by Margaret Way
Cecile bowed her head over the keys, her long graceful neck revealed by her hairstyle for the evening, an updated chignon. Normally she was very comfortable in this setting, surrounded by family and friends, none of them, outside of her mother, critical. For a moment her nervousness threatened to overwhelm her. She glanced up at the ceiling; the ceiling stared back. God, she was nothing without her confidence. No performer was. Someone was laughing, a soft little giggle. Sounded like Tara. Etiquette demanded an audience be quiet, but it was hard to quiet Tara, who wasn’t a music lover, anyway.
What was happening to her? Stage fright? Panic attacks could happen right out of the blue. She had seen them with sad regularity in the course of her work, but she had never actually experienced one until she’d laid eyes on Raul Montalvan.
Play something easy. Start with a couple of Chopin Waltzes. Everyone just wants to enjoy themselves.
She glanced down at her hands, wondering if she had simply lost it.
Then suddenly he was approaching the piano, asking her very charmingly if the Spanish composer Albeniz was included in her repertoire. He pronounced the composer’s name in the Spanish fashion. She had never heard it sound so good. She had intended to start with a Brahms rhapsody, but Spanish music had always captivated her. She had kept up the repertoire. Why, given he was South American, had she not thought of it herself?
“As long as you don’t expect me to measure up to the great Alicia De Larrocha,” she said, finding she was able to breathe again.
“You’re an artist, I’m sure.” He looked deeply into her eyes. Then he moved back to his position on the sofa between Tara and Great-Aunt Bea, who claimed to have been in her youth—she was now seventy-eight—a regular love goddess. Bea certainly liked good-looking men, never depriving herself of their company.
The lights turned on again in her brain. Normally she would never have started with the very difficult “Malaga,” one of the most passionate pieces of Abeniz’s great work for piano, Iberia, but the fact he had come to her aid—his eyes told her that—fired her blood. She turned with a smile to announce to the room what she intended to play. She saw her grandfather clap with delight, turning his head to say a few words to his Argentinian guest. Bea gave her such an animated wave of her heavily bejewelled hands, Cecile thought for a moment she might get up and dance; her mother sat with a slight frown as though doubting whether, without practice, she could pull it off.
Thank you, Mother; for the vote of confidence.
She knew well how difficult it was to treat children whose parents, especially the mothers, were overly demanding. Her old professor at the Conservatorium had always refused to let her mother sit in on any lesson, even rehearsals for exams.
Helicopter mothers, Cecile, forever hovering over their children. I cannot abide them!
She sat quietly for a moment before the keyboard, bringing all her concentration to bear. Then when she was ready she launched into the piece that in essence represented the wonderful dance rhythms of the malaguena.
NEVER FOR A MOMENT had he allowed his purpose for coming here to fade from his mind. What he wanted was revenge. It was a kind of mania, really. Sometimes more than others—when he was riding alone far out on the pampas—he saw himself as a grown man bound by the vows of his youth. A boy lost, his face hot and flushed with tears for all the misfortune coming his beloved grandfather’s way. It was obvious even to him forces were at work to drive them off their land. Land that one day would be his. Land was everything. It spoke to him with a passion. There was an explanation for what was happening.
The Morelands.
“They ’re determined to ruin us!” He wasn’t sure how he was going to achieve revenge—strip a powerful man of at least some of his prestige—but he was hoping ways and means would present themselves as he was drawn deeper and deeper into their world. He had achieved his prime objective of working his way in with little difficulty. It had turned out to be so easy he could scarcely believe it. He‘ had the motivation, now he needed the necessary guile. There would be opportunities. This family, like all families, had secrets. Dark, damning secrets that needed to be exposed to the light of day and public censure. Since he’d been a boy he had dreamed of striking a blow at the family responsible for his own family’s long years of suffering and exile: the Morelands, with their powerful army of sympathizers and supporters.
