Dancing in the Shadows Read online

With heightening anxiety, Dorcas searched his gaze. Had she made a terrible mistake in thinking he was attracted to her? In his eyes did she see, flitting across the tender teasing, gratitude and pity? The two emotions she wanted none of!

  Her thoughts made her angry. Her anger was directed against herself. Why couldn’t she take it at face value? Why this insatiable need to probe? Carlos was right. She was prickly. And prone to suspicion. The voices in her head shouted louder than the voice in her heart which was telling her that no one who was only pretending affection could be so convincing. The very real danger was, if she didn’t listen to that solitary small voice, if she continued to be suspicious of his every word and on guard when he demonstrated affection, she could well be throwing away something that was dear and precious for something that didn’t exist.

  ‘I never said a proper thank you for your kindness to me while I was in hospital.’ Her voice was husky.

  He said, ‘I got more out of it than I gave.’ Yet his lips did not move. His eyes said it for him.

  How could anyone with her training—she had been taught expression through movement in Ballet School—doubt his sincerity? Ballet is a story told without words. ‘I love you’, ‘I hate you’, ‘Come’, ‘Go’, can be expressed with a flexed hand, the eyes, the stiffness or suppleness of the body.

  Yet if Dorcas had never had a ballet lesson in her life, she would have understood the message his eyes were conveying.

  ‘Dorcas. A few days ago I told you I had to go away on a business trip. It has been brought forward. I have to go tomorrow. My reaction on being told was that I did not want to leave you at this particular moment. I thought the timing was bad. Now I think perhaps the timing is not so bad. My absence will give you time to reflect. When I return I am going to ask you a question. You know what that question is. Think about it while I am away. Have your answer prepared for when I return.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Usually, Dorcas had no difficulty in getting her hair to go the way she wanted it. But this morning, when she particularly wanted to be early for breakfast, it refused to be combed into submission and took ten frustrating minutes before it went right. By the time she ventured downstairs, she had an idea that Carlos would have left on his business trip.

  Certainly there was no sign of him as Rose Ruiz greeted her from the breakfast table. ‘Good morning, Dorcas. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Good morning, señora. I should say I slept too well, judging by the clock.’

  ‘But that is good. Perhaps something has happened to make you feel more relaxed. I have my own theory on how to guarantee sound sleep.’

  ‘And what is that, señora?’ Dorcas dutifully asked.

  ‘A clear conscience, child. Doing what I know in my heart is right, even though, as is often the case, it is not always the thing my heart would wish.’

  ‘Life can be exceedingly difficult,’ Dorcas said, sighing in full agreement.

  ‘I think that is part of the pattern. Life is a testing ground. It sets up a series of problems and it is how we acquit ourselves that writes the final report.’

  Blade-slim in her denim-blue sundress, Dorcas protectively clutched her midriff. She saw the breakfast setting, the white tablecloth, the coffee pot now being lifted in Rose Ruiz’s capable hand; the dainty cup, appropriately patterned with a rose border, being handed to her. Another movement alerted her senses and drew her gaze beyond the sphere of breakfast rolls and preserves, to the sun-warmed stones of the terrace wall richly draped in its carelessly flung shawl of bougainvillaea. Or, more specifically, to the man standing there.

  Aware of being under the microscope of Rose Ruiz’s scrutiny, Dorcas modified her smile. ‘Hello, Carlos,’ she told the approaching figure.

  Rose Ruiz’s chin swung round in surprise. ‘Carlos! What are you still doing here? I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘Without saying goodbye to you, Mother,’ he reproved, a trifle disingenuously Dorcas thought.

  Neither was Rose Ruiz taken in. ‘I should have known,’ she said drily. Then with warmth: ‘Goodbye, Carlos. Take care.’

  Straightening up from kissing his mother’s delicately flushed cheek, Carlos revealed the true reason for his delayed departure. ‘Walk with me to the car, Dorcas. I want to talk to you.’

  Dorcas got to her feet. The texture of her composure wasn’t as smooth as she would have wished as she accompanied Carlos down the terrace steps.

