Image of Love

by Rebecca Stratton

  A light finger-tip touch on her arm brought Federico to her notice once more. 'But we do not wish to discuss Don Jaime all evening, do we, Senorita Gordon?'

  'I certainly don't!'

  She laughed, but although she denied it so firmly, there seemed little she could do to stop her eyes from straying every so often in the direction of Don Jaime, standing with their hostess at the bar. Like the rest of the men, he wore evening dress, but the effect of a snowy white shirt with that dusky gold complexion was somehow a good deal more eye-catching than it was on anyone else.

  A white jacket fitted to his lean waist and hips perfectly, as the dark trousers did to his long legs, and he was, she noticed, taller than any of the other men too. There was after all, she found, a certain excitement in thinking of him as a bridegroom and a lover, and she hastily snatched herself back from such dangerous speculation when she realised that once more Federico was saying something to her.

  'You are to be seated next to me!'

  He was obviously very satisfied with the arrangement, and from the way he took her arm as they went in to dinner, and steered her in the direction of the salon, it was clear that he had a good many points in common with Pablo Ostera.

  He was in no doubt that she would find him irresistible, and his dark eyes gleamed with pleasure as he saw her seated. It was no accident either that his fingers lightly touched her arms when he pushed her chair in for her. That air of confidence was part of his charm and she could not pretend to dislike if; only it crossed her mind briefly as she took her place whether Don Jaime could ever be as flatteringly gallant, to the right woman.

  With Marta seated at the other end of the table on the same side as herself, Rosannt felt strangely isolated, even with Federico in such willing attendance, and she was very conscious of Don Jaime seated only three places away on the opposite side. Had he been on the same side too it would not have required quite so much effort not to look at him every so often.

  He was a fascinating man, she made no attempt to deny it to herself, and yet it was that curious air of intrigue about him that still drew her most strongly. She had the feeling that he knew something about her that she was not even aware of herself, and it was most discomfiting in the circumstances. Even Federico's determined efforts to charm and monopolise her failed 'to distract her from puzzling over what it was about Don Jaime Delguiro that disturbed her so much.

  Heavy silver and snowy white napery gleamed richly under the light from wrought iron lamps that hung low over the long table, and the windows stood open to the night air that came in, hot and dry, despite the tinkling voice of a fountain that Rosanne could just see if she half turned her head. A shivering rainbow of movement in the still, scented garden, it kept catching her eye, and she let herself look at it rather than that dark, distracting face on the opposite side of the table.

  'You are here on a long holiday?'

  Federico's voice persisted beside her, and she turned and smiled at him. 'Several weeks,' she hazarded. 'I haven't fixed a specific time for going back yet.'

  From the way his eyes gleamed it was exactly the answer he wanted to hear, and he leaned just a fraction closer, lending a more intimate touch to their nearness that she found faintly disturbing. But at the same time she felt the steady gaze of dark eyes from across the table, and knew it was because Federico was leaning so close that a small frown showed between black brows.

  'Have you done any sightseeing yet, senorita?'

  In defiance of an instinct that wanted to draw back from the warm touch of Federico's arm against hers, she smiled at him and paused in her meal to look directly at him. 'I did a little last year when I was here, Senor Sanchez, quite a bit in fact one way and the other.'

  'Federico, por favor.' She caught his eye and read the unmistakable signs, drawing just a little apart. 'My name is Federico, huh?'

  'Federico.' She repeated his name obediently and knew he needed no encouragement from her to use her own name.

  'Rosanne!' He sighed, deeply and with such exaggeration that she almost laughed, but recovered herself in time. 'A name almost as beautiful as you are, bella Rosanne!' He managed somehow to get a hold of her hand so that she could not get on with her meal for the moment, and his voice was pitched low and urgent as he whispered to her. 'Have you seen the cuevas of the gitanos?' . .

  More than a little breathless and not quite sure what he was asking her, Rosanne shook her head, easing her hand as discreetly as possible from his hold. 'I—I don't think so. I don't knowjsxactly what it is.'

  'The caves, Rosanne, the caves- where the gitano live—up in the mountain.'

  'Oh, the gypsy houses!' She remembered something about them from her last visit. She thought Pablo had mentioned that they would go there one day, but he had rather scorned them as a tourist attraction, though she didn't say as much to Federico. 'I've heard of them, of course.'

  'But you have never seen them? You have never visited them?'

  'Not so far.'

  'Then tomorrow you shall!' He would have taken her hand again she thought, but she put it to use using her knife and fork and frustrated his attempt. 'You will come?' he added as a belated afterthought, and Rosanne took a moment or two to answer him.

  'I'm not sure, Federico.' It was difficult to think clearly when he hovered so anxiously at her elbow, as if the question was much more important than whether or not she visited the gypsy caves with him. 'Oh no; I've just remembered, I'm going to have my hair done tomorrow.' He looked so disappointed that she hastily sought an alternative. 'But I could see you afterwards if you like.'

