Luz was so transfixed that she forgot herself for a moment and raised herself up to get a better view. Suddenly she saw Marujita’s head jerk towards her as if she had caught her scent, but then the gypsy turned back again and carried on with her dance. Luz dipped down and lay on her back, breathing faster. Could she have been seen? Surely she was too well hidden. Nevertheless, Luz had seen enough; she did not belong here.
It was tempting to cast a last glance back at Leandro but instead she wriggled slowly back, keeping as low as possible, hearing the explosion of shouts and olés, whooping and whistling as the pulsating music came to a roaring finish. Once at the edge of the dunes, Luz scrambled quickly down the bank. She skidded so fast through the sand that she half fell the last distance, grabbing on to a hard tuft of seagrass.
‘Back again, looking for him?’
Luz’s head snapped up, startled by the husky female voice, and her eyes met the jet-black stare of the gypsy, Marujita. She was standing with one hand on her hip, the other holding a bottle of brandy at her side. Beneath the heavy make-up her skin was even greyer than Luz remembered, making her look suddenly much older, without a trace of the beauty she must once have held. A triumphant smile curled at Marujita’s lips.
‘You’re persistent, hermosa jovencita!’ She took a gulp from the bottle, her charcoal eyes fixed on Luz. ‘As I told you before, gypsies have long memories and I remember you. Very well.’
Luz straightened up and dusted the sand off her jeans. It unnerved her to think that the gitana had somehow sensed she was there, hiding among the dunes. The gypsy made her want to bolt, but she stood her ground, meeting the older woman’s intense gaze.
‘I was taking a walk as I couldn’t sleep and stumbled across your gathering quite by chance, señora,’ she explained truthfully.
Marujita ignored her. ‘You’ve no business here. This is not a place for gajos, though I know why you’ve come,’ she almost sneered.
Luz raised her chin, determined not to feel intimidated. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Besides, you don’t own the beach. I have as much right to be here as you.’
The gypsy let out a rasping laugh and took a swig of her bottle. ‘Oh, you’re a rebellious one, aren’t you? Well, you have no rights in our world. Gypsy law is gypsy law.’ She gave a sly smile and tossed back her unkempt hair. ‘But I could help you with the one you want, help you catch him. That’s what you desire most, isn’t it?’
Luz gazed at Marujita impassively, not wanting her to know how rattled she felt. The gitana had the most disturbing presence she had ever encountered. What did she know of Luz’s feelings for Leandro? She had offered Luz a love talisman when they had first met and, if the old witch Paquita hadn’t snatched it back and warned Marujita off, what would Luz have found wrapped up in that small parcel?
‘How can you know what I want?’ Luz said. She didn’t really want to hear what Marujita had to say but part of her was intrigued.
‘I know things about you just by looking into your face,’ Marujita replied. Her sardonic smile seemed to harden as her black eyes roved over Luz’s features as if taking them in anew. In the pale moonlight Luz could see that the gypsy’s expression had assumed a deadly mask. ‘Oh yes, I know you, hermosa jovencita.’ Then abruptly she snapped, ‘The one you want has other fish to fry. He doesn’t want you – not in the way you dream of.’
‘And what makes you think you can see into the head of every gitano in the camp?’ Luz shot back boldly, not caring that she might be giving too much away.
‘I am the queen of the Calés. I know everything about them, each and every one of them.’ The gypsy’s eyes gleamed malignantly. ‘You think you gajo women can come along and take our men whenever you want. You can never have the one you run after. He is a gitano, and blood doesn’t mix.’ A strange look crossed her face as if the thought pained and angered her at the same time. ‘Why would he look at you when there are plenty of fine gypsy girls lining up for him? He is one of us and tonight he can have the pick of any girl!’