His mother had found peace in her second marriage, giving birth to Francisco, his stepfather Ramon’s heir, then two years later, little Ramona. His own father, who had been enticed to Argentina to play polo and was later employed by Ramon to help breed his polo ponies, was long dead, dying in hospital a few days after taking a bad fall at a home match. He would have survived the fall, only it was his blighted destiny to be trampled by his agitated pony. Polo, the way the gauchos played it, was dangerously fast in what was the fastest game in the world. What had happened to his father should have put him off playing polo for life, but he, too, thrived on the element of danger. Horsemanship was in his blood. He had inherited his father’s speed and finesse and his near-complete range of strokes. Unlike his father when he played it was with one objective in mind: to win. He knew Joel Moreland had been a fine, enthusiastic player. He knew his son Jared rode as hard and fearlessly as the best. He knew a great deal about Jared Moreland, the predator, canonized in death.
What he hadn’t anticipated was meeting this beautiful creature, Jared Moreland’s niece. She couldn’t be allowed to get in his way. Then again, he knew he had her at his mercy. If he could only bring himself to be so ruthless, she could play a big part in showing the all-powerful Morelands what it was like to suffer. He relived the moment he’d looked up to see her standing above him. on the central balcony of the mansion.
She had appeared in her wedding finery like some splendid apparition or a beautiful illustration out of one of Ramona’s golden books of fairy tales. Her gown was a lustrous silver. She wore a crown of flowers on her head. That first sight of her might well haunt him the rest of his life, he thought bleakly. Just the sight of her had made him think for the first time he should be building his own life, not forever seeking revenge for a past that was gone. Were the vows he had made eternally binding? Why had she made him feel they no longer meant anything?
For long moments he’d been a stranger to himself. She hadn’t been aware of him, so he continued to stare with this queer hunger, as a man might stare at the unattainable. She shone in her bridesmaid’s gown. Her skin gave off a lovely, luminous glow. Her effect on him was unprecedented in his experience, when his family’s adopted Argentina was full of beautiful women, his for the asking. He had not dreamed of this, when it was essential he remain true to himself.
She had turned her head; stared down at him, her beautiful face unsmiling. Impossible to smile at that moment. He remembered he’d saluted her in some way. She had acknowledged him, regal as a princess. He’d wanted to climb up to her, using the thick, flowering trumpet vine that wreathed the white pillars as purchase for his eager feet. He was a passionate slave to beauty in all its forms, but for no woman had he been aflame with a terrible desire. It was unimaginable she should be a Moreland.
He had known that at once. She was Cecile Moreland, very much her grandfather’s princess and heiress. She was far more beautiful in the flesh than in her photos in newspapers and the social pages of magazines, arresting as they were. He’d made it his business to find out everything there was to be learned about the Morelands. He already knew much, since he had lived with that hated name since his childhood. He had started his updated research with the Man with the Midas Touch, Joel Moreland. He now knew where every member of the entire clan lived, what they did for a living, the circles they moved in, their particular friends, their habits. He might have been commissioned to write an unauthorized book on the family, entitled A Study of the Morelands. Joel Moreland, the patriarch, father of the dead Jared, was way up there with the richest men in the country. His interests were vast. He d
oted on the young woman who now sat at the piano, her raven head bent over the keys.
She could complicate things drastically if he allowed it. Or she could become the all-powerful pawn. He had no stomach for causing grief to a woman—certainly not one who had so easily ensnared him—but he couldn’t forget how much the women of his family had suffered. His grandmother, his mother, his aunts. The entire family had been forced off the land as his grandfather went deeper and deeper into debt. Land that one day his grandfather had promised would be his. Land was everything. Only, his grandfather had gone bankrupt. His creditors had moved in and they had moved out. Exile was like an amputation. There was an explanation for it all, the never-ending problems and misfortune. The way the family was ostracized.
Moreland wrath.