  Barely were they out of earshot when he said: ‘I should have left an hour ago, but I deliberately waited to see you. I thought you were never going to wake up.’

  ‘You should have sent someone to rouse me.’

  ‘I have the patience to wait.’ His smile, starting in his eyes and spreading warmly to his lips, gave the words a deeper, more exciting meaning.

  ‘You look surprised?’—as Dorcas made a small, involuntary gasp. ‘Would you not have accredited me with the characteristic of having patience?’

  ‘You know it’s not that at all.’

  ‘Only you would put me in my place quite so bluntly. Of course, I confess that you are right. I do know.’ His voice changed subtly. ‘I like to tease you.’

  Having arrived at his car, which he had previously driven out of the garage and parked in the driveway in readiness for his departure, Dorcas attempted to blow common sense on her thoughts. ‘You haven’t told me why you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Ah . . . yes! There is something I want to ask you. I want you to do something for me.’ Reading the startled expression in her eyes he said, not unkindly: ‘This is in no way related to the question I referred to last night. That must wait until I return.’

  ‘Then ask away,’ she invited, swallowing on conflicting emotions of disappointment and relief that it was something else, say of a less disturbing nature. Some basic spark in her enjoyed being verbally seduced by him.

  Unexpectedly, he said: ‘I want you to keep an eye on my father. Two years ago he had a slight warning of what might happen if he didn’t ease up.’

  ‘What kind of warning? Do you mean—his heart?’ Dorcas asked, with hers in her eyes. In the short time she had known him, she had become very fond of Enrique Ruiz. It troubled her to think that her kind señor was not in the best of health.

  ‘Yes. He has been reasonably good. He takes gentle, regular exercise as prescribed, and no longer puts in excessive hours at his desk. But worry and stress are not so easily dealt with. My reason for going on this business trip is to bring about a situation of less worry for my father. He assures me he has absolute trust in my judgement, but I think he has yet to convince himself that I know what I am doing. While I am away he is going to brood on the matter. Old dogs do not easily hand over the reins to young pups. In my absence I am deputizing you to keep an especially watchful eye on him. Don’t let him dwell on business matters. Distract him with some of that inconsequential chatter you women are reputably famous for.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ said Dorcas, not taking exception to that disparaging remark about women. For one thing they do chatter, and for another there isn’t a female born who doesn’t feel uplifted to be doing something to help the man she loves. ‘I will,’ she repeated, carried away by her own enthusiasm, both fascinated and repelled by the bold, pushing question poised on her tongue. ‘Will it mean the merger with Señor Roca is not of top priority?’

  ‘No. For the survival of both firms, that must come about.’ His brows drew into a formidable line. ‘Who told you of this merger? Not my father?’

  ‘No. Your mother told me,’ said Dorcas bleakly, despising herself for tale-bearing, but too deep in to do otherwise.

  ‘Did she!’—thoughtfully. ‘And what else did my mother say?’—perceptively. ‘You might as well tell me. Your face already has.’—persistently.

  Regretting her give-away expression, Dorcas showed spirit as she formed the self destructive words. ‘Why don’t you marry Isabel Roca? That, surely, would be the sensible way out of the dilemma.’

  He
reached out, drawing a cool finger down her hot cheek. His eyes captured the emotions tightly embracing her features.

  ‘This is the face I will carry in my mind. In return, I will leave you with this thought. I have sufficient sense to distrust the easy solution.’

  Dorcas had two distinct impressions. One, that she had crossed a raging fiord, leaving safe ground for terrain unknown. That having crossed she could not go back. The second impression was to do with Carlos. He was displeased with her for thinking his integrity would permit him to seek the easy solution.

  He confounded her by saying: ‘I am not angry with you. Disappointed, perhaps, that you do not know me better.’

  And then she was once again gathered into the orbit of his smile as his fingers outlined her mouth in a gesture that both remonstrated and forgave, and was more moving than a kiss.

  ‘Despite the fact that you rose late this morning, I think you did not sleep well last night.’

  ‘No. I had . . . things on my mind.’

  ‘Not something to do with the question I am going to ask you on my return?’

