The Eagle and the Sun Page 8

  heavily accented and though his face creased in a smile his eyes remained watchful.

  His words jolted Cass, an after-shock to the original blow. But she was saved from having to reply by the major-domo's arrival to announce dinner and the general exodus towards the door.

  Cass hung back, wanting a moment to herself, trying to fathom the expression she had glimpsed in Teresa's father's eyes. It had been more than polite interest. There had been critical curiosity and something else—unease? That was ridiculous. What possible threat could she pose to him?

  'You have had nothing to drink.' Miguel's voice, just above her left ear, made her jump. 'Would you like something to take in with you?'

  No, thank you.' Her calm reply betrayed none of the upheaval within.

  'I see our respective partners are finding much of mutual interest.' There was a quality in his voice, a quiet but unmistakable irony that brought Cass's head around quickly. She sensed deeper shades of meaning and, as she met his dark gaze and watched one wing-like brow lift, she felt her colour deepen.

  'As a conscientious host you must be delighted,' she retorted lightly.

  'Oh I am.' His tone was dry. 'But as a conscientious host I would not care to see one of my guests made jealous by the behaviour of certain others.'

  'Please do not concern yourself on my account,' she responded sharply, 'jealousy is not an emotion I am familiar with.' She could have bitten her tongue out. She realised with icy clarity what she had said

  wasn't true. Two days ago it would have been. But now? Tonight, for the first time in her life, she had felt jealousy's sharp fangs and was helpless in their grip.

  'I find that strange,' Miguel murmured, looking deep into her eyes. 'You claim to be an artist—'

  'I do not claim,' Cass interrupted hotly. 'I am.' 'An artist?' he queried softly. 'A creature of

  mood, of passion and temperament? Denying one of the most fundamental of all emotions?' His eyes narrowed. 'To accept that, I would have to believe you have never loved.'

  Cass shrugged, her face aflame. 'Believe what you like.' She turned away but he caught her arm, his grasp tight and painful.

  'If you are not in love,' his voice was low and harsh, 'why the announcement? Why are you engaged?'

  'Why are you?' she flared back, knowing as the words flew from her lips that this was what had been gnawing at her just below the surface of her mind. The signs had been visible and she had seen them, but their meaning had been obscured by her own two-fold shock. Even allowing for his habit of masking his thoughts and feelings, not once had he touched or looked at Teresa, his own fiancée, with anything resembling love.

  His shock was plain in the tightening of his mouth and the sudden bleakness in his eyes as they stared at one another. The air between them was charged and Cass gasped softly as Miguel jerked her towards him.

  'Cass?' Derek stuck his head around the door.

  'You're holding everyone up again.'

  His slightly bloodshot eyes flicked suspiciously from one to the other. Miguel released her arm, dropping his hands to his side.

  'I'm sorry,' she said automatically, lowering her eyes as she fingered the sleeve of her jacket, not sure for which of them she intended the apology. She started across the hall, still conscious of the bruising imprint of Miguel's.

  'No problem, is there?' Derek muttered as she walked ahead of him into the dining room, acutely aware of Miguel only a pace or two behind.

  'Oh, no.' Her terse irony was completely lost on Derek and he nodded, smiling with satisfaction.

  She slid on to the chair he held out for her, not realising until she was seated that he had placed himself next to Teresa and her next to Miguel. What was he up to now? she wondered. Then, as the tightness at the back of her skull began, to encircle her head, she abandoned all attempts to think. She was mentally and emotionally exhausted.

  She tried to concentrate solely on the meal, which looked delicious. In the centre of the table stood bowls of fried sweetcorn with peppers and mushrooms, a large dish of green salad, prawns in garlic, freshly made tomato sauce and an avocado dip, all to be eaten with tacos or tortillas. Everyone helped themselves, passing the bowls around as Miguel filled their glasses from an earthenware pitcher with punch which, according to Teresa, was made from orange juice, soda water, limes, tonic, and tequila.