  'I would like to very much, Rosanne!' If they had not been seated at the dinner table she felt sure he would have kissed her hand; as it was he looked at her with such intensity in his dark eyes that she felt a small cold shiver along her spine for a moment because he reminded her so much of Pablo. 'So—it is settled! I will be waiting for you when you leave the salon of the hairdresser and we will drive to San Felipe!'

  It was exactly like being with Pablo again, Rosanne thought a little dazedly. Arrangements were made with little regard given to whether or not they suited her; her compliance was taken for granted. Not that she had any thought of not falling in with his plans, for he promised to be as exciting a companion as Pablo had been and, despite occasional meaningful looks coming her way from Don Jaime, she saw no reason why she should not enjoy his company.

  So, smiling agreement, she nodded. 'I'd like that very much,' she said.

  Federico was very punctual, for it was exactly the time Rosanne had suggested they meet when his car pulled up on the opposite side of the square from Almaro's one and only hairdressing salon. She saw him through the window while she was paying the girl and smiled to herself, and when she came out a moment or two later he left the car and came hurrying across to meet her.

  His dark eyes took note of the fresh-washed shine that made her hair look almost blonde, and_ the slight flush in her cheeks which he very likely attributed to his own appearance. A pair of well tailored blue slacks made him appear taller than she remembered, and a lighter blue shirt showed off his smooth dark good looks perfectly, as he well knew. He was smiling and confident, and she responded automatically to the warm dark glow in his eyes.

  'Rosanne!' She half expected him to take both her hands, but instead he shook her hand rather formally, even though his eyes suggested that he did so simply for appearances' sake. 'You look beautiful!'

  'I'm not late, am I?' Looking at her watch to check the time again was merely a ploy to cover the suddenly brighter shine in her eyes because he made her feel just as Pablo always had; pampered and happy and excited, and she liked the feeling.

  'I was early.' He somehow managed to make the slight untruth sound like a compliment. 'I was so anxious to see you again, Rosanne, that I was impatient. You have not changed your mind?'

  Dark eyes scanned her face for a second and were nothing like as anxious as the question sounded, so that she smiled. 'Not unless you h
ave; I'm quite looking forward to going to see your gypsies.'

  'And to going to see them with me, eh?'

  He saw her into his car as he spoke, and she knew he did not really require an answer. Federico knew exactly how much she looked forward to going anywhere with him—he was fully aware of his own power to attract. Closing the door after her, he came round and slid into the driving seat, turning to give her a dazzling smile before he started the engine.

  They left Almaro behind and headed along the road towards the hills; through miles of ghostly grey olive trees, patched here and there with paler green vines or oranges. It was rather like discovering old haunts, driving with Federico, and she more than once found herself forgetting that it was not Pablo who sat beside her, for he drove with the same careless panache that seemed to leave the matter of safety in the hands of the Almighty.

  It was hot, even though the day was wearing on and the sun had a fat, red-gold look as it sat lower down in the sky. Rosanne had nothing on her head, for the car was a closed one, and anyway she hated wearing anything on her head. Federico, she guessed, liked it that way, for his smile when he glanced at her sometimes had a broad satisfied look.

  'You are pleased that you came?' He asked the question at the, same time as he took the car round yet another bend in the winding road and barely missed hitting the opposite bank. 'It is nice, hah?'

  Rosanne nodded, but she clung to the car door tightly because she was suddenly remembering with startling clarity another such moment, one that had ended very much more dramatically. She had no reason to feel so cold suddenly, she told herself, and realised that Federico had noticed how tightly her fingers gripped the handle of the door. He looked not only surprised that she should be alarmed, but that she had any doubt about his driving skill.

  'You are not nervous, are you, Rosanne? I am a very good driver, you know.'

  'Oh, yes, I'm sure you are!' From somewhere she summoned the nerve to let go the handle and put her hands on her lap while she did her best to sound normal. 'It's just that on these twisty hill roads, and at speed ' She laughed, more to reassure herself than

  him. 'I just haven't your Spanish sense of fatalism, Federico, you'll have to bear with me.'

  It was scarcely guaranteed to bolster her confidence when he reached out and lightly pressed a hand over hers for a second, although obviously it had been intended to. 'You are safe with me, Rosanne, I promise, and it is not very much more distance to go now.'

  It was in an attempt to bring herself back to present matters instead of dwelling on the past that she changed the subject and smiled round at him. 'You've been to the gypsy caves before?'

  Federico shrugged. 'I have been once before, si, just for the sake of curiosity.'

  Something in the tone of his voice suggested that he found the-admission slightly embarrassing, and Rosanne thought she could guess why, but she was hardly likely to have thought herself the first^jirl that Federico had taken driving, and she did not see why he should be embarrassed to admit it. In the circumstances the temptation to tease him was irresistible.

  'With another interested English visitor, I suppose.'

  Federico did not accept the banter with as good grace as she hoped, but looked at her quite seriously before he replied. 'I have never brought another English woman here before, Rosanne.'

  She laughed to dismiss any suggestion of seriousness and shook her head at him. 'It wouldn't matter if you had, Federico, I was only teasing you, you know.'