  ‘Not something, Carlos. Everything. The importance you have given it makes it obvious what the question is. It is that one, isn’t it?’

  Her eagerness tempted a smile to his lips. ‘Yes, it is that one,’ he said in a gentle voice.

  ‘But you of all people must know that it’s not possible.’

  ‘Dorcas, I cannot tell you how heartening I find your words. I can’t tell you now, I mean, because there isn’t time. But when I come back . . .’ His voice was full of regret at parting. ‘I must go, querida.’

  Querida! He had called her darling.

  His fingers briefly touched her cheek. He got in his car and drove off.

  She watched him go, feeling troubled and happy. Of the two emotions, happiness was uppermost. He had called her darling. And when he came back he was . . . what else could the question be but a proposal of marriage? He was going to ask her to marry him.

  The thought, ‘It is not possible,’ turned round and became, ‘Perhaps Carlos can make it possible.’ Please, please let his invincible will make it possible. And please, please let him be motivated by love, and not pity and gratitude.

  She would have to tell Michael off for airing his surmise that her act of heroism had cost her her dancing career. But it was not a matter of extreme urgency any more because she had previously divulged this information to Carlos during her period of insensibility in hospital. When eventually she did speak to her brother, her words would be tempered by the thought that Michael sincerely believed it was the injury to her leg and not her lack of star quality that would curtail her ambitions. It is difficult to sustain anger towards someone who battles under the flag of sincerity. Dorcas was half ready to believe her brother had spoken what he thought to be the truth. And if further explanation was required for her mood of benign forgiveness, who could be unforgiving and angry while bubbling—dazed and dizzy—with happiness? Not Dorcas.

  The day that would be lightened with thoughts of Carlos, if not his presence, stretched before her. How to fill her time was becoming an increasing problem. In a normal home she would have helped her hostess with the domestic chores. It would never become common or garden for Dorcas to have her room tidied and cleaned for her and eat a meal that wasn’t paid for in physical effort. When she lived with her grandmother, she had been responsible for buying in the provisions and cooking the meals. She liked cooking, experimenting with new recipes and perfecting old ones. And later, suffering a series of landladies’ indifferent cooking, she had conscientiously helped with the clearing away and washing up.

  She decided to broach the subject of her inactivity with her hostess. Rose Ruiz was sitting where they had left her. She looked up from the note-pad on which she was jotting notes on what seemed to be a menu.

  ‘Isn’t it a beautiful morning? Not too hot, with a touch of breeze. Carlos should have a pleasant journey. He is a good son. I am a very lucky woman.’

  ‘My grandmother had her own theory about that. On hearing an envious remark about somebody’s luck in having something, a possession or a perfect friendship, she had ready this stock reply. Yes, they are lucky. And the harder they work, the luckier they become.’

  Rose Ruiz laughed in spontaneous delight. ‘Your grandmother was a very wise woman. It’s true that I’ve worked hard at my luck. A perfect marriage, a happy home atmosphere, inner content, do not just happen. These things must be helped. It is difficult at the best of times, without starting off with a handicap.’

  ‘And it would be a severe handicap if Carlos passed over Isabel Roca for me. I think,’ said Dorcas, her mouth going wry, ‘it would be a miracle.’

  ‘I would not go as far as to say that,’ was the thoughtful reply. ‘A little unexpected, perhaps.’ Rose Ruiz maintained her smile as her mind took a long step back in time. ‘The handicap I referred to was not a future possibility in the event, likely or otherwise, of an alliance between you and my son, but to . . .’ Snapping the confidence off there, leaving it for Dorcas to ponder over later, she said tantalizingly: ‘You have a quality that is very rare. You are a good listener. As a rule, young girls are too full of their own importance to make good listeners. Not only are you that, but you listen in such a way as to invite the indiscretion that is later regretted. I will be on guard in future, Dorcas. You will not draw me so easily again.’

  Dorcas said, just a little hurt: ‘You compliment me if you think I deliberately schemed to make you say something better retained.’