Luz’s heart constricted. The thought of Leandro in another woman’s arms was almost too much to bear. She stared at the gypsy with stunned incomprehension. It was well known that gitanos distrusted anyone outside their own kind and on their previous encounters Luz had put Marujita’s cryptic, threatening aura down to that peculiar quality that some gypsies had. But what she saw now in the gitana’s dark eyes was pure hatred. What was wrong with this woman? Why did she seem so determined to hurt her?
Luz breathed in and gazed at her intently. ‘As I said, señora, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Marujita took a final drink and looked Luz up and down balefully. ‘You can never escape your fate,’ she hissed. And with that, still clutching her bottle, she picked up her skirts and disappeared into the dunes.
Luz stared after her for a moment, nervous anger and distress coursing through her veins. What had the gitana meant about fate? Hadn’t that old witch Paquita warned that she would be cursed if she tried to avoid her destiny? She shuddered. In any case, whatever was in store for her, she felt powerless to fight it now. Her life was like the inexorable tide of the sea, pushing her further into a great, unknown expanse … or was she heading closer to the rocks? She wished she knew. None of this was what she’d expected when she left the cliff house that night and, as Luz made her way back along the shimmering stretch of beach, she had a sense of foreboding that descended upon her like a crouching incubus.
The silver moon bathed the shoreline in a luminous glow as streaks of dark cloud reached out towards it like long arms wanting to extinguish the light. As Luz followed the brim of the water’s edge back to L’Estrella, the lone figure of a man stood at the top of the dunes staring after her. Silhouetted against the fire-lit indigo night, he watched Luz for a long time before disappearing back to the gypsy camp.
* * *
The next week flew by in a blur. Luz was determined to bury her turbulent emotions in work and exercise. Carmela commented on her relentless activity but Luz reassured the housekeeper that she was merely enjoying being busy. Her inner torment remained a secret only she would know.
One morning Luz had spent a good hour exercising Zeyna up and down the shore. Along the waterfront a few cotton-wool clouds seemed to bounce over the harbour and the ships’ masts, with sunlight rippling on the water and ref lecting the bows. Afternoon shadows threw chequered lights upon the white dune-backed beach. Windsurfers glided silently along the transparent blueness of the ocean.
Luz was splashing back through the shallows, a game she often indulged in with Zeyna, when suddenly she froze and stared, her heart lurching uncontrollably. There he was, large as life, twenty yards away, leaning casually against his motorcycle and talking to his gypsy friends. His jeans clung to his athletic thighs as he swung one leg over the bike, the black tank top moulding to his torso in a way that made her mouth go dry; his long sun-bleached hair was ruffled by the breeze with wisps across his face accentuating his rakish good looks. As he gripped the handlebars, her eyes were drawn to his muscled, tanned arms, which time and again had hauled her into their powerful embrace. How she longed for him! Had he been on his own, she would not have hesitated to jump off her horse and run to him, all resolution cast to the winds.
Instead she made Zeyna slow down and steered her into his view, wanting to catch his eye, for him to smile, wave at her or make any sign at all to acknowledge he had seen her and that, even if they were not lovers any more, they were not complete strangers either. As she neared he lifted his head and for a second her heart leapt joyously in the hope that he was going to turn towards her, but he slammed the engine into gear and rode off in a roar, kicking up a mist of thin white sand as he went.
Luz felt the sting of tears well up in her eyes as she nudged her mare to a full gallop in the direction of home. The words of the gypsy Marujita rang in her ears: ‘The one you want has other fish to fry. He is a gitano and blood doesn’t mix.’ Strong gusts whipp
ed her hair across her face as she rode, gripping the reins ever more tightly.
Like a forbidden mirage he would always appear just when she thought her love for him was waning.
* * *
The next day, Luz finally heard from Andrés. A note was hand-delivered from his office, but without roses this time. She was hardly surprised after the way she had behaved at La Fortaleza. With trembling hands she opened the cream envelope. His note was brief and to the point, very courteously summoning her to Caldezar Corporación, SA for a briefing session to bring him up to date. He hoped she could make the appointment he had set up and would be most grateful if she would either confirm it or make another date with his secretary if this one was inconvenient. She breathed a sigh of relief – at least she wasn’t being fired.
