The Eagle and the Sun Read online

  'Your friend,' he interrupted, investing the term with a wealth of scorn, 'was using you to score a cheap point. I will not have my guests abused in such a manner.'

  Cass jumped to her feet. 'How very thoughtful of you!' she blazed. 'And of course you had no intention of doing the same!'

  One dark brow lifted. 'I do not understand.'

  'I bet you don't.' Cass flung the words at him. 'Naturally it never occurred to you that Derek would wonder how you knew where the aspirins were, how you could possibly know unless you had been in my bedroom.'

  Miguel's eyes narrowed. 'You are not betrothed to him.' It was a statement.

  'No, but—'

  'And you do not intend to be.' 'No—'

  'Then whom you invite to your room is not his concern.'

  'But I didn't invite you,' Cass cried.

  'You know that and I know that,' Miguel said imperturbably, 'so where is the problem?' He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table, his dark eyes intent. 'If I had permitted you to leave this room and go upstairs, do you think he would have shared that view?'

  Cass stared at him. What he said was true. Derek would have subjected her to a barrage of questions, demanding answers as though by right.

  But she owed no one any explanations. She was her own person, free to do as she liked. The

  realisation filled her with a strange mixture of exultation and dismay, for it made her future even more uncertain. Having discovered this new self she could not deny it, but Derek would not easily accept the sudden change. The fact that he was involved in her career made it doubly difficult.

  'So,' Miguel stood up, breaking into her thoughts, 'you are ready?' His gaze held hers across the litter of the meal and she read challenge in it.

  She lifted her chin. 'Ready.' Her throat was dry but her heels clicked briskly on the tiles as she picked up her bag and walked out into the hall.

  Derek met them at the bottom of the stairs, but Miguel did not allow Cass's pace to falter.

  Acutely aware of his hand resting lightly on the small of her back and anxious to escape the unsettling touch, Cass climbed into the pale-blue and ivory Range Rover, not realising until he closed the door and was halfway round the bonnet that he had seated her in the front next to himself.

  Derek got in the back, slamming the door with unnecessary force as Miguel fastened his seatbelt and started the engine. By then it was too late to change anything.

  Miguel guided the vehicle down the drive and on to the rough road. Derek's smouldering resentment added to an atmosphere already tense. But Miguel seemed oblivious as he replied to Cass's rather desperate observation that the colours of the car matched those of the helicopter.

  'It's a form of advertising of course, though, naturally, we do not use our name.'

  'Oh, naturally,' Derek muttered sarcastically.

  'Why not?' Cass asked, pretending not to hear.

  'It is not necessary. My father chose the combination of colours and the design. It is unique, our trademark if you like.'

  Cass was intrigued. 'Could you have chosen any colours you wanted?'

  He nodded. 'Provided we did not infringe anyone else's design.'

  'Why ivory and blue?' Derek demanded from the back. 'Pastel shades are hardly part of the macho image, I'd have thought.'

  Miguel's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror and a muscle jumped in his jaw but his voice remained even.

  'Here in Mexico the machine is operating in what are termed hot and high conditions. Pale colours have greater reflective powers. There is the other point that the arrangement of colours, ivory at the top over the engine casing and front of the cabin, and blue running from the door to the tail, increases the illusion of length and minimises the helicopter's tadpole appearance.' He caught Cass's darted glance. 'You seem surprised,' he said drily.

  Cass hesitated, but only for a moment. She and the tall man beside her had been far too bruisingly honest with one another for circumspection to carry any weight now. 'I wouldn't have thought appearances bothered you,' she said recklessly.

  'They don't,' he agreed, 'not for their own sake. But certain shapes are more aesthetically pleasing than others.' He turned his head, impaling her with a penetrating glance. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart kicked.

  'I am as susceptible to beauty as any man and more fortunate than most,' he turned once more to the windscreen, 'for my life is full of it: my horses, the gemstones I handle every day, even these hills.'

