Image of Love

by Rebecca Stratton

  IMAGE OF LOVE

  Rebecca Stratton

  Something about Don Jaime disturbed her

  Visiting Spain again, Roseanne found she wasn't allowed to forget Pablo Ostera, her holiday friend who had died tragically the year before.

  Don Jaime in particular seemed intent on reminding Roseanne of her friendship with his dead cousin.

  Then, in his private study, she discovered a portrait of herself done by Pablo -- one she hadn't even known existed, Why should Don Jaime keep it? It wasn't as if he had a personal interest in her...

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  First published 1978

  Australian copyright 1978

  Philippine copyright 1978

  This edition 1978

  © Rebecca Stratton 1978

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN o 263 72612 6

  Set in Linotype Baskerville 10 on pt.

  Made and printed in Great Britdin by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press), Ltd., Bungay, Suffolk

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rosanne was quite certain that the man she caught a glimpse of as she was leaving the church of San Pablo was the one she had seen in the restaurant where she had lunched yesterday. He was outside in the glaring brilliance of the sunlight while she was still making her way towards the church door and deep in the shadows, when she saw him, but she knew she wasn't mistaken.

  He was not an easy man to forget or overlook, even though his colouring was fairly typical of the people in this most colourful and flamboyant province of Spain, except perhaps that he was taller than most. Whoever he was he gave Rosanne the most disturbing sense of being observed.

  Her visit to the church of San Pablo had been an impulse, prompted by the fact that she had been there once before, accompanied in that instance by a man whom she had known briefly, a little over a year ago. She had been staying with the Segovias then, as she was now, when she met Pablo Ostera, and they had liked one another instantly.

  It was a chance encounter, but one that did not end with his hasty and profuse apology for bumping into her in a shop doorway. For the next three weeks they had been constantly in one another's company, driving about the countryside and taking meals together in restaurants and cafeterias. He had shown her the church of San Pablo because, he claimed, San Pablo was his name saint and he owed him thanks for bringing them together. And yet she. had learned almost nothing about him in that time, except that he lived in Almaro with his family and that he liked to paint sometimes.

  His personal saint had done little to save him, however, on the day that he and Rosanne set off to drive into the cooler air of the hills. Flamboyant as always, Pablo had taken a corner too fast and crashed his car, killing himself but only slightly injuring Rosanne, who suffered nothing more serious than concussion and a broken leg.

  She could hardly claim to have been in love with him, but he had been young and good-looking and she had liked him quite a lot, and his death had numbed her for a while because it had come so close, touched her more nearly than death ever had before.

  Her efforts to contact his family and offer her sympathy had proved fruitless, for by the time she left hospital herself, no one seemed either able or willing to help her. Her friends had been new to the district then and knew nothing about him, and she was informed politely but firmly that his family had claimed his body and there was no good to be done by enquiring after them.

  'Better to go home to England and recover from your injuries, senorita,' had been the advice offered by polite authority, and seeing nothing for it, Rosanne had taken the advice.

  In one way she could sympathise with his family's point of view in not wishing to have any contact with her, but the abrupt and tragic end to her association with Pablo Ostera had been a severe shock to her and she had suffered from vague qualms of conscience for quite some time afterwards, without ever discovering a reason for them.

  So far during this visit, her friends had not even mentioned Pablo, and in one way Rosanne was glad of their tact, for Pablo was gone and there was nothing to be gained by raising uneasy ghosts. Only the visit to the church had been an impulse she had been unable to resist.

  The man she had seen briefly as she walked down the aisle in the church was no longer in sight when she stepped outside the doors and stood for a moment on the wide stone steps, accustoming herself to the change of light and temperature. It was simply coincidence, she told herself, that on each occasion she had seen him he happened to catch her eye and hold it as if to convey some kind of message. A disturbing but so far indecipherable message, and not the one she was accustomed to recognising in the eyes of frankly admiring Spanish men.

  Shaking off a vague sense of uneasiness, she walked across the tree-shaded square in search of a taxi to take her out to the Segovia home which stood a little way outside Almaro. Perhaps it had not been a very good idea to come back to Almaro quite so soon, but she felt strangely drawn to the quiet little town, off the usual tourist routes, and she valued her friendship with Marta and Julio Segovia.

  As well as the church of San Pablo, the square boasted a small restaurant, where she had lunched - yesterday, several shops and a taberna. In the centre of it,- set full in the sun, was a-large and very elaborate stone basin into which a slightly damaged cherub poured water from a horn of plenty.

  Trees grew all around the square; feathery-topped palms that cast cool shade on to square white buildings and gave the whole scene a much more African look than a European one. Even the chuith, with its

  arches and colonnades, looked much more Moorish than Gothic; its wide steps and soaring bell tower, reminscent of a minaret, dominating the tiny square.