The meeting was set up for the following morning. Luz took particular care to present a neat and professional appearance just as she had done before when she first visited Andrés’ office. She wore a beige suit, which hugged her in all the right places, and put up her hair in a severe chignon, which offset her shapely cheekbones and made her sapphire eyes seem even wider. Pearl earrings, a small quilted Chanel bag and matching high heels achieved the quietly sophisticated image she was looking for. A last glance in the mirror assured her that she could not have presented herself better.
Luz was nervous. Despite the heat, her hands were ice-cold as she arrived at Caldezar Corporación, SA’s grand office in Plaza de España and was taken up in the lift. Her stomach churned uncomfortably and her heart raced so hard that she thought it would leap out of her mouth at any moment. She could not bear to think about her behaviour that night at La Fortaleza. How could she face him? What excuse could she give? He had probably lost any shred of respect he’d ever held for her. Still, she must face the situation and if that meant she had to grovel a little, then so be it. After all, Andrés de Calderón was not that saintly himself and if she needed to remind him of that, she would. No, no, that was exactly what she must not do, she remonstrated. She needed to look poised and self-assured at all times. She could argue her point calmly, even firmly, but under no circumstances should she be rude, belligerent or uncontrolled – that was sure to get her into hot water again.
As she was being shown towards Andrés’ office, Adalia burst out of the room. She looked flustered and her eyes were red, hardly the confident socialite Luz had seen in Pamplona. She almost knocked Luz over as she brushed past without seeing her. Was there trouble in paradise? Luz wondered.
When she entered the room, he was standing by the window looking out to sea with his back to her, one hand thrust in his pocket. His office felt cool after the heat outside. Sunlight cast lengthy, bright oblong beams through the picture window, fanning around him as though radiating from his body.
‘Doña Luz de Rueda,’ his assistant announced.
Andrés waited until the woman had left the room before he turned. His dark gaze settled on Luz.
‘Good morning.’ An imperceptible tremor of anxiety ran through her skin at the sound of his voice, which his alert eyes did not miss. ‘Are you cold? Shall I have the air-conditioning turned down? It has been said that I keep my office too cold.’ A faint smile touched his lips.
He was perfectly courteous, but he exuded something that turned her throat dry. Luz shook her head mutely. He stood there a moment more in the halo of sunshine surrounding him, so clearly master of the situation.
‘Please, take a seat, Luz.’ He watched her as he settled down in the large leather chair behind his desk. Luz forced herself to gaze back at him steadily. Her face was a little pale but otherwise she managed to maintain a cool and dispassionate exterior that belied the storminess inside her.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, breaking the silence, his intelligent eyes scanning her face intently.
She cleared her throat and tried to look composed. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, raising her chin a little, ‘that I owe you an apology for my appalling behaviour the other evening.’ Her face flamed with colour. There, she had said it. She was feeling a little easier now it was out.
There was a moment of awkwardness then, to her utter astonishment, it was not contempt she glimpsed in his steady dark eyes but a look of understanding, something almost gentle. He smiled that special muted smile, which no doubt set all women’s hearts a-flutter.
‘I myself was largely to blame,’ he conceded in a quiet voice, ‘so let’s put all of it behind us and write this biography. There’s much work to be done.’
Luz’s eyes widened. She had not expected such a chivalrous answer. Was it simply because he was a gentleman that he chose not to embarrass her over her dreadful faux pas at La Fortaleza? Or was this another game, merely designed to encourage her to lower her guard and once more give him the upper hand? There was a slight pause as they continued to look at each other. His unwavering scrutiny held nothing that threatened her this time, she was almost convinced of that. She tore her gaze away and, not for the first time, wondered what made the real Andrés de Calderón tick.
