So Rodrigo was a free man. Or as free as a man cursed with the dynastic responsibilities of the Garcia Montadas could be. Yet instead of clearing the air, as the storm had cleared the air of the forest next morning, the knowledge had brought with it the potential for further tempests.
With his open rejection of her in marriage—the possibility of that had never entered Chrissy's imagination--there was also the destruction of the safety barrier that had so far kept them apart—that of imagined marriage vows. She knew he would find it difficult to understand her reasons for continuing to say 'no' in what were for her changed circumstances.
It made her tremble to think that all she had to help her curb her deep longing for him were just the simple precepts she had been taught as a child—never to compromise and never to live in such a way as to be unable to hold up her head.
With no defences left how would she withstand his continuing pursuit? She went to the office next morning and sent a fax to Cavendish demanding her immediate recall. She would repay the grant she had been given to come out here, she would look for another job if that was the price she had to pay. But one thing was certain, she could not trust herself to keep Rodrigo at arm's length any longer. She loved him. She wanted him. And the only barrier was her common sense. That, at the moment, she held as lightly as a bubble.
When he failed to put in an appearance at dinner that evening, having been absent throughout the day as well, the tension of pitting herself against an invisible enemy began to show. She retired early to bed with a headache, then tossed and turned all night in a fever of longing, cursing her inability to get up and take herself brazenly along to his room whatever the consequences, and glad, next morning, when common sense had once again ruled the night.
'Are you feeling unwell?' Anna had stopped by her study for a mid-morning chat and now peered anxiously into Chrissy's pale face.
'I got a headache last night and can't seem to get rid of it,' she replied, almost truthfully. Headache, heartache, it was much the same thing.
'I'll get you something. You of all people should know a cure.' Anna disappeared and a moment later returned with a steaming mug. 'A cup of mate. That should do the trick.'
Dutifully Chrissy drank the not unpleasant liquid and thanked Anna for her trouble.
'Don't forget the beach trip tomorrow,' Anna reminded her as she went out.
He was absent again the next day. A fax had come for her during the night. It said simply, 'Stay put, discussions pending.' Mystified and dogged by a strange listlessness, she left it to sort itself out. She seemed to be moving under water now. Nothing was real. A part of her seemed to be missing, part of her mind, her soul, her heart, she didn't know. But she was only half alive. Why had he deserted her now when she needed him? At least they could have talked. Surely they could have talked?
That afternoon when the whole house slept and he had still not returned from wherever he had escaped to, she did the only thing she could and went along to the library he had shown her along the same corridor as his mother's boudoir. There would be something here to satisfy the nagging questions that were sapping her vitality. Here there must be at least a passing reference to the events that had grown into the sort of burden Rodrigo was carrying.
There was a smell of old leather and vellum. In the city the archives had dealt exclusively with the business interests of the family but here they were of a personal nature. Lists of births and deaths, descriptions of wedding feasts and christenings, funerals and commemorations down through the ages echoed the roll-call of the dead. The name Rodrigo recurred over and over again as the name of the first-born son; Chrissy could feel the weight of it on her shoulders arid she cried inwardly to think that now it wasn't just an imagined barrier that separated them, but the many barriers of history, of centuries-old tradition, of the precedent of law and duty.
Then she found the book printed on modern paper, some of its pages still uncut. Here were the records kept by Miguel Garcia from the date on which he became head of the family. Here were private handwritten notes, the pages of a diary, letters, photographs.
She gazed for a long time at the faded portrait of a woman like herself only in that she was blonde. There was a heart-rendingly familiar look about the eyes and if the photograph had been in colour she knew they would have been that shade of cobalt she had come to love.
There was a wilfulness around the mouth that too was not unfamiliar, but, contrary to what Rodrigo had hinted, she didn't have the air of a cold woman, a heartless woman who would abandon her husband and son on a whim.
Perhaps, thought Chrissy, she was driven by love of her own people to return once for a last goodbye. Perhaps she intended to return here to these foreigners, to this foreign land. How could they ever know? Why did the father and the son not know? What sort of farewell had it been? The black border round the last entry in which she was mentioned told her that now no one would ever know the truth.
A sound in the corridor made her close the book and put it back where she had found it, wondering as she did so whether Rodrigo ever came to look at the portrait of his mother and, if so, what emotions coloured his thoughts. She knew they would have to talk and could scarcely wait for his return.
The last thing she desired that weekend was a beach party. Surrounded by crowds and expected to play her part, she put on a brave face, played handball with the tots, swam, fell off a sailboard once or twice, and later danced with several of Anna's handsome smiling brothers, but, underneath, her heart was an aching void.
They returned in a laughing melee in a couple of Jeeps and one or two private cars and disgorged at around three a.m. on the steps of the hacienda amid loud shushing noises and stifled giggles. Chrissy was the only one staying in the hacienda and when everyone climbed back into the vehicles she realised she had been privileged to have an escort to the doors. When everyone drove off again in a chorus of goodnights and stylishly screeching tyres, she was smiling half-heartedly as she watched them go, then turned towards the steps.