  She described the ingredients of each dish to

  Derek with great vivacity as she tempted him with morsels from her own plate. Cass watched him eat, wryly recalling his rejection of Mexican food in the restaurant that very lunchtime.

  Cass herself managed to fend off questions regarding her wedding plans with smiling evasions, while Derek patted her hand, her shoulder and anything else he could reach, the alcohol he had consumed making him clumsy and loud. She was burningly aware of Miguel's eyes on her, eyes she dared not meet. She toyed with her food, pushing it around her plate in pretence of eating.

  The main course was chilli con carne and the punch was set aside by all except Derek in favour of clear spring water topped with ice cubes. Finally, Consuelo brought in a fruit salad comprising strawberries, fresh pineapple, guavas, mango and melon, served with tiny circles of shortbread.

  Cass managed a few mouthfuls but it was like sawdust in her mouth as she answered Senor Morelos's questions about her work. It was a little while before she realised his reactions were critical, almost disapproving.

  As her confusion grew she glanced at Miguel, seeking clarification and, though she hated to admit it, reassurance. Had she offended in some way?

  'Senor Morelos is modern in his outlook concerning the development of our country,' Miguel explained, his dark eyes gleaming, 'but less so concerning the place of women in society.'

  'But surely,' Cass ventured, 'one depends upon the other?'

  'I have tried to express this view to Teresa,'

  Miguel said mildly. 'It did occur to me she might like to do more with her life than be a decorative hostess.'

  'But I shall do more, querido,' Teresa purred, 'I shall be the mother of your sons. What could be more demanding or fulfilling than that?' She flashed him a triumphant smile.

  Cass laid down her spoon with infinite care, feeling as though she had been kicked in the stomach. The images Teresa's words conjured so vividly in her overwrought imagination were painful beyond belief and she shied away from them, resolutely blanking her mind.

  'I was thinking of the present and the more immediate future,' Miguel replied coolly. He turned once more to Cass. 'In Mexico it is not considered complimentary to praise a woman's intelligence. Her beauty, yes. Indeed, all girls are brought up to consider themselves beautiful, and who is to say that is wrong? Which child is not beautiful in its mother’s eyes? But to call a woman clever, while not exactly an insult, is not considered polite as it is also an affront to a man's machismo.'

  Cass's eyes widened. 'How on earth does that follow?'

  'What does it matter? You must just accept that it is so, Miss Elliott,' Teresa's clear, imperious tones cut in. 'It is a man's duty to provide and protect. A woman seeking to do those things for herself challenges the status of men. She insults them.'

  'But I—' Cass began, only for Teresa to interrupt again.

  'Argument is not feminine. A woman's role is to

  please her man with her beauty, to run his home and to bear his children. If you are unfortunate enough to need to work because you have no money or no man to care for you, it is best spoken of lightly or not at all. Far better to consider it a misfortune to be ignored as far as possible and devote your efforts to encouraging the gentler, less competitive side of your nature.'

  Cass was dumbfounded. She could see the girl really believed what she was saying. It was not deliberate malice, merely the code by which she had been brought up.

  But she loved her work, it was an expression of her innermost self. Never in a million years could she consider it 'unfortunate'. Then she thought of the almost continuous conflict that
had existed between herself and Miguel. They had done little since her arrival except argue. Did he think her unfeminine? Before she could prevent it her eyes sought his and read in their black depths amusement. He knew what she was thinking.

  A blush warmed her throat and coloured her face as she looked quickly down at her plate. What did it matter what he thought? He was nothing to her. How could he be? He was engaged to someone else: a girl of his own country, his own culture and background. A girl who had been brought up to believe that a woman's sole purpose in life was to find, win and keep a man. Someone who had never needed or wanted to work and had little interest in women who did. A girl whom, despite all this, he did not love and who, notwithstanding her air of possessiveness, was openly flirting with a man who

  had just announced his own engagement.