She smiled slowly and reached for the notes in her bag. ‘Yes, let’s make a start.’
The simmering nervousness inside her faded as they began to discuss the book. Her notes were considerable – at least the time she had spent buried in her work had paid off. She outlined her plan to him, the layout of chapters and the way she would tackle the development of her ideas. Following this, she gave him an in-depth view of the conclusions she had drawn about Eduardo de Salazar’s personality and his fantastical art, based on facts she had gathered about his personal life and his extensive travels around the world. There were still big gaps, she told him, and she would need his assistance to fill them in.
For over an hour Andrés wore his businessman’s hat and together they worked in harmony. She seemed to be talking endlessly but that did not matter. Luz was determined to explain her research meticulously and noticed that Andrés spoke very little but was attentive as she outlined her thoughts. Despite being caught up in her own fascination for the material she had unearthed about the artist, she found her attention frequently drawn to Andrés’ mouth as he watched her intently, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, a finger on those sensual lips, while she sketched out her proposal for the early chapters of the book.
He must be a brilliant poker player, she caught herself thinking, because his features were giving away nothing about what he thought of her work and the progress she had made with the project. Well, at least he was listening. He had known how to put her at her ease so he had drawn her out and she was glittering.
Luz finished her presentation. She leaned back in her chair, relieved that it was finally over. Going through her work again, she had been surprised by the amount of detail she had been able to squeeze into these first chapters. The meeting, she felt, had been a success. Was this the right moment to take the bull by the horns and tackle the subject of Lorenzo’s apparent collaboration and the archiving of the Herrera collection? For almost the first time since they had met, Andrés and she were not at loggerheads. She had to admit being on good terms with him was such an agreeable feeling that she dared not jeopardize it. Still, she had to say something. It was important he understood that those terms he and Lorenzo had put in place, without prior discussion with her, were unacceptable. She wished she understood more about this man; that she knew what was going on in his head. At times she thought she must be dealing with a case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde: today it was the likeable Dr Jekyll’s turn to make an appearance and she had no doubt that that was when Andrés de Calderón was at his most dangerous.
Their eyes met, locked. Hers were shining, his steadfast and impassive. For a few harrowing moments she thought she had misinterpreted his silence. Her heart sank. Was what she had taken for mute appreciation in fact disappointment? She drew in a breath and waited for some sarcastic comment.
‘I’m impressed, Luz. I think it’s likely you have given us something important we can share togeth
er,’ he said, beaming. Us? Share? Together? What was he saying? This was all new to her. She was more accustomed to his patronizing tone, peppered with biting sarcasm. What game was he playing this time?
He must have sensed her alarm and frowned faintly. ‘What is it, Luz?’
She did not answer and his frown deepened, vertical lines furrowing his forehead. He paused as if waiting for a reply but, when none was forthcoming, his eyes narrowed. ‘You really are wary of me, aren’t you?’ It was more of a statement than a question. Suddenly his extreme self-assurance, his aura of power evaporated. Shutters came down over the dark irises. He passed a hand wearily over his hair and sighed. ‘What have I done this time to merit the silent reproach in those expressive eyes of yours?’
She could see the despair in his gaze, so unlike the confident man she was used to. Was this all part of the game, too? Had Lorenzo told him about her reaction to their plan?
She sat up, straightened her back and ran the tip of her tongue over her drying lips. Still she hesitated, reluctant to battle with Andrés and knowing they were bound to clash when she brought up the dreaded subject.
‘Why did you not tell me about the Herrera collection?’ she asked quietly.
He seemed a little taken aback. ‘What about the Herrera collection?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s like any other collection you’re investigating,’ he told her dispassionately. ‘We’re still in the early stages of this project, there’s plenty we’ve not talked about. In fact, I’ve had my assistant compile a list of collectors whom you should meet and interview. The Herreras are on that list, of course.’ He stared at her but still she could not read his mind.
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