  Outside the air was hot and dry after the cool interior of the church, and the centre of the square, without benefit of shade, was aridly dusty except for the fountain presided over by the stone cherub. There the water sparkled and shone like diamonds, providing a tinklingly musical background for the murmur of voices from the taberna and the snufflings of a scrawny black dog that scavenged in the gutter outside the restaurant.

  Only briefly was the quiet shattered, by the racketing roar of an ancient bus making its way through the square on its way to the next small town. It was a lazy and, for the most part, a peaceful scene, just as Rosanne remembered it being a year ago. Indeed it seemed likely to have remained unchanged for the last hundred years or more, though she could find little fault with that.

  It was possibly the general lack of activity that made her careless when she crossed from one side of the square to the other, or perhaps it was because once more her mind was with the memory of Pablo Ostera. Whatever the cause, she failed to hear the approach of a large but very quiet car as it turned into the square from a side street until it was almost on top of her, and by then it was almost too late.

  Hands to her mouth in stunned surprise, she jumped back hastily and so caught nothing more than a light touch with the nearside front wing of the car. But she was so startled that the colour drained from her cheeks and a look of blank fear showed in wide grey eyes that remembered another brush with tragedy concerning a car.

  The vehicle had stopped and the driver was getting out, walking back tow
ards her so that she had ample opportunity to recognise the same man she had seen earlier, when she was leaving the church. There was no mistaking him, and she could still wonder at the coincidence, even while she stood momentarily stunned and trying to stop her legs from shaking and her heart from thudding so hard it almost deafened her.

  He was incredibly tall and his body had the kind of rangy leanness that Rosanne somehow associated with a man of action. He was arrogant too, and carried himself with the pride of the hidalgo. Dark eyes looking down an aristocratic nose condemned her temerity in putting him to the inconvenience of stopping, as well as for risking injury to herself. He had thick black hair that he wore fairly long and through which he ran the fingers of one hand as he approached her.

  Rosanne was still shaking, unable to do anything to stop it, and this man with his overpowering presence was not guaranteed to restore calm. Maybe he was impressed by her feminine look of appeal; huge grey eyes in a face that was not quite beautiful but more than ordinarily pretty, but whatever his reaction he used his own dark eyes to make a thorough and apparently appreciative survey of her before he said anything. Then, inclining his head in the merest suggestion of a bow, he addressed her in English.

  'I trust you are unhurt, senorita!'

  'Oh yes—yes, thank you, I'm all right.'

  Her face was still pale and she could do nothing about the weakness that made her legs feel as if they would let her down at any moment, and obviously he did not believe her assurance. 'You are shaken, perhaps?' he suggested, in clear pedantic English with scarcely an accent. 'Will you not sit for a moment before you continue on your way?'

  Rosanne knew enough about Spanish etiquette to realise that a man of his obvious breeding would not normally approach a strange woman in the street, although obviously in these circumstances it was good manners to make sure she was unhurt after almost being knocked down by his car, whether the fault had been hers or not. The strong fingers that slid beneath her arm, however, were completely unexpected, and she started as if he had burned her.

  Her laugh was not likely to convince him of her ability to go on without first taking a rest somewhere either. It was small and unsteady and matched the trembling uncertainty of her legs. 'It might be better if I sat down somewhere for a minute or two,' she agreed. 'I feel a bit shaky.'

  A hard stone seat backed on to the stone basin where the fountain played, but he apparently saw that as unsuitable because it was so exposed to the sun, and before Rosanne had a moment to decide for herself she was being led across the square to the taberna.

  It was small and cool and blindingly dark after the light outside, and the murmur of conversation was stilled instantly when they walked .in. This was not a tourist town where women habitually sat and drank with the men, and her sudden appearance in what had until now been an exclusively male stronghold caused silent but unmistakable disapproval. As far as she could see the only other female in sight was a large, dark-eyed woman behind the counter, and she eyed her companion with more surprise than she did Rosanne.

  He saw Rosanne seated, then called over the woman-' and ordered brandy, a service not normally given,

  Rosanne suspected, but supplied with apparent willingness in this instance, so that again she wondered who on earth he could be.

  His clothes were formal and expensive and he looked as if he was accustomed to commanding service and getting it without argument. Nor was the taberna the kind of place he would normally frequent, she was quite sure, and she attempted to give him a way out, just in case it was merely concern for her that was keeping him there. Seated, she felt a lot less shaky, but she was still aware of the interested eyes watching them without opfenly seeming to; of the curiosity gradually replacing disapproval in the buzz of resumed conversations.

  'I needn't delay you any more,' she ventured after a second or two. 'If you were on your way somewhere—

  A flick of one black brow cut her short, and he looked across the small table at her with narrowed eyes, that aristocratic nose elevated once more as if to impress her with her own temerity. 'I can scarcely leave you alone in such a place, senorita! And please do not concern yourself with delaying me—the appointment was of little consequence.'