  ‘I compliment you, Dorcas, but not on that score. There is not an atom of guile in you. You are the sweetest girl I have ever met, which makes it . . .’ Her tongue made a clicking sound. ‘Tch! And for all my protestations to the contrary, I almost did it again. Talked too much.’ She glanced into Dorcas’s thoughtful face and smiled. ‘Now, tell me what you are going to do today.’

  Dorcas sighed. ‘Nothing, señora. The same as I did yesterday and the day before that too. That is what I came to talk to you about. Is there something, a household chore perhaps, that I could do?’

  ‘My dear, I already have the unenviable task of soothing Teresa who complains daily about this inconsiderate girl who makes her own bed and tidies her clothes away.’

  The faintest smile warmed round Dorcas’s lips. ‘Teresa won’t have need to complain about me today. I was in too much of a hurry to come to breakfast to make my bed, and I seem to remember abandoning things, my nightgown and my shower cap, as I went. But seriously, surely there is something I can do?’

  ‘We both know, Dorcas, that my husband would not permit you to do a proper job of work, but if I think of anything . . .’

  ‘Anything at all,’ Dorcas eagerly interrupted, knowing her hostess was speaking to pacify.

  ‘. . . I promise to let you know.’

  Although Dorcas had taken short walks, she had not yet tested her leg on a long walk. On the principle of no time like the present, Dorcas offered the thought for Rose Ruiz’s approval.

  ‘Yes, a walk will do you good. I would volunteer to accompany you if it didn’t sound so energetic. And if it wasn’t my day to have the members of my sewing circle to lunch. I’m being very naughty, actually. I’m making amendments to the menu which will give cook hysterics.’

  Dorcas had never seen Juana, the Ruiz’s cook, in any mood other than smiling complacency. She couldn’t imagine her ever getting into a flap. But in case there was a side to Juana she hadn’t seen, Dorcas offered: ‘Would you like me to hang on? Perhaps Juana will require something extra fetching from the shops.’

  ‘Even I dare not make such drastic changes on the day. No, Juana will have the ingredients. It is the commodity you can’t buy she will be screaming for: time. So stop frittering it away. Go for your walk and take your distracting influence with you.’

  Rose Ruiz’s happy, chatty type of scolding took Dorcas down from the uncomfortable pedestal of revered guest and for the first time she
felt—oh—absurdly—but she felt that in being banished, she was at last being accepted.

  Tears began to prickle behind her eyes. ‘Thank you, señora,’ she said rather stupidly.

  Swallowing on something of an equally absurd nature, perhaps, Rose Ruiz said brightly: ‘Just remember, with your fair skin, a sun hat is more than a decorative accessory.’

  Waving a laughing goodbye, Dorcas dutifully went back upstairs to collect her sun hat before setting off. With its wide straw brim framing her face, it was neither intent nor coincidence, but something midway between the two, that turned her in the direction of the garage belonging to Tom Bennett, the friendly Englishman with whom she’d left her hired car. Only when she was well on her way did it occur to her that it had been in her mind for some time to enquire if he’d been adequately compensated for his trouble in towing the car into his garage and contacting the car hire firm. If the firm she’d hired the car from hadn’t come up with a refund, and she didn’t know of any clause in the car hire terms that said her claim was valid, then she ought to pay Tom Bennett for his services.

  The road curved like a dusty whip. The sun parched ground bore little evidence of the rain that had caused havoc and landslips. A walnut faced Spaniard was digging a channel in the endless task of irrigating his land. He paused to shout a greeting to her as she passed. His greeting would have been just as friendly had she been a man, but his eyes appreciated the fact that she was a woman. The breeze teased the brim of her hat and softly slapped her cheeks. The sun ruled in solitary splendour, with not one attendant cloud in the vast sky kingdom.

  Although her injured limb had stood up well, it was beginning to pain a little by the time she arrived at the Garage Inglés.

  ‘Er . . . Mr Bennett? Tom?’ she enquired of the jean-clad legs sticking out from beneath a car.

  Sliding out, as tall and wide-grinned as she remembered him, Tom Bennett stuck an unmistakably oily hand through his pale yellow hair, like blanched maize in colour, and said: ‘Miss West? Dorcas?’ Confirming her last name and requesting permission to use her first.