by Donna Vitek
On the table before Juliet sat a modern sculpture. A circle of plaster with a hole in the center, it seemed to be a fairly good representation of an upright doughnut and after she lost interest in trying to find a deeper meaning in it, she began to people-watch.
An hour and a half later, she was becoming very bored. All these people seemed the same and from the snatches of conversation she had heard made by the guests who were English or American, they all seemed to have a very high regard for their intelligence, a sort of superiority complex that suggested that they thought they were a step above the common man. During the time she had sat on the sofa, only one person had spoken to her, an Englishwoman all in black. "Do you sculpt or paint?" she had asked. When Juliet had said that she did neither, the woman had responded with an "Oh, really!" that sounded as if she had never met such an untalented creature. Then she had quickly departed. Not that Juliet much cared. All in all, this gathering reminded her of a snobbish college clique and she could certainly understand why Raul didn't adore these parties. She herself would rather have been with Rosita, who was real and had common sense to complement an innate intelligence.
Unfortunately, Rosita wasn't at the party and since Raul was still talking to the moustachioed man, Juliet settled more comfortably on the sofa, only to become the unwilling witness to an argument. The Englishwoman in the black caftan, her graying brown hair bunched in a topknot on her crown was sitting on the sofa opposite Juliet. And she was visibly bristling, her dangling copper earrings dancing as she shook her head at the man seated beside her.
"Really, Devery, you're becoming more and more like those bloody American critics who go into a swoon every time a realist comes along," she was saying crossly. "What is so bloody fabulous about this Diego chap? Simply because he paints old decrepit sheep sheds and baskets of olives sitting on stone steps doesn't mean he's God's latest gift to the art world."
"Perhaps you don't really understand realistic painting, Margaret," Devery countered blandly, his own accent distinctly British. "There was an excellent program on the telly the other night about the impact of realism in art. Of course it was narrated in Spanish but you know the language well. Did you happen to see it?"
"Most certainly not," Margaret snorted. "You know I never ever watch the telly."
"Pity," Devery retorted. "You might have learned something about realistic painting."
"Well, really, Dev, you sound as if you think I'm totally ignorant. I happen to know quite a lot about realistic painting, certainly enough to know it's highly overrated. And this fuss made over this Diego boy is a perfect example. I say he lacks imagination. His paintings look like photographs. Who cares about olives in a basket? Maybe the public thinks that's art but I don't think Diego is the genius everyone makes him out to be. His forms are too sharp, too definite, lacking in warmth,"
"What rot," Devery responded succinctly. "He's a master of light and texture. One can almost believe he could pluck the smooth firm olives from the rough woven basket. And the way he uses light and shadow to add more realism is exquisite. And I'm not alone in thinking he might well be our modern-day Rembrandt."
"Too harsh," Margaret persisted heatedly, waving her gaunt hands excitedly. "Why should anyone buy a painting so detailed that it looks like a photograph? One would save a great deal of money by buying an instant camera."
Devery laughed heartily. "This all sounds a bit like envy. Are you sure you believe Diego is untalented or are you actually perturbed at yourself because you haven't the willpower and patience to do more than dapple in pastels and create blurred images? Hmm, Margaret? Why don't you admit you might have been a much more successful artist if you weren't too lazy to add detail to your work?"
"I'll admit no such thing!" she cried defensively, jerking her head so violently that her topknot of hair bobbed. "I create moods; I'm an impressionist! And do please stop calling me Margaret when you know damned well I prefer to be called Mag or Maggie."
"Ah yes, Mag," Devery quipped. "That's more in keeping with the Bohemian image you like to project, is it not?"
As answer, Mag merely sniffed at him, spun on one heel and marched away, her copper necklace swinging back and forth across her flat chest.
Juliet yawned, noticing that as Devery walked away he was smiling with almost perverse satisfaction. Then as she quickly stifled the yawn that threatened to follow the first, she was joined on the sofa by a young man in his late twenties. Smiling, he handed her a glass filled with iced amber liquid, which she accepted with murmured thanks.