“They ’re determined to ruin us, boy!” his grandfather had said, shaking an impotent fist at the clear blue sky. The memory would always remain with him: the boy and the old man. The boy’s face hot and flushed with tears, his heart as heavy as his grandfather’s. What was to be his was no more. His inheritance, his future hopes had been swept away on a wind straight from hell.
Even in the middle of his tortured thoughts, Raul had sensed Cecile was under some strain, as intensely nervous as he was intensely on edge. He’d been observing her closely all through dinner even with her charming but frivolous friend’s voice buzzing like a bee in his ear. He rose when Tara began to giggle softly, walked to the piano knowing intuitively he could restore her nervous energy. It was all part of their subterranean communication.
The instant Cecile’s hands touched the keys, the magic of the wonderful opening bars put his somber thoughts to rest. He sat back simply to listen, to absorb the music and the spectacle of her beauty as she sat at the grand piano in her lovely chiffon dress. The color put him in mind of the jacarandas, native to the high deserts of adjoining Brazil. They grew everywhere in Argentina and in flower lit up the Montalvan estancia. He knew they flourished, too, in many parts of temperate and subtropical Australia.
She played beautifully, powerfully. More important, she had mastered to perfection the particular rhythms of Spanish music. His stepsister, Ramona, was an accomplished pianist, but nothing like this. He knew the piece she was playing. He knew practically every piano piece the composer had written, the Iberia suite well, although Ramona always said the “Malaga” was too hard for her. Ramona had played the “Suite Espanola” so often over the years he could have whistled every note. In fact, he did whistle the catchy melodies as he rode the pampas. Ramon had been the kindest and most generous of stepfathers, adopting him and lending him his name. But Ramon had his heir, Francisco, who would soon turn twenty-one. Stepbrothers, they had never grown close. There was the big difference in age. He was nearly eleven years older, and Francisco was burdened by an intensely jealous nature that came much between them. With him out of the way, perhaps Francisco could find himself and become a better man.
AS IT WAS A WEEKDAY, all the guests were ready to take their leave not long after midnight. The senator as he was leaving complimented Cecile on “a wonderful performance.” The other guests, too, as they moved out the front door expressed their enjoyment. Tara, who had come with her parents, grasped Cecile’s arm rather painfully, drawing her swiftly aside.
“He’s not married, is he?” she asked excitedly, color in her creamy cheeks.
“You mean Raul?”
“What’s wrong with you all of a sudden? Of course I mean Raul. He’s devastating!” Tara rolled her eyes.
“Don’t get your hopes up, girl. I understand he has six children. Argentinians marry early.”
Tara elbowed her in the ribs. “You’re joking! He’s not married at all. Is he?”
“He says not. Do you think we can believe him?”
“Well, I intend to.” Tara readjusted the bodice of her dress to better show off her cleavage. “Listen, Ceci, I need to see more of him. Can you arrange it? Don’t tell me now,” she whispered hurriedly. “Here he comes. I don’t want him to know we’re talking about him. Have coffee with me tomorrow, okay? I’ll ring you.”
“Fine. I look forward to it.”
Tara directed a brilliant smile and a little flutter of her hand at Raul Montalvan, calling sweetly, “Hope to see you again, Raul!”
“Is someone giving you a lift?” Cecile inquired of him politely. Fiona and Bruce had had a previous engagement, so they weren’t able to attend the dinner party.
“I don’t need a lift.” He looked down at her gravely. “Your grandfather has already asked. I intend to walk back to the house. It’s a beautiful night, and only a couple of miles to the residence; I’m used to very long treks, so a couple of miles could scarcely bother me. That said,” his handsome mouth twitched, “perhaps you can walk me to your front gate? I’ve been wanting to tell you for close on two hours how much excitement I heard in your playing. It gave me enormous pleasure.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head. “And thank you for helping me through a nervous moment. Somehow I froze when I’m used to playing for company.”
“Perhaps I inspired the nerves, so it was necessary for me to take them away.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” There was a spirited flash in her silver-sheened eyes.