A shaft of light cut a swathe through the night. And silhouetted at its centre loomed a black figure.
Fear was her first reaction. He was back. But he was so still. So brooding. Cloaked about with such an air of menace. The light behind him dazzled her eyes. She could only see a shape without detail. Treading the steps to the top, counting them in order to hold still the abrupt racketing of her heart, she drew level. He side-stepped to let her pass.
'Had a good time?' he grated above her ear. Then one hand shot out catching her by the nape of the neck and dragging her to a stop.
'I—I thought you were away,' she blurted, confused by the violence of his expression now she could see his face clearly.
'As you see,' he grimaced, '1 have returned. I hope it doesn't spoil your fun?'
'Anna asked me to go with them a few days ago,' she stammered, wondering why she was bothering to give an account of herself.
'Good. I'm glad to see you're paving the way to being part of the work-force.'
'Sorry?'
'Have the details come through yet?'
'What details? And please, Rod, you're hurting me a little bit --' In fact he was hurting her a lot but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. The look on his face was primitive, savage. He looked as if he would like to hurt her in far worse ways, and put next to the pain in her heart caused by his absence she would prefer any mild physical discomfort to that. But it still needed pointing out.
'I'm sorry.' He immediately released her. 'I didn't realise ... I thought you were just going to go sweeping straight past without a word.' He put out a hand and rubbed the back of her neck, then bent to touch it with his lips, straightening abruptly and pushing her inside the house. He closed the massive wooden doors and bolted them, making her feel like a recalcitrant teenager though she'd never had to face the ire of a father after a late-night party before. He swung to face her. 'Hasn't your lab come back with their decision yet?'
'
I'm sorry?'
He examined her blank expression. 'You don't know a damn thing about it, do you?'
'Should I?' Vaguely she remembered Cavendish's exhortation to stay put. Discussions pending, whatever that meant. 'Has something been going on?'
'Yesterday, when I saw how interested you were in what we were doing at headquarters, it occurred to me you might consider joining the company on a more permanent basis as a research assistant. Actually it's an idea that's been brewing in my mind for some time. You could still maintain ties with your old job. I thought it would be useful to make it a joint venture, pool resources. They obviously have more advanced facilities in some respects than we have at present. But we have the natural resources—and at the moment we have you.' He smiled grimly. 'I expected a response by now. And I thought you might have already mulled it over and come to your own decision.'
'I...' Her mind raced. 'It sounds a good idea in outline. I would have to know more about it --' To be here, with him. That was what he was offering. Her mouth went dry.
'Of course you need the facts. I have a proposal...' He pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. 'Most definitely not a proposal—I'm sorry...' For the first time she saw a look of unmistakable guilt flash across his face, but he recovered and went on, 'I have an outline, I mean. It's in my study. Too late to look at it now, but first thing in the morning...' He hesitated. 'Chrissy... understand what I've had to do.'
He gave her a searching look, his eyes almost storm-coloured as if he was expecting trouble. His lips tightened aggressively. 'We'll talk when you've told me your decision. I'll go over to the office and see if there's a fax waiting. I haven't been back long myself.'
Wondering where he had been for so long, she watched him swivel and, without looking at her again, make his way across the entrance hall to the far door. When he reached it he half turned to find her standing where he had left her. 'Go to bed now. Goodnight,' he told her bleakly. Then he was gone.
Slowly finding her way upstairs, Chrissy could see no explanation for that look of guilt she had witnessed, nor any reason for his brusque, in fact dismissive, manner, especially as what he was telling her sounded like another instance of his generosity. To have first offer of a job like this was a wonderful opportunity. It sounded perfect in every way... Except that it would make the task of keeping him at arm's length impossible... but then... maybe she would find a way of loving him... of being with him...and keeping her self-respect too...?
She brushed a hand across her face. It was all too complex.
First she would have see what Cavendish said.
If he agreed to the plan, time then to unravel the knot that was strangling her heart...
She started to ready herself for bed but something was nagging at her. There was something wrong. She felt it in her bones. It wasn't just that the plan sounded too good to be true—careerwise that was. There was something else.
Even as she went over everything again she could find no fault in it even though she knew something wasn't right.
But it was no good making guesses. She would have to control her misgivings till morning.
Sleeping late, she was eventually wakened by the sound of the single bell from the village church. She lay for a long time listening to its half-sad, half-merry sound, imagining the passing centuries when this same sound had rung out from the white bell-tower over the domain of Rodrigo's ancestors. She had learned that the village was known simply as the aldeia and in full as aldeia Garcia Montada. His name was branded on everything.
Curious to discover more about the scheme he had briefly mentioned last night, she went down to the poolside office to see if he was there. All she found was a sheaf of notes and the reply from Cavendish.
It was long and detailed but the message was summed up in the final sentence: all systems go! She gave a frightened smile. So it was now up to her. Her moment of destiny approached. She could burn her bridges, or say no and run for her life.
There was another fax addressed to her—Rod had placed it so she could see it on top of the outline he had left out. It was from Gavin. He told her that Cavendish had tried to persuade him to try for the job himself but he wanted Chrissy to accept as she had obviously got the magic touch. She smiled. He was a sweet man.