"Ah, you're American. So am I," the man said giving her another genuinely friendly smile. "The name's David Judson; maybe you've heard it. I've been watching you sitting here all alone and thought it was high time you had some company. Do you mind?"
Juliet didn't mind at all. There seemed to be something different about this man, perhaps a real quality in his personality that she found refreshing. During the next ten minutes as they talked, he mercifully never once played the pseudo intellectual and only after they had discussed their impressions of Spain, did he bring up art.
"I'm a portrait painter," he said modestly, allowing his gaze to wander over her for the first time. "And I know this might sound like a come-on but I think you'd be a terrific model. That russet hair and creamy complexion and those luminous eyes…" He paused, then grinned charmingly. "What do you say? Would you be willing to let me paint you?"
Juliet hesitated, her mind occupied with the name David Judson, which rang a bell in her memory. Then she realized she had heard of him and that he was one of the most respected portrait painters in the States. So she supposed she should consider it quite an honor that he had asked her to be the subject for one of his works. "You really think I'd do?" she questioned rather shyly. "I mean, I'm certainly no raving beauty."
"There's a quality about you," Judson assured her earnestly. "And if I could capture that quality on canvas, I'd have a masterpiece, I'm sure of it. So, how about it? Will you come to my studio and let me paint you? Please."
Juliet gestured uncertainly. "Well, I don't know. I…"
"Sorry, Judson, Juliet hasn't the time to be one of your models," Raul interrupted curtly from behind them. As she jerked around to look up at him, his green eyes burned into her. Then he came around, took her drink from her hand, and unceremoniously drew her up to stand before him. "Time to go, Juliet."
She had no chance to utter a word as she was hauled away but she did manage to cast an apologetic glance back over her shoulder to David who simply shrugged resignedly in response. And before she could protest Raul's impolite behavior, they were waylaid by Jimena Ruiz, who was dazzling in a white satin lounging suit.
"Are you leaving so early, Raul?" she asked querulously. Then she glared at Juliet as if she was certain their precipitous departure must be the younger girl's fault. She stepped around in front of Raul, her slender hands sliding down his arms. "Do not go just yet, por favor, querido. I have hardly talked to you at all. You have spent almost all evening with Diego and of course Janine has monopolized the remainder of your time so…"
"We must go," Raul interrupted firmly, still holding Juliet's hand in a viselike grip. "Buenas noches, Jimena. I'll probably see you tomorrow."
Though the older woman scowled and called after him in staccato Spanish, he went on, his pace so brisk that Juliet practically had to trot to keep up with him. By the time he impelled her onto the elevator and they began the rapid descent, she was getting riled. What right did he have to treat her so rudely when she had sat on that sofa for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for him to conduct his business? He actually acted angry at her now, though she couldn't imagine why. Half afraid to ask, she said nothing until the Mercedes was brought around to the entrance and they had gotten inside. Yet, in the confines of the car, the silence between them became unbearable.
Finally, she could stand the tension no longer and blurted out, "Well, what's wrong? Did Luis Diego give you a difficult time?"
&nbs
p; Raul gave her a withering look. "On the contrary, he agreed to place his work in our galleries."
"Then what's the matter?" Juliet exclaimed confusedly. "You almost act mad at me and I certainly haven't done anything. Or—have I?"
"We won't discuss this now, Juliet," he decreed. "We'll talk at the casa."
"But…"
"At the casa," he nearly growled, his voice so low and menacing that she automatically kept silent.
For the remainder of the ride home, Juliet cast furtive glances at Raul's strong profile, wondering with some trepidation what in the world was going on. By the time he parked the Mercedes before Casa Valaquez and herded her through the moonlit courtyard and into the main hall, she was feeling rather queasy with apprehension. There was a tension about him that hinted at a barely leashed fury and appalled her though she knew he wasn't justified in taking out his ill humor on her. Their footsteps clattered on the tiled floor until he stopped her at the foot of the staircase and both his hands descended heavily on her shoulders. His eyes glittered like green ice shards, impaling hers as his grip tightened.