  'And women?' Derek's tone was half-snigger, half-sneer, and Cass felt both ashamed and irritated at his continued sniping.

  But though her intuition, so startlingly acute where Miguel was concerned, told her he was becoming progressively more irritated by Derek's manner, not by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray it.

  'Indeed, there are many beautiful women in my country,' he said impassively.

  'You were talking about your life,' Derek argued. 'How many beautiful women do you know... personally?'

  It suddenly dawned on Cass that despite his apparent banter, Derek was not only trying to embarrass Miguel, he was also having a go at her, warning her off, making it plain, without actually saying so, that she was wasting her time if she harboured any fanciful thoughts about attracting the handsome Mexican.

  Compressing her lips, she seethed in silence and stared out of the side window, her long hair curving forward, masking her face from them both as she battled to contain a mixture of emotions that were deeply disturbing. She could say nothing without bringing Derek's insinuations to Miguel's attention, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  'I have never felt it necessary to count,' Miguel replied coolly and, making it clear the subject was

  closed, he touched Cass's hand lightly to attract her attention before pointing to the hillside. 'As you see, our crops are somewhat different from those in your country.'

  Her cheeks pink, conscious of the lingering imprint of his fingers, Cass kept her gaze focused outside. 'What is that? There were fields of it near the airstrip.'

  'Agave, a species of maguey. They look like cacti, but in fact are not.'

  'What are they for?' Cass forced her attention outside to her surroundings. 'I mean, do you eat them?'

  'These are not grown as a food plant,' he explained, 'though other species, as well as providing paper and thread, also supply vinegar, molasses and candy. Did you notice that the root looks rather like a large hand-grenade?'

  Cass turned to him. 'Is that significant?'

  He nodded. 'You have heard of tequila, the national drink of Mexico?'

  'It was once described to me as liquid fire.'

  He grimaced. 'That seems reasonably accurate. Tequila is distilled from agave roots, and if you are not used to it,' he grinned at her, 'it will blow your head off.'

  Cass felt herself begin to relax. 'Do you grow much?'

  'Several thousand acres.'

  As she gasped, Miguel shrugged. 'Up here the ground is not fit for anything else.'

  'Is that why you have the helicopter?' she ventured. 'To get around the estate?'

  'Partly. Though we have foremen with walkie- talkies covering different areas in trucks or on horseback. The helicopter is used more for trips between the hacienda and our mines, and of course, San Miguel.'

  Cass looked blank and then asked uncertainly, 'What is San Miguel?'

  'A town about forty miles from here.' He was silent for a moment. 'In his letter I believe my father suggested that you should attend a fiesta?'

  'Yes.' Cass couldn't entirely banish the disappointment from her voice. She had read about the loud and colourful celebrations where singing and dancing blended with devotions to the saint in whose honour the fiesta was being held. But no books could fully convey the unique blend of carnival and religious pilgrimage which comprised the event. 'It's such a pity—' She broke off, suddenly ashamed. 'I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me. Naturally, with your father so ill, you have far more on yo
ur mind than fiestas.'

  He gave her a thoughtful look, but remained silent.

  They drove through the outskirts of the city, past shanties where Indians and Mestizo peasants lived side by side. Ragged children played barefoot in the dust. Women sat in their doorways, sewing and gossiping in the sunshine. An old man in broken sandals shuffled along with two white chickens tucked under his arms and was passed by a boy whose torn shorts reached almost to his knees, carrying an enormous basket of fresh flowers.

  'God,' Derek muttered in disgust, 'how can they

  live like that?'

  'They do the best they can with what they have,' Miguel replied. His voice had an edge to it.

  'It's utter squalor,' Derek shuddered. 'What are they doing here anyway? Where have they come from?' He swivelled round to watch through the back window two Indian girls in red-sashed cotton skirts and embroidered blouses squatting beside a small fire over which stood an iron griddle. Their hair fell over their shoulders in a single braid tied with ribbon as they patted lumps of dough between floury hands into flat round cakes, laying them on a chipped plate next to the fire.