He was, he said, more than content to know he had security of tenure as a researcher—there were still, he went on, a lot more trees in the forest! He finished by thanking her for sending on his completed findings so quickly and telling her that he would be seeing her soon.
She took the typescript and settled down beside the pool to read it. With no one around she soon scanned the salient points and realised that Rod had been very thorough. There was nothing she could fault. If his feelings for her had prompted him to think of a way of keeping her here, at least his mind had been functioning properly when he had come to make his proposal—she bit her lip—to write his outline, she corrected. No wonder Cavendish had jumped at it. Trust him, though, to try to push Gavin into the hot-seat and drag her back to the UK!
The turquoise water was lapping invitingly at her feet and, taking the file back to the office, she decided that as she obviously had to amuse herself this morning she might as well take a dip. Going up to her room, she pushed aside the black swim-suit in favour of a tiny goldthread bikini. Feeling that she might as well dress up as it didn't seem to matter if she dressed down—Rod's ardour wasn't in the least diminished by her deliberate lack of allure—she wriggled into it.
It was extremely revealing. She bit her lip. Dared she? But Juanita's bikini had been just as brief so it was obviously considered to be the done thing to go around so scantily clad. It was a private house, after all. And besides, he had seen her in the black swim-suit before and too many times she had appeared at her worst in stained working garb. This other one was flattering to her figure and she knew it would please him.
Trailing a towelling robe and wondering where everyone was this morning, she made her way downstairs and plunged into the pool with a gasp of pleasure. It was heaven, floating on a translucent cloud, sky and water a matchless blue... reminding her, always reminding her of the heavenly blue of his eyes... She was trembling with anticipation. When he came back she would tell him what she had decided. Then her future would rest in the hands of fate.
'Chrissy!' A peremptory shout cut across her daydreams and she lifted her head, disturbing the lazy star-shape she made on the surface of the water. He was here. At last! Her heart bucked. She sank back, a languid mermaid with her long hair floating in a fine mesh around her head. Now she would have to go to him.. .and tell him...
'Chrissy! Get the hell out of there!' There was a muttered aside and when she raised her head again she saw that he was not alone. There was a woman with him dressed entirely in black. Black shoes. Black stockings. Prim black dress with the glint of a gold brooch at the neck. And a fine black veil obscuring her face. She carried gloves, a neat bag and a small black book. Rod, now she looked at him properly, was wearing a solemn black suit with a white shirt and black tie. And now she really looked at him, his face was as black as a thundercloud.
She bobbed upright, treading water, still half in and half out of her daydream.
'Get out, will you? Can't you hear me?'
'Why? What's wrong?' She swam smoothly to the edge with her long blonde hair trailing behind her and bobbed up and down, looking from his furious expression to the impassive veiled countenance of his companion. She could just make out the dark shape of the woman's eyes. They were staring as if in shock.
'How dare you? Get out this minute and clothe yourself!'
Wondering if something terrible had happened, she swam to the side and climbed out, shedding splinters of crystal drops, the sunlight glinting on her gold bikini, her hair snaking around her shoulders, a wild, blonde mane. She bent to squeeze the water out of it then lifted it to the top of her head, holding it there for a moment as she smiled expectantly into his beloved face.
'It's heaven
in the water, Rod, why don't you come in?' she gasped. Warm trickles were still running down her shoulders and between her breasts, making her squirm with pleasure. On seeing her rise out of the water like that his eyes had begun to skid feverishly over her almost naked body, desire blazing out of their depths without disguise, and his lips parted in an audible gasp like a man momentarily winded. For a moment time seemed to stretch and everything but his naked desire and her unashamed affirmation of it swung out of focus.
'Deus!' It was the snapped exclamation of his companion that brought them both to their senses. The woman in black turned with a swish of starched skirts and made for the house.
'Cover yourself decently then come down to the salon at once!' he barked, turning to follow the woman inside.
Chrissy blinked as she gazed after him. What had all that been about? Then she realised they must both have just returned from church. Even so, surely it didn't warrant this raging reaction as if she had been caught doing something cheap? If the bikini was a little revealing she could hardly be blamed for that—it was one he had provided!
Angry at being made to feel she had done something shameful, she pulled on her robe and marched inside. Why the hell should she go and change? She might want to continue her swim, mightn't she? Or was swimming inexplicably forbidden on a Sunday?
She found the salon—or rather, she was led to it by the sound of a woman's angry voice. Unable to understand what she was saying, there was no doubt as to the gist. An insult had been received and Rodrigo was being informed of that fact in no uncertain terms. She didn't wait to find out how he would respond to it, but instead marched straight inside in her bare feet with the white towelling robe tightly belted and her head held high.
'You wanted to speak to me?' she demanded.
Rod swivelled, his face paste-white, eyes black in their sockets, the skin over the aristocratic nose tight with fury. 'I told you to dress yourself --'
'But I haven't finished my swim,' she cut in. 'Surely you don't expect me to go up, shower, dress, come down, chat, then go up and climb back into my bikini again?'
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