  He did not follow it up, but concentrated instead on a couple of cars coming from different directions, for they were at a junction with two other roads, both of them more frequently used, apparently, and Rosanne suspected they were nearing their destination. A sun- blistered sign at the roadside, with a broken finger pointing uphill, confirmed it, and she felt a renewed sense of excitement when Federico turned as directed and followed the other cars.

  Another sharp turn and they were entering a small town, not very much bigger than Almaro, but far more crowded and buzzing with activity. San -Felipe was a little country town that had been overtaken by the big business of tourism without being fully prepared for it, and it was a hot, cluttered hotch-potch of buildings and people with little of its original charm left.

  Here there were far more paler faces among the dusky complexions of the Andaluz, and quite a lot of much darker ones too, for the gypsies mingled with the holiday crowds, seeking out likely prospects to visit their homes. It was the swarthy dark gitanos who had put San Felipe on the map, and they saw it now as their town.

  Sloe-eyed children with hair so black that it seemed to be almost blue, and skins olive dark and for the most part unwashed. But they were beautiful children and irresistible for all their lack of hygiene, as they sought to persuade anyone who gave them even a glance to go with them to their family cueva in the gypsy colony.

  Federico and Rosanne became targets as soon as they left the car. Several of the children surrounded them, undeterred by Federico's Spanish, however rapid and aggressive; those sloe-dark eyes were on Rosanne who looked much more easily persuadable.

  'We have come to see their homes,' she reminded him as she was scrutinised by one child with a frankly speculative eye. The small face was grubby and much too adult for the owner's apparent youth, but it was quite the most handsome one she had ever seen.

  He could have been little more than ten or eleven years old, but he knew well enough how to use the physical advantages that nature had so generously endowed him with, and he smiled and said something in his own tongue that she did not understand. Looking at Federico for a translation, she noticed him hastily "transferring his wallet from one pocket to another less easily accessible to their delightful but probably light-fingered companions.

  'It is necessary,' he told her with a touch of defensiveness when he saw her smile. 'Anyone will tell you, Rosanne.'

  Too infected by the general atmosphere of bustle and excitement to show disapproval, Rosanne laughed. 'We came to see them, so we take them as they are, Federico, surely.'

  'Yes, of course, but we also take sensible precautions.'

  He took her arm but at the same time contrived to keep his hand within checking distance of his inside pocket, a move that she observed with a hint of amusement. Not that she was heedless of the slight element of danger in the situation, but it served rather to add to her excitement than to put her off the expedition.

  Having come thus far they had little option but to go with their self-appointed guides, for they were herded along among the sloe-eyed children who knew just how persuasive to be, without going to the excess of impudence that would have turned their prey against them.

  The light was going now and the sky had a deep glowing blueness that was like a verlvet pall over the hillside where the caves were, patterned by the lights that came on here and there, like fallen stars. They seemed to enter another world as they followed the well worn path upwards; a world full of voices, high- pitched in the wail of the flamenco, and guitars endlessly strumming the old rhythms.

  The caves themselves were a revelation, to Rosanne at least, and she found it all frankly incredible. They were not allowed much time to see into other caves, for their young guides were anxious to reach their own family lair, which turned out to be much bigger than Rosanne had imagined. And so full of people that she wondered where on earth they all lived and slept.

  Gestures rather than words invited them to be seated, although they knew quite well that Federico was Spanish and could have understood them, and the family chattered animatedly among themselves. Presumably the conference was about the programme to be presented to them, and while the matter was being arranged Rosanne took the opportunity to look around her.

  Nothing could have been less like the rough cave dwelling she had expected to see, for there was a thick and obviously quite valuable carpet on the floor and several rugs, rich in colour and weave, scattered about almost carelessly. Copper jugs and pans hung on the stone walls a
long with holy pictures and statues and old-fashioned photographs of people she suspected were long-dead relatives.

  Women seemed to outnumber the men, and it was difficult to try and distinguish one generation from another, for there was that ageless and aged look in all the dark olive-skinned faces that defeated any attempt to put an age on them. Their hair was the same blue- black as the children's and slicked down to their heads, and their eyes were the same sloe-black and slightly evasive.

  Four of the women, including a girl of no more than twelve or thirteen, wore the traditional dancing costume of a fitted dress, slit to the thigh or higher, and flounced at the back in a train. Two men playing guitars sat well back in a corner where the lamps cast black shadows on their already dark faces, and gave them a vaguely sinister air as they strummed and plucked out a fiery flamenco, voices raised in the sour- chilling wail of the traditional accompaniment, while other shadowy figures moved about the cave, never too close, but always there.

  The bodies of the dancers twisted1 and swayed in the tight jerky movements of the dance, while the hands, as always, expressed the true sensual passion of the story. Thin and remarkably fine-boned, they flexed to and fro like agile serpents, fingers snapping the castanets together like a rhythmic rattle of bones.

  Rosanne was fascinated, unwittingly involved in the thrumming rhythm of clapping hands, stamping feet and guitar strings, the thin high voices finding a response somewhere deep inside her, that was irresistible.