  'If you mean those girls,' Miguel said, 'they have not come from anywhere. They are Otomi Indians. This town was founded by their ancestors. It became part of the Aztec empire in the fifteenth century, and was captured by the Spanish in 1531. Those girls have more right to be here than you or I.'

  'Has your family lived here long?' Cass blurted, anxious to deter Derek from making any more scathing remarks. It was obvious he and Miguel did not like one another, but couldn't he see that if he stretched Miguel's tolerance too far he might as well wave goodbye to any hopes of a business agreement? She realised she was tense again, wound up tight as a watch spring. It was reaction born of habit. She was trying to keep the peace, using herself as a buffer between the two men. Why was she doing it? No one had asked her to. As she recognised this truth, another was demanding to be faced—her growing curiosity about Miguel Ibarra.

  He was everything she had accused him of, and more. Yet their short acquaintanceship had affected her more deeply than she cared to admit.

  It wasn't simply his physical impact, though that was profound. He rode superbly, drove with an economy of style that mocked Derek's 'macho' image, and piloted his own helicopter. There was nothing ostentatious about his undeniable wealth and he was plainly more than capable of handling the Ibarra business empire in his father's absence. He was the ultimate modern man.

  And yet—Cass had a vivid recollection of an illustration of Montezuma, the Aztec emperor. His gold-threaded robes, gem-encrusted sandals, and cloak of shimmering green feathers had impressed her less than his features. He had demanded the sacrifice of thousands of human hearts, believing that without this offering the sun would refuse to rise. His empire had been one of the most well organised and fabulously wealthy the world had ever known. It was also the cruellest.

  Cass darted a glance at Miguel, seeing in his profile echoes of the past. Gooseflesh erupted on her arms and despite the sun's warmth and the comfort of the car, she shivered. She tried to convince herself that all she saw was the same strength of purpose, and failed. It was more than that, much more.

  'How long? Over four hundred years,' he said casually. 'One of my ancestors came from Spain with the conquistadors. The woman he married was already here.'

  Cass felt a strange sinking sensation in the pit of

  her stomach. They passed an ornate church topped with domes and towers. A tree-lined plaza was thronged with people representing every level of society. Indian women squatted beside stone troughs which spilled brilliant flowers on to the grey paving, selling handmade artefacts and embroidered blouses. Sober-suited businessmen strode briskly, briefcases swinging, towards offices. Mestizo youths with small boxes of tools lounged against railing, holding up cards displaying their willingness to undertake electrical, plumbing or car repairs immediately.

  She saw it all and took none of it in. Miguel guided the car down a wide thoroughfare lined with shops and offices. 'Come, Miss Elliott,' his deep voice was heavy with irony, 'don't pretend you didn't know.'

  Cass's lips were dry and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. It couldn't be. But she had to ask, she had to know. 'The woman, was she—' Cass fumbled for the right words '—of high or low birth?' Miguel drew the car to a stop outside an imposing colonial building with outward-curving wrought-iron bars screening the long windows on the ground floor. He turned to look at her, his eyes very dark. 'She was not Otomi,' he said softly. 'She was Aztec. As for her rank, does it matter?' His tone was careless but there was an intentness in his gaze

  that demanded total honesty. 'No,' she said simply.

  'Look, what's all this about?' Derek leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of Cass's seat. 'Have I missed something important?'

  'To you, no.' Miguel tossed the words over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Cass's. 'You are very observant.' It sounded almost like an accusation.

  'I am an artist,' she shrugged helplessly.

  The combination of a hangover, no breakfast and antipathy towards his host had frayed Derek's nerves to breaking point. 'For God's sake, stop talking in riddles. Are you two having some sort of joke at my expense?'