  Suddenly Cass had had enough. Senor Morelos was watching her with something akin to suspicion, while his wife, who had hardly spoken during the meal, toyed with the remains of her fruit salad. Teresa, haying dismissed Cass's hard-won and much loved career as something to be ashamed of, had returned her interest to Derek, giving him languorous side-long glances as she murmured remarks that only he could hear while refilling their glasses with punch. He was preening under her attentions and, emboldened by the alcohol, had twice leaned over to whisper in the small, pink ear from which dangled an opal and diamond earring, the milky stone flashing its iridescence with each toss of her dark head.

  The opal reminded Cass of the moments in the vault before the alarm had gone off, of her enjoyment and interest, of the growing attraction and many-layered conversation she had shared with the man who now regarded her, his haughty features impassive, with the sharp clear gaze of an eagle.

  'Please excuse me,' she murmured hoarsely, her chair scraping noisily on the cool tiles as she stood up. 'I'm so sorry—a headache.'

  Derek looked around in surprise, but Miguel was already halfway to his feet.

  'No,' she blurted, half pleading, and hurried out into the hall, almost colliding with the major-domo who was carrying a large silver tray laden with coffee pot, milk jug and sugar bowl, and tiny gold- rimmed cups and saucers.

  Cass mumbled an apology and sped up the stairs,

  not stopping until she reached the sanctuary of her own room, and turned the key.

  Sinking down on to the bed she rested her forehead against the cool brass rail. 'Today holds much for you,' Miguel had said at breakfast that morning. He certainly had a gift for understatement. Cass tried to smile and choked on a sob instead. She could never have dreamed how much could happen or how ridiculously bruised she would feel.

  She had been wrong about so many things, particularly Derek. She didn't know what to believe any more. She hardly recognised the man she thought she knew. And what of Miguel? Her intuition had told her that his betrothal to Teresa was no love match. Or was that, too, just wishful thinking?

  She closed her eyes, and to her horrified surprise hot tears seeped through her lashes and slid down her cheeks. Furiously she dashed them away. She must still be suffering the effects of altitude and jet lag.

  Quickly wiping her wet face with the back of her hand, Cass undressed and put her clothes carefully away. She hugged the soft folds of the jade velour robe over her cotton nightie and stood in front of the mirror to remove the remaining traces of make-up. Her eyes were hot and her skin felt drawn and tight.

  While she was in the bathroom bathing her face with cold water, there was a knock on the door.

  Immediately tense again, she straightened up, pressing the towel to her cheeks. She did not want to talk to anyone, yet not to answer would be ill- mannered and might give cause for concern. There

  was a second knock, slightly louder.

  Tossing the towel on to the rail she re-entered the bedroom. 'Who is it?' she called reluctantly.

  'Consuelo, senorita,' came the reply. Vastly relieved not to hear Derek's voice or that of Miguel, Cass quickly unlocked the door. The housekeeper handed her a small tray on which stood a mug of hot, frothy chocolate and a white envelope.

  'Senor Ibarra send,' Consuelo said in thick, heavily accented English, frowning with effort. 'He say you no eat so this help you sleep.' She turned away.

  'Muchas gracias,' Cass called after her and, relocking the door, placed the mug carefully on the bedside cabinet. She picked up the envelope with mingled curiosity and unease, tossing the tray to the bottom of the bed.

  The thick white sheet of paper crackled as she unfolded it. In bold black scrawl the message was brief: '6 a.m. M.'

  Cass stared at it, uncomprehending. Then her heart leapt into her throat. He had invited—no, commanded—her to ride into the hills with him at dawn to watch the sunrise. And she, piqued at his tone, had accepted. This was a reminder.

  Sinking down on the bed, Cass sipped the cinnamon-flavoured chocolate, enjoying its smooth richness and feeling its warmth ease loose the knots in her stomach. What a mass of contradictions he was. He had noticed her lack of appetite and had arranged for a hot drink to be sent up. Yet he had made no effort to stop Teresa and her father denigrating her beliefs and her career. Was the drink

  simply the mark of a conscientious host, or had he understood how upset she was?

