gold-tipped lashes, her mouth full and mobile. She was dressed in the kind of casual attire affected by the youth of the day—cotton denim jeans that clung to her hips and tapered at the ankle, thonged sandals on her bare feet. A canvas holdall was draped over her shoulder drawing attention to the open neck of her shirt where the smooth column of her throat was clearly visible. Without a doubt, he decided, she was not unaccustomed to the ready admiration of the opposite sex. It was there in the slightly slanting eyes, in her awareness, in the confidence she exuded—and Rafael withdrew behind a façade of coldness that was totally alien to him.
“Excuse me,” she said again, and her voice was warm and husky and unmistakably English. “But you’re not by any chance—Señor Cueras?”
Rafael stiffened. “I am Rafael Cueras,” he agreed politely.
“Oh, I see. Rafael!“ The girl looked disappointed. “I’m sorry. It was a Señor Juan Cueras I was looking for.”
Rafael drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her. “Juan Cueras is my brother, señorita. Do you speak to me on behalf of Miss Lord?”
“On behalf of—” The girl broke off. “Oh, no, señor. I don’t speak on behalf of anybody. I am Miranda Lord!”
To say Rafael was surprised would be a masterpiece of understatement. He was astounded, flabbergasted! He stared at the girl as though she had just announced her intention to stick a knife in his ribs. He couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t. That this female—this girl—was the expected aunt from England! It wasn’t possible. Aunts in his country were middle-aged to elderly women attired in black, not slips of creatures little more than children themselves.
Miranda Lord was smiling at his amazement. “Is something wrong?” she enquired in an amused voice. “Am I not what you were expecting?”
That she should so precisely put her finger on what was wrong irritated him. He disliked the way she was looking at him, the way her eyes mocked his confusion. “I—no, señorita,” he retorted curtly. “You are perhaps—younger, that is all.”
She nodded. “Well, my sister was twelve years older,” she conceded, a cloud of remembered grief darkening her eyes for a moment. Then she shook her head impatiently. “I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you.”
The amusement was back again and Rafael cast a swift look around them. He realised they could not go on standing here when at any moment another aircraft would be landing and other passengers would be crowding this lounge, but he was curiously loath to take responsibility for her. Still, it had to be done.
“You will please to come with me, señorita,” he directed, his English worsening as his irritation irrationally increased. “You have suitcases?”
Miranda looked across the room. “Only one. That’s it over there. I’ll get it.”
“I will get it, señorita.”
Rafael strode away and picked up the square black case, noting its battered edges with a tightening of his lips. It was obvious that the situation was as Juan had suggested. This girl had no money, and was certainly not the kind of guardian he would have chosen for a child of eight years. For the first time he felt a small sympathy towards his brother’s cause. Perhaps Juan was right after all.
He came back to the girl, and she said: “You don’t have to keep calling me señorita. My name is Miranda. I’m used to that.”
Rafael made no reply to this but merely indicated that she should accompany him across the well-lit entrance hall and out into the cooling warmth of the late afternoon.
“I expect you’ve been waiting since yesterday, haven’t you?” Miranda suggested, as they walked to where Rafael had left the car. “I’m sorry. The plane developed a fault. It was quite nerve-racking really.”
But she didn’t appear to be suffering any ill-effects, thought Rafael with unusual cynicism, and despised himself for feeling that way.
“Aren’t those flowers beautiful!” she was exclaiming now, spreading her hands and giving a little shake of her shoulders. “I can hardly believe it, you know. That I’m here—in Mexico. I’ve done very little travelling, I’m afraid.”
Rafael’s nostrils flared. “I should have thought that the reasons behind this journey were less than stimulating, señorita.”
She glanced sideways at him, and her eyes were coolly appraising. Tall as he was, she did not have to look up far into his face and it was rather disconcerting to him. Most of the people he associated with, men as well as his mother and sisters, were much smaller than he was.
Now she said quietly: “My sister and her husband went missing more than four months ago. I’ve had to adjust myself to the fact that they’re never coming back.”
Rafael felt reproved and didn’t care for the experience. He was guiltily aware that he was making a very poor impression, but he said nothing and she looked away again, making some further comment about the banks of blossom that fronted the airport buildings.
The grey Mustang gleamed metal-like on the stark concrete apron of the parking area. Miranda silently admired its sleek elegance and then asked: “Yours?”
Rafael shook his head. “My brother’s, señorita.“ He swung open the passenger door. “Won’t you please get in?”
With a shrug she curved herself into the seat and he stowed her case in the boot before joining her. It was some time since he had driven any woman other than a member of his own family, and he could smell the faint aroma of some perfume she was wearing and feel the warmth from her skin close beside his.
They swung out of the parking area and he was relieved to have the traffic to rivet his attention. He was conscious of her looking about her with interest and in an effort to behave naturally he pointed out the twin mountain peaks which have become world-famous since the Spanish conqueror Cortes viewed the Aztec city from the tableland between them. They did not drive into Mexico City, however, but swung away south towards Puebla. If she was disappointed that she was not to have some time in the capital Rafael couldn’t help it. If she wished to go sightseeing when the business which had brought her to Mexico was over, that was her affair.
All the same, he realised belatedly he had not offered her a meal before embarking on this journey, and sooner or later he would have to bring up the question of the child. He was not looking forward to that.
“How far is it to Guadalima?” she asked suddenly, as clouds began to obscure the slanting rays of the setting sun.
“Some distance yet, señorita.“ Rafael paused. “I did not think of it at the airport, but perhaps you are hungry?”
Miranda shook her head. “Not particularly. We had a meal on the plane.” She looked down at her nails. “Tell me—I understood your brother was to meet me—is—is he ill or something?”
Rafael’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “No. No, not ill, señorita.”
“But there must have been some reason, mustn’t there?” she insisted, her eyes challenging his. “After all, you didn’t want to come, did you?”
Rafael was taken aback. “Why do you say that.”
“It’s