  'You really are too suspicious,' Miguel chided and Cass uncurled fingers that had clenched in anticipation of an explosion. 'One of the many differences between you and Miss Elliott is that you see only what you choose to see, while she—'

  Beneath his probing gaze she grew warm and her lashes fluttered down before he could read in her eyes the first stirrings of a momentous and terrifying realisation, something for which she was totally unprepared.

  'She sees what is there,' he finished and, opening the door, slid out of the car with fluid ease and was round to help Cass out before she had managed to unfasten her seat belt.

  His hand beneath her elbow was a simple courtesy, yet the touch and his very nearness reinforced the subtle spell he had, whether by accident or design, been weaving around her since their row in the paddock that morning.

  The massive outer door stood open and Miguel led her through double doors of toughened glass that whispered apart as they approached.

  The air-conditioned reception area was floored

  with marble. In one corner jasmine climbed a fine trellis, perfuming the air. A comfortable settee and several chairs were grouped around a low table over which were scattered glossy magazines printed in Spanish, English and Portuguese.

  Behind the semi-circular reception desk, on which stood a sophisticated telecommunications system, a keyboard and screen, trays of letters and forms and an open notebook, sat an attractive woman. Cass guessed her to be about thirty.

  Dressed in a classic suit of oyster-grey with a lilac silk ruffled blouse, her dark hair was swept up into a smooth pleat revealing earrings of polished amethyst surrounded by tiny seed pearls. Her voice as she greeted Miguel in Spanish was low-pitched and pleasant.

  'Good morning, Luisa,' Miguel responded in English, and Cass was touched by the gesture, evidence of the faultless manners which were instinctive to him when he wasn't in one of his arrogant moods.

  Miguel paused to take the sheaf of messages she handed to him, but made no effort to introduce the woman. From that Cass deduced that, despite their ease of manner, the woman was an employee and not a personal friend. Cass wondered at her own sense of relief, quickly wrenching her thoughts away from the dangerous path they were taking.

  'I must say, I like the window-dressing,' Derek muttered in Cass's ear, and she glanced to see him eyeing Luisa through narrowed lids.

  'Is Benito in?' Miguel asked, flicking through the slips.

  'Yes, senor, and no, there is no news yet. I tell him he should relax or he will be exhausted when the time comes.' Her English, though heavily accented, was fluent, and her eyes as she smiled at her employer were serene.

  Miguel returned her smile, enjoying the shared joke. 'How much longer ca
n we survive? I thought it was supposed to get easier.'

  'For Benito or for his wife?' Luisa's elegant brows arched in gentle irony.

  Miguel laughed deep in his throat and, shaking his head, guided Cass towards one of the doors leading from the reception area. Unlike the others, which were of plain wood, this one had panels of toughened glass and appeared to be of double thickness.

  Luisa pressed a button on an unmarked console beside the switchboard and with a muffled thunk the door unlocked. Miguel pushed it open and held it for Cass and Derek to walk through.

  'That's quite some security system,' Derek remarked with a trace of envy.

  'It has proved well worth the investment,' Miguel replied, leading them down a well-lit passage with doors on either side. 'We still have an occasional attempted break-in, but word must have got around, for they are few and far between. Now, I will show you first some of our finished stones.' He stopped outside what looked like a plain wooden door, but set in the wall at one side was a row of small buttons with numbers on. Though Miguel stood between them and the buttons, he must have pressed in a sequence of numbers because after another

  click, the door slid sideways into a recess in the wall.

  As they entered the small room, a guard, sitting reading a newspaper, jumped to his feet. Behind him was a huge safe with a combination lock.

  'If you please, Pedro,' Miguel gestured.

  'Si, senor.' The man, a beefy six-footer in a uniform of khaki shirt and trousers, came towards them and Cass's eyes widened as she realised he was wearing a gun.

  'Do you object to your bag being searched?' Miguel asked her.

  'N-no.' She opened her bag and passed it to the guard who quickly checked the contents, giving it back to her with a polite nod. Then turning, he ran his hands with swift expertise over Derek's jacket and trousers, right to his ankles.