the peculiar way he spoke the word. “It means – well-used, a cliché.”
“Ah, clise, I understand, senhorita.“ His eyes darkened. “But I was not making – how did you say it – an approach? I was serio!”
Morgana wished the orchestra would come to the end of its medley of popular tunes and allow her to escape back to the Dennisons. Her moment of independence was getting out of hand, and she had no desire to incite an argument with anyone so volatile as Ricardo Salvador.
To her relief, the music came to its finale, and everyone applauded politely and began to make their way back to their friends. When Morgana would have released herself from Ricardo, he caught her arm in a firm grip and propelled her smoothly across the floor to where his brother and his uncle were waiting together with several other people.
“You must let me go back to my friends,” Morgana was protesting as they reached the others, but Ricardo merely smiled a rather cruel smile, and said:
“Presently, senhorita, presently.”
Morgana heaved a sigh and resigned herself to the knowledge that so long as they were here, in the ballroom, nothing unforeseen was likely to happen to her. Even so, she was apprehensive, and she wondered what Ricardo Salvador's friends and relations would make of all this.
Luis Salvador looked penetratingly at his brother as they reached the group, and Morgana sensed his hostility. He was at once like and yet unlike Ricardo in appearance. They were both tall, and lean, and naturally dark-skinned, but there the resemblance ended. Ricardo's features were evenly formed and without doubt he was a handsome creature, whereas Luis's face was thinner, his eyes more deeply set, and there were harsh lines beside his nose and mouth. Both had dark hair, Ricardo's sleekly combed against his well-shaped head, while Luis's hair fell forward across his right temple and sometimes he swept it back with an impatient hand. Ricardo returned his brother's stare challengingly, and then said: “You have been watching us, Luis. Perhaps you would like to dance with the senhorita yourself?”
Luis Salvador's eyes narrowed angrily. “We will settle this later, Ricardo,” he said, in remarkably controlled tones.
Vittorio Salvador, the man Michael had said was their uncle, stepped forward. He was a much older man, and his long moustache and beard were liberally tinged with grey. But his eyes were startlingly alert, and they became gentle as they rested on Morgana.
“You must forgive Ricardo,” he said, lifting his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “He is still a boy in some ways, and he delights in – annoying – his brother. Luis!” He turned to the other man. “Perhaps you would escort the senhorita back to her friends?”
“Por certo,” responded Luis, politely, and indicated that Morgana should lead the way.
Morgana glanced once at Ricardo and half-smiled, and he smiled in return. “We shall meet again, senhorita, be assured,” he said.
Morgana restrained any retort she might have made, and looked about her uncertainly, trying to get her bearings. In the crowds around the ballroom it was difficult to know exactly where she was. Luis Salvador saw her indecision, and placed a hand on her bare elbow to guide her. Morgana was overwhelmingly conscious of that contact, and once as they came up against a barrier of people, she turned and looked up at his face. His features were taut, and a muscle jerked in his cheek, and she frowned. He was as aware of her as she was of him, she thought disturbingly. They were close to the buffet area now, and she stopped suddenly and said: “Why didn't you ask me to dance, senhor?”
His eyes met hers. “I do not dance, senhorita,” he replied emotionlessly.
Morgana frowned. “You don't – or you don't want to?”
The muscles of his jaw tightened. “What would you have me say, senhorita?”
Morgana shook her head slowly. “The truth, perhaps. If – if I asked you to dance, would you dance with me?”
As she waited for his reply she wondered what it was that was driving her to say these things. Perhaps it was the unusual amount of wine she had consumed, she didn't know, but she was more curious about this man than about any other man she had ever met. Now, he studied her expression intently, and she moved a little restlessly under that scrutiny.
“Senhorita, join your friends. Do not involve yourself with people and things that you do not understand.”
Morgana was impatient. “You are not like your brother, are you, senhor?”
His nostrils flared slightly. “If you say not, senhorita.”
Morgana chewed her lower lip. “He, at least, is polite.”
“I, too, am polite, senhorita. If I have appeared otherwise, then I sincerely apologise.”
Morgana was annoyed. “Perhaps that was the wrong word to use, senhor. You are polite, too polite, perhaps.”
Luis Salvador lifted his shoulders. “I was under the impression that you were a – lady, senhorita.”
Morgana trembled a little. “You did want to dance with me, I know you did!” she averred, her cheeks flushed.
“You are mistaken, senhorita, but if it means so much to you …”
His fingers slid down her arm to her wrist, gripping it cruelly, and he turned and thrust his way through the throng to the edge of the dance floor pulling her after him. It was no use protesting. His strength was evident in the iron-like hold he had upon her wrist, and she thought he was hurting her deliberately. When they reached the dance floor, he did not give her time to object, but pulled her closely into his arms, so that she was intensely aware of him with every fibre of her being. The music was slower now, and the floor more closely filled, and it was unlikely that they would be observed from the side. Even so, Morgana felt a sense of outrage that he should dare to treat her in this manner. They moved slowly, and as he was taller than she was, she had to tilt back her head to look at him.
“I hope you realise you have humiliated me,” she said, hotly, trying to maintain her anger in the face of more disturbing emotions.
He drew back slightly and looked down at her, his dark lashes veiling the tawny eyes. “Why?” he queried. “This is what you wanted, was it not, senhorita?”
Morgana compressed her lips. “You are impossible!” she exclaimed, uncomfortably.
“Why? Because I accepted the challenge you so carelessly offered?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Forgive me! There are times when my reactions appal even myself.” His face was withdrawn.
Morgana puzzled over this. Then she lifted her shoulders philosophically. “I suppose I am as much to blame,” she admitted, honestly. “But I don't understand you.”
Luis's eyes grew distant. “Do not try, senhorita. It is better that you forget this incident. My brother was – using you, that is all. And now, you will go back to your friends?”
Morgana stared at him impatiently. It was impossible to penetrate that dispassionate façade, and it was devastating to realise just how badly she wanted to do just that. Her youth, her beauty, the yielding quality of her body against his seemed to mean nothing to this man, and all she had