  Cass shook her head and, suddenly restless, began to pace the room. She looked at the note again. It could hardly have said less. The day's events had pushed the arrangement right out of her mind. But not, it seemed, his.

  Doubts crowded in. Should she go? The 'invitation' had been more of a challenge, a gauntlet tossed down for her to ignore or pick up as she chose. Yet the very act of accepting his challenge had altered their relationship. After their initial clash his response towards her had been markedly different. Certainly it was not simply because she was a woman. As Derek had made so very clear, a man with Miguel Ibarra's wealth, position and good looks would be fighting women off, not having to search for them. Was that what Teresa was? A shield to keep other women at bay? Cass pondered the idea then abruptly dismissed it. He was not a man to hide behind a woman's skirts. Whatever the real reason for his engagement and, judging by his exasperated expression, the relationship held as many problems as pleasures, it was not an escape.

  Cass placed the empty mug on the tray and set it down on the chest of drawers. She looked at the note once more, then raised her eyes to her reflection in the mirror. Her colour was high and her eyes fever-bright.

  She had a choice. She could avoid him, maintaining the new distance between them by refusing to go. Or she could take the opportunity to explain. That was the more honest thing to do. It

  was also the more dangerous. She was drawn to him. No man had ever affected her the way he did and spending time in his company could only increase that attraction. Yet under no circumstances could she afford to reveal her feelings. He was not free and it had to be because he chose it so. He was not a man to be manipulated. To reveal even a hint of the fascination he held for her would invite— what? Amusement? Irritation? Or contempt.

  She bit her lip, made her decision, and went to the bathroom to clean her teeth.

  Ready for bed, she switched off the light then, obeying an impulse, drew back the curtains and looked out on to the moon-washed garden below. There was not a breath of wind. The trees stood like black sentinels, their branches raised in silent homage to the night.

  The moon was behind the house out of sight, but in its silvery light Cass could see quite clearly the paved drive and the paddock fence.

  A dark figure moved from the veranda on to the flags, half-turning to cup his hands round a flaring match as he paused to light a small cigar. The momentary brightness illuminated high, flat cheekbones and a curved Aztec nose.

  Watching Miguel, Cass's heart kicked. He was totally relaxed, his feet slightly apart, one hand in his pocket as the other raised the cigar to his lips. She caught the faint fragrance of smoke.

  He gave the impression of a successful man enjoying a few moments of quiet contemplatio
n before sleeping. But Cass already knew enough about him to recognise that appearances could be

  cruelly deceptive. Was he really as tranquil as he seemed? Or was he, behind hooded gleaming eyes, as confused and perplexed as she? For one fierce moment she hoped so. She had not sought any of this. Much of the responsibility was his.

  He puffed on the cigar once more. Cass stepped back, her emotions muddled and painful, and lifted her arms to close the curtains again. A movement below caught her eye and she saw Teresa, a silver fox fur coat covering her dress and framing her elegant head, glide across the flags to rest one white hand on his shoulder.

  Miguel glanced around. Teresa was very close, her head tilted back, her white teeth glistening in the moonlight. Pressing herself against him she raised her other hand to trail enamelled nails down his cheek, then pulled his head down to hers. Cass saw him toss the cigar away. Quickly lowering her head to shut out the scene she closed the curtains. But her imagination rolled on, giving her no peace.

  As she turned to slip into bed she heard two pairs of footsteps in the passage outside, and muted voices speaking Spanish. A door opened and closed. Clearly Teresa and her parents were staying the night. But where would Teresa be sleeping?

  Cass pulled the cold sheet over her and half turned to punch the pillow viciously. It was none of her business. She lay on her back, shivering, and was glad of the small discomfort. It helped take her mind off what she had witnessed out in the moonlight and it’s all too obvious conclusion.

  A muffled thump not far from her bedroom door, followed by a string of curses, stopped her breath in

  her throat.

  She listened intently, her fingers curling into her palms. It could only be Derek. He had clearly ignored her advice about cutting back on alcohol.