“I could scarcely answer, sure of you!”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Only if you’ll respond.” He smiled. “Come…” He didn’t wait for her to agree to accompany him, but gently took her aim.
“Where are you off to, Ceci?” her mother called brightly from the bottom of the grand staircase.
“Ah, the mother ever ready to watch over her chick”” he sighed softly, bending his head to Cecile’s ear.
“Only to the front gate, Mother,” she replied just as blithely.
“Some mothers never really see their daughters as grown-up,” he said.
“Please don’t tell anyone, okay?” she said coolly when she felt a fever coming on.
THE LAST OF THE GUESTS’ cars were in line to pull out of the open front gates, their rear lights glowing a hot red. In silence they walked down the short flight of stone steps that led away from the huge three-story, colonial-style mansion with its towering vine-wreathed white pillars and second-floor central balcony. Cecile’s heart was racing ninety to the dozen, as adrenaline poured into her blood. Now she knew what being on a “high” was. She didn’t need any drugs; she was sizzling with the fever of sexual attraction. She felt she was doing something tantalizingly illicit, yet at the same time she couldn’t and wouldn’t stop herself from going with him. There was simply no chance of stopping. It wasn’t that she was so much afraid of him. She was afraid of herself. And why not? She didn’t know herself anymore. The outwardly serene Cecile people were used to had been replaced by someone quite. different. She was now a woman who was ready to take dangerous chances.
The night sky was glorious, crowded. with stars that hung over the harbor. The sea breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and shook out the perfume of a million tropical flowers. They had moved beyond the wide semicircle of exterior lights from the house, but the huge lantern lights set into the massive stone pillars that supported the wrought-iron gates showed the path clearly.
“You grandfather has very kindly asked me to his flagship station, as he called it, Malagari.”
“When will this be?” She lifted her head in surprise. She didn’t know how to take it-things were moving so fast.
“Would you believe toward the end of next week?” he said smoothly. “He had to consult his diary. He told me he had promised you a trip also, that Malagari is one of your favorite places.”
“The favorite,” she said.
“I expect he will want you to come along as well.” His voice dropped deep into his chest. “Perhaps we could enjoy some marvelous Outback adventure together?”
The very thought sent cascading ripples down her spine. “There’s absolutely no way I can do that, Raul. You
know I can’t!”
“But you can!”
The way he said it thrilled her. This was the moment she should pull back, but he had the speed and grace of a big cat. With one arm around her he whirled her off the driveway into the dense shadow of the trees.
“Wait! Wait, Raul! What are you doing?” Her voice shook; her body trembled violently. She might have been stripped naked.
He ran a finger down her satin cheek. “Cecile, my behavior is wholly known to you.”
It was a waste of time denying it. “That doesn’t mean it’s not wrong.” She felt herself flush deeply.
“I know that, too—” his answer was clipped “—but I can’t seem to help myself.”
“Raul, I’m engaged!” She despised herself for using it as a shield.
“I remember,” he said quietly.
“Then you must realize this shouldn’t happen.”
“Astonishingly it has!” He pulled her close. “And engaged isn’t married. I don’t much like your fiancé. I feel strongly he isn’t the man for you.”
Her agitation intensified. “I don’t know what I’m expected to say to that. He’s my fiancé. I love him. You don’t know anything about Stuart. He’s—”
He stopped her mouth with his own.
Delirium!
Moondust fell from the skies, settling like a golden net around them.
His kiss was so deep and so passionate all thought of withstanding it evaporated like the dawn mist. It was a total assault on the senses, too devastating in its power for a mere kiss. Sensation upon sensation rushed through her body, hot, sweet, incredibly fierce. If he had drawn her down to the thick grass where they stood, she wouldn’t have resisted. Resistance was impossible, even though she knew she was flouting her own code of honorable behavior.
In moments it was over. She stood there panting, trying to regain some semblance of control. He was still holding her in his arms, but she couldn’t get her balance back. It was moments more before she could pull away.