering at the title.

‘
Odes
by Federico García Lorca.' Putting the book down, she said, ‘Hey, isn't his poetry sometimes used as lyrics for flamenco?'

‘I am impressed you know this.'

‘How can I not? His image is everywhere in Granada. They've even named the airport after him.'

‘You are very observant.' Mateo moved alongside her, then gently turned the pages of the book as it lay on the table.

‘It's interesting they have one of Lorca's books. I thought the family … my family …' She still couldn't get used to this idea, ‘… had an aversion to flamenco.' Charlotte made her way over to browse the bookshelves.

‘It is strange, yes, but not many of the things are adding up with the story of the Sanchez family.'

‘True.' She blew the dust off the spines of the books. Particles tickled her nose and she sneezed before saying, ‘I'd like to know why there was an open book on the table. It looks like they left in a hurry but they took time to get papers to the Blanco Alves family and set up a trust account. It just doesn't make sense.'