I don’t want Ricardo to show me the—the estancia. I want you——’
‘Alexandra!’ His use of her name cut her off in full spate. ‘The sooner you realise your every wish is not my command, the better. All right, so I allowed you to come here as you wanted, but so long as you are living under my roof, there are certain things you will have to learn, and the first is that I cannot devote all my time to your entertainment!’
There was silence for a moment after that while they viewed one another with wary speculation. Then Alexandra spoke, but it was so quietly that he could barely hear the words.
‘You want me to hate it here, don’t you?’ she accused him, in low choking tones. ‘You want me to find it so awful that I’ll pack my bags and go away again, don’t you? Then you won’t have to be bothered with me any longer!’
‘Alexandra!’ With a driven kind of anguish, he crossed the room between them with long easy strides, and grasping her by the shoulders, he shook her until her head felt too heavy for the slender column of her throat. ‘Stop it!’ he ordered savagely. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Of course I want you here. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have allowed you to come, whatever you said.’
‘Is that true?’ The long silky lashes swept upward, and the smouldering torment of his gaze was achingly reassuring. ‘Oh, Jason,’ she whispered, lifting her hand to his face and touching his cheek. ‘Jason, you do care about me, don’t you?’
‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’ he muttered gruffly, but he held himself away from her, and almost instinctively she moved nearer to him.
Immediately she was aware of the tautness of his body, of the moist male smell of him that no written word had ever warned her about. She could feel the hard muscles of his legs where hers were touching him, and longed, with an incomprehensible yearning, for something she hardly understood; for some contact between them that was not compounded of sympathy and comfort.
‘Jason …’
His name on her lips was a plea for understanding, but when he turned his head and parted his lips against her palm, she fairly snatched her hand away and pressed it tightly to her. Her startled eyes were mesmerised by the probing force of his, her whole body tingling with emotions she was not equipped to handle. She felt her breasts taut against the thinness of her vest, shameless in their eagerness, her head was swimming, and her legs, weak and trembling, scarcely had the strength to support her. Then she glimpsed the dawning cynicism in his gaze, the mocking curve of his mouth—and guessed his intention had been to achieve just this result. With a shudder of reaction, she pulled herself away from him, and his hands fell loosely to his sides.
‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was low and angry, ‘you are just a child, aren’t you, Alexandra? So don’t try to play the femme fatale. It doesn’t satisfy.’
‘I—I suppose you think I’m afraid of you!’ she burst out jerkily, her arms folding about herself, as if for protection, and he nodded.
‘Aren’t you?’ he demanded, and then, as if his patience had spent itself, he brushed past her and left the room.
THE mare was a solid little creature, with the gentlest eyes Alexandra had ever seen. Her colouring was not distinctive, a kind of rusty grey with spots of white splashed over her hindquarters, but compared to the horse they had had at the convent, she was a veritable thoroughbred. Alexandra was glad now she had spent so much time with the old shire horse at Sainte Sœur, grooming him and riding him, most times with only a blanket for a saddle.
Not that Ricardo had been convinced of her ability. He had had her ride the mare round and round the paddock until he assured himself that she was able to handle the animal, and her spine, still tender from the previous day’s journey, ached from the unaccustomed exercise.
It was the morning after her arrival at San Gabriel, and Alexandra had awakened with a distinct feeling of discouragement. It was unusual for her, she was normally of an optimistic disposition, but she had lain for a few minutes recalling the events of the previous evening with depressing clarity.
After her confrontation with Jason she had felt little like eating supper, but a hasty bath, after Miss Holland had vacated the bathroom, and a change of clothes, had lightened her mood. It was too soon to jump to any conclusions, she had told herself firmly, flicking the skirt of an embroidered caftan down over her hips. Just because she and Jason had had their first row it did not mean that he was regretting bringing her here. They had had a difference of opinion, that was all—but deep inside her she had known it was more than that. At the first sign of his responding to the curious emotions he aroused inside her, she had bolted like a scared rabbit, and she was left with the disturbing evidence of her own immaturity.
Rummaging through her case—which had been brought by the same dark-skinned man who had provided Miss Holland’s tray of tea—she had brought out the tattered copy of Desert Rhapsody, from which she had gleaned much of her knowledge of the man-woman relationship. It was most explicit in its descriptions of the torrid affair between a fragile English girl and a hawk-eyed Arab sheik, but although the girl shrank from the Arab’s passions, the book never actually explained why. Indeed, the passions themselves were described in such a way that Alexandra scarcely understood what was going on. She only knew her imagination ran riot when Tarik ‘tore the shimmering gauze from her slender body, and threw himself upon her’, and there was an odd sensation in her lower limbs when she contemplated that intimate scene. It was strange, because the girl always gave in to the man, despite constant assertions that she hated him. Yet, as soon as he touched her, ‘she was aflame’. Alexandra sighed and put the book away, and went down to supper with a rather thoughtful expression in her shadowed eyes.
They ate in what she assumed to be the dining room. It was a bare room, with a long low dresser set with plates, and an equally long table, covered by a linen cloth. Darkness had fallen, and the shutters had been drawn against the night insects, but their wings were still audible. They fought to reach the lamps that were standing at either end of the dresser, golden globes, that reminded Alexandra of the old oil lamps they used to use in the cellar at the convent. The lighting in the house was electric, however, and she had been surprised at this modern innovation in what was essentially a traditional dwelling.
As well as taking part in the serving of the meal, Estelita also ate with them, along with Ricardo Goya, and Pepe, the manservant who had brought their cases. Meeting Ricardo for the first time, Alexandra was rather intimidated by his enormous frame and grizzled dark hair, an extension of which grew down his cheeks and curled beneath his strong nose in exuberant mostachos. But his hearty laughter rang often in the high-ceilinged room, and his teasing baiting of Estelita made Alexandra his friend for life.
Pepe was a different proposition. A rather morose Jason had introduced the thin young man as Estelita’s brother, and watching them together, Alexandra could see the resemblance. Both were very dark-skinned, although their features were predominantly Spanish, but Pepe’s features were not quite so refined as his sister’s. She was the older, too, possibly twenty-nine or thirty, Alexandra estimated, while Pepe was hardly more than her own age. He spoke little throughout the meal, and it was left to Estelita to question Jason about his journey, and Ricardo to make jokes at the housekeeper’s expense.
All in all supper had not been a comfortable meal. Miss Holland had not joined them, after all, and Alexandra was very conscious of her own alienation among these people. She spent her time studying the relationships