  'Just the same I hindered you and I'm sorry. It was ' my fault, but I simply didn't hear you coming.'

  'You were—ausente perhaps. Not completely aware of your surroundings.'

  'I suppose not.' She had to admit it because she had been thinking about Pablo instead of anticipating the, sudden appearance of his car, and she was entirely to blame.

  Now that she was recovered from her initial shock she was conscious of finding her companion even more intriguing. His face was not handsome but imposing.

  That autocratic nose was an impressive feature, though possibly less so than the deep darkness of his eyes set between black lashes of such thickness and length that any woman would have envied them, and his complexion had the dusky golden hue that hinted at Moorish origins somewhere back in the days of conquest.

  Obviously in the old days he would have been one of the hidalgo, the very cream of Spanish noblemen whose word was law and who held the power of life and death over their lesser compatriots. He had that look of complete confidence, a streak of barely concealed ruthlessness that made him stand apart from other men, and exert an undeniable attraction for women. There was also a curious air about him that suggested intrigue, and that made her uneasy,

  'You are a newcomer in Almaro, senorita?'

  Rosanne waited while the woman put down a bottle- of brandy and two glasses in front of him before she attempted to answer, and it occurred to her for the first time to wonder why he had so unhesitatingly assumed she was English.

  'I arrived a couple of days ago to stay with some Spanish friends. My name's Rosanne Gordon.' A slight smile encouraged him to say how he had so accurately guessed her nationality. *It was very clever of you to recognise that I was English even before you heard me speak, senor.'

  He did not enlighten her, even now, but merely inclined his head slightly while he completed introductions. 'I am Jaime Felipe Castillo Delguiro, senorita— como est a usled?'

  Even his name was impressive, Rosanne thought, and a curious prickling sensation crawled over her scalp because she felt so sure that he expected her to recognise it. It was strange, but right from the first moment she had set eyes on him in the restaurant yesterday, she had had the feeling that he was not just any man who- happened to find her attractive. There was something about him that made her uneasy, and she wished she could discover exactly what it was.

  'You have been to Almaro before?'

  Once more her scalp prickled warningly and Rosanne looked at him for a second before she answered. 'Yes, I have as a matter of fact, senor. It was here last year for a while.'

  'Ah!'

  It was incredible the amount of satisfaction he put into that one syllable, and Rosanne frowned. She hadn't tasted her brandy yet and a raised brow suggested that she should, but her mind was on other things than a rather good local corriente cohac as she put the glass to her lips and took a sip.

  Her light brown hair cascaded forward and hid half her face when she bent her head and she brushed it back as she looked at him once more, curiosity plain in her eyes, whether or not it was considered impolite. In the circumstances she felt she had a right to be curious.

  'We've never met before, have we, senor?'

  'I think not, senorita.'

  There was no clue in the strongly autocratic face, or in the depthless darkness of the eyes that watched her, and yet she felt he was waiting for her to make some discovery, and she shook her head in a vague gesture of helplessness.

  'I don't know—I have the feeling that ' She

  laughed huskily and clutched her glass of brandy in tight fingers. 'I somehow get the impression, Senor Delguiro, that you expect me to know you!'

  'I wish it was so, Senorita Gordon; it is my loss that we have never met before.' The dark eye
s seemed to be smiling, but she wished she could be more sure. The dim coolness of the taberna and those incredibly thick lashes made it impossible to tell for certain. 'The brandy is to your liking?'

  'Oh yes, it's very good, thank you.' His voice was deep and as fascinating as the rest of him, and Rosanne felt very much at a loss still, even now she was quite recovered from the shock of almost being run down. There was something about Don Jaime Felipe Castillo Delguiro that disturbed her strangely, and it wasn't simply the fact that he was a very attractive man.

  She sipped her brandy and found it comforting as the silky liquid slid down her throat and brought a kind of relaxed resignation in its wake. The voices around them seemed once more to have resumed their somnolent buzz, and she realised as she was snatched suddenly back to altertness that the effect of brandy on an empty stomach was making her incredibly sleepy. '

  'Perhaps I may be permitted to drive you to the home of your friends, if you are feeling well enough.' The suggestion was as unexpected as almost everything else about the man, but Rosanne nodded without even stopping to think. 'That's very good of you, if you're sure it isn't out of your way—I was going to take a taxi, but '

  A large hand silenced her and went on to take hers as he got up from his chair, solicitously polite without in the least suggesting any other motive behind the help he offered. She thought for a moment as she got up from her seat that the dark eyes showed a gleam of amusement,' and certainly the wide, straight mouth twitched at its corners as if he smiled.