"You will not go to David Judson's studio," he muttered at last. "Is that understood?"
"Well, no, not really," she replied, striving to sound cool and composed despite the jerky beating of her heart. "Why shouldn't I go? And why should you try to tell me I can't? If I want to pose for David, that's my business. Not yours!"
Raul's expression darkened grimly. "But don't you think it's Will's business too? He certainly wouldn't be pleased."
"Whyever not? I think he'd be very excited if David painted me."
"Are you out of your mind?" Raul exploded, his fingers pressing into the delicate hollows of her shoulders. "Will would be horrified. Madre de Dios! I paint as a hobby so let me do your portrait. I certainly won't display it conspicuously so you'd be wiser to let me paint you if you're so eager to pose nude."
"Nude!" Juliet squeaked, her face paling them flaring scarlet. "Nude! You mean like— naked?"
Raul sighed wearily. "You mean you didn't know that's what Judson had in mind?"
"I still don't know that," she retorted, managing to control her jangled nerves. "I don't believe you. I've heard of David Judson and he does not paint nudes."
With a muffled curse, Raul raised his eyes heavenward. "Poco idiota, little fool," he translated unnecessarily. "David Hudson, not Judson, is the renowned portrait painter."
"What?" Juliet gasped. "You mean…"
"I mean Judson is a notorious womanizer. He calls himself an artist but he's far more interested in getting involved with his models than in painting them."
Juliet could have died of humiliation right there on the spot. Feeling like a perfect imbecile for allowing herself to be conned, she bent her head, her silken hair falling forward to conceal her burning cheeks. And when Raul reached out to cup her chin in one tan hand, she flinched and tried to move away from him.
He wouldn't allow her to escape. One muscular arm encircled her waist as he tilted up her chin, forcing her to face him. His expression softened, conveying a certain tenderness. "You're not so worldly-wise after all, are you, despite…" He shook his head, his narrowing gaze searching her face as his hand dropped from her chin and his fingertips feathered along the rounded neckline of her dress. As she trembled, her eyes widening, he drew her slightly nearer. "You are a puzzle, Juliet," he whispered huskily. "Sometimes you manage to appear so naive, so innocent, so very vulnerable."
Juliet drew in a sharp breath, her nerves on fire from his evocative touch. "Raul, I—I…"
He released her abruptly, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. "Go to bed, Juliet," he commanded. "I'll see you in the morning."
Foolishly she hesitated. "But I…"
"Damn it, go!" he repeated hoarsely, his eyes blazing as he took one menacing step toward her. "Go now before I decide to discover exactly how vulnerable you are."
Faced with that threat, Juliet went, in a hurry. She sped up the stairs, her heart hammering in her breast because she knew only too well that where Raul was concerned, she was vulnerable indeed and probably lacking in the strength it would take to deny him anything he might ask of her.
Chapter Seven
As Holly sighed heavily and stared out the window, Juliet leaned forward in her chair, toward the bed. "Is there anything I can bring you that would make the time pass faster? Do you want some more books? How about some romantic novels? You like romances, don't you?"
"Romance is what got me into this situation," Holly replied glibly, patting her burgeoning abdomen. "But yes, bring me some and anything else that might keep me occupied. I'm about to go nuts in this place."
Juliet stroked her cheek thoughtfully with one forefinger. "How about some soft yarn. You could crochet the baby some booties and sweaters."
"I've crocheted enough booties and sweaters already to outfit every baby born in Spain this year."
"Oh. Well, have you made a blanket yet? You could really make something pretty. And after you finish that, I'll bring you some embroidery paraphernalia. You're artistic. You could create your own designs and make some very lovely pictures."
"Whatever," Holly said with a rather impatient dismissive gesture. "Now enough about what I could do to occupy my time. I'm tired of thinking about it. I'd much rather hear what you're doing. What's it like to live the easy life on the grand Valaquez estate?"
"Boring sometimes," Juliet answered candidly. "I'm like you, I guess, accustomed to keeping busy, but I really don't have much to do with looking after Uncle Will. He has this hulk of a nurse, who rarely ever smiles and who acts like she owns him. I guess she's acting in his best interest when she's always whisking him away for naps but he's getting tired of her bossiness, which means he's feeling much better. So maybe she won't be there much longer and Rosita and I will have more to do."
Idly pleating the edge of her crisp white sheet, Holly smiled wryly. "I'm surprised you don't have enough to do at the casa. I thought you'd be spending all your time trying to stay out of Pablo's clutches. Or isn't he still chasing after you?"
"Occasionally he sneaks up on me but, luckily, Raul keeps him pretty busy out in the olive groves. I think he's supposed to be learning all about olive growing from the foreman."
"And Raul? Do you see much of him? How's he treating you these days?"
Moving restlessly in her chair, Juliet sighed. "I really can't answer that," she said, a note of bewilderment in her voice. "Sometimes he's nice to me; sometimes he isn't. I can't figure him out."
"And how do you feel about him?" Holly persisted gently. "I know you were much more interested in him than in Pablo last year, romantically interested, I mean. So, are you still attracted to him?"
Juliet laughed humorlessly. "If you'd ever seen Raul, you wouldn't have to ask me that. I don't imagine there are many females who aren't attracted to him."
"But I've always had the feeling you felt more for him than just a casual attraction. I still have that feeling. Am I right or wrong?"
"Oh, damn, I don't know," Juliet murmured, meticulously arranging the folds of her gauze skirt. "Sometimes, when he's ordering me around, I feel like hitting him. But—then, all he has to do is touch me and all my irritation seems to dissolve and I want to throw myself in his arms. Nobody else has ever made me feel that way before and it's very confusing."
"Falling in love is very confusing," Holly said softly. "Especially the first time. And this is the first time for you, isn't it, Juliet? You've never been in love before?"
"I'm not in love now either!" Juliet protested with revealing vehemence. And when she was unable to meet Holly's knowing gaze, she bent her head, concealing her eyes with the thick fringe of her lashes. Lifting her shoulders in a resigned gesture, she realized she couldn't fool Holly and abandoned all pretense when she spoke again. "Well, I guess I am afraid I'm falling in love. And I don't want to! Not with Raul. He—he doesn't approve of me or even like me very much. So I'm just asking for trouble
by feeling about him the way I do."
"But if Raul is very nice to you sometimes, he must like you a little," Holly argued. "And you just said you feel like throwing yourself in his arms when he touches you and I can't believe you'd respond that way if he wasn't showing you some tenderness."
Juliet hesitated a moment, then shook her head, as if reassembling her thoughts. "Well, even if he is tender sometimes, the only thing he feels for me is a slight physical attraction and that's not enough."
"But…"
"Oh, let's stop trying to analyze this situation," Juliet interrupted wearily. "Even if Raul did like me a little, nothing would ever come of it. How could he ever be very interested in me when there are oodles of much more sophisticated women eager to become seriously involved with him? Against that kind of competition I don't stand a chance, so let's stop talking about Raul. All right?" Sitting up straight in her chair, she glanced at her wristwatch. "Besides, I'd better go now and let you rest. And I do want to see Benny before I go back to the casa. I can help him move his belongings out of the hotel and into our house."
"If you can get him to move into the house," Holly said, with a dejected sigh. "As I said awhile ago, I think it's a great idea but Benny probably won't agree. He'll think of it as charity."
"But he'll be doing Uncle Will a favor by staying there," Juliet repeated her earlier explanation. "So I can't see how Benny could feel he's being offered charity."