The Horseman. Margaret Way
the opportunity to take it out on me, not with a party going on. You’re acting as though I can’t conduct myself in an appropriate manner if you’re not around, just like you’re bloody well braking now with your foot while I’m driving the car. Do you think I’m going to fling myself at a complete stranger like in some fruity melodrama?”
“You want the straight answer? Yes,” he said in a goaded voice. “There’s so much about you, Ceci, that’s beneath the surface. You act so cool and composed, but that could be your training. There was something between you, Ceci. You’re trying hard to deny it, but I’m not a complete fool. I’m your fiancé, the man you’re going to marry. Need I jog your memory? I have the right to question you.”
“Really? I might have to start questioning if you’re the right man for me. I hate people who go on about their rights, Stuart, unless it’s the right to life, liberty and freedom. So to hell with your right to interfere with my freedom.”
Stuart scowled. “You’re being childish, Ceci. It’s not like you to rebel. Maybe you were on too tight a leash as a child. My aim is to protect you. I’ve always trusted you in the past.”
“How sad, then, I’ve committed a very serious breach.”
“Ceci, you of all people appeared to be encouraging him.” He turned to her, his expression deadly serious.
She groaned. “You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”
“You think I want to speak like this?” His voice was a rasp. “I feel I have an obligation to point certain things out. I do respect your high moral standards, my darling. It’s Montalvan I don’t trust. You don’t have much vanity, but you’re a very beautiful woman. Who could blame him if he was attracted to you?”
“How the heck do you know he was?” she demanded, her anger fueled by feelings of guilt.
“Oh, he’s attracted all right!” Stuart declared with great conviction. “You could have been alone on an island. Forget there were three hundred bloody guests all around you.”
“You have to stop this, Stuart,” she said. “My head is starting to pound. Jealousy is a terrible thing. Lots of relationships can’t survive jealousy. So we were enjoying the dance. No big deal. I reserve the right to choose the men I wish to speak to or dance with without consulting you, fiancé or not!”
Observing the hectic flush in her cheeks, Stuart backed down. “Of course you can, Ceci. It was the way the guy was holding you, looking at you, that put me in a rage. He knows bloody well you’re my woman.”
She felt like stopping the car and jumping out. It would be so much easier than trying to push him out. “Don’t you love to get your tongue around the word my,” she fumed. “You’ve got a whole list starting with my career, my ambitions, my political aspirations, my new house, my new Beemer, my fiancée. I’m right down the list.” She realized in her agitation she was over the speed limit and quickly slowed. “Raul Montalvan is a beautiful, natural dancer. Why not? Argentina is the home of the tango after all.”
“Ahhh, Ceci,” he groaned, “You’re making quite an effort to put me off the scent, but there was a little more to it than that. Even Sasha noticed.”
“Sasha?” Cecile gave an incredulous laugh. “The two of you were spying on me?”
“Of course not.” Stuart spoke in an aggrieved tone. “It was only by chance she spotted you.”
“I bet!” She swung her head toward him. “Sasha always was a troublemaker.”
“Actually she’s very fond of you. She wouldn’t want to see you put a foot wrong any more than I would. Women are very sharp. You catch on to things we men don’t. But the way the two of you moved together it would have crossed anyone’s mind, even trusting ol’ me. There was just some aura for all to see.”
“Could it have been an alcoholic haze?” she asked with some sarcasm. She was rebelling against the accusations, even as she knew she was in denial. “Sasha was sloshed. I could equally well point out you had no objection to Sasha’s clinging on to your arm.”
Stuart grimaced. “She doesn’t mean a thing to me and you know it. I bet you weren’t a bit jealous of Sasha even though she’s a damned sexy girl. Doesn’t that tell you something about our relationship?”
“I’ve learned to trust you, perhaps?” Cecile maneuvered the big car into the busy right lane so she could take the freeway turnoff.
“You can trust me. I don’t want anyone else but you, Ceci. And I have some ethics, if that bloody Argentinian doesn’t. Who is he, anyway? He appears out of nowhere and makes a beeline for you.”
She felt like she wanted to sleep for hours. Shut it all out. “One dance!” she said sharply. “You call that making a beeline?”
Stuart sat straighter, rubbing his trousered knees. “Steady on.”
Cecile gritted her teeth. “Do you want to miss your plane? I’ve had a license since I was seventeen, Stuart. I’ve never had an accident, which is more than I can say for you.”
“Don’t be so touchy!” He raised his brows. “I know you’re a good driver, very controlled and decisive about what you do, but this is a big powerful car. Women shouldn’t really drive big powerful cars in my view, and you do have a worrying tendency to be impetuous, especially if you’re running late. As for my one accident, how was I to know a bus was going to pull out in front of the car ahead of me?”
“By studying the road well ahead,” she said tartly. “Look, let’s stop this, shall we?”
“Certainly. I’m sorry, darling. I apologize. I was jealous. I freely admit it, but I can only say what I fear. To get to know this Montalvan would be to court danger. Knowing your grandfather, the guy’s bound to be offered plenty of entertainment while he’s here. He’s not a suitable companion, that’s all. I’m five years older than you. I work in an area where I see a lot more suspect characters than you.”
“To hell with that!” she said hotly. “Do you see children and adolescents who’ve been sexually, physically and mentally abused? Do you see suffering on the grand scale? Little people who’ve been beaten, burned, tied up with rope or whatever is to hand, had their bones broken, their bodies violated and infected, been threatened with weapons? The most you see, Stuart—you’re so bloody pompous at times—is white-collar crime. The socially prominent scoundrels you help beat the charges.”
“Well, really, that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” Stuart’s voice was taut with shock. “And there’s no need to swear. It scarcely suits you. I’ve never heard you call me pompous before.”
“Clearly, sometimes you are!”
“This is too much, Ceci,” he complained. “Personally I don’t believe attack is the best form of defense. All I was saying is I don’t think business-pleasure is all there is to it with this Montalvan guy.”
“Why don’t you have him investigated?” she suggested, suddenly very aware of Stuart’s tendency to patronize her. “That should solve the problem.”
Stuart, the lawyer, took the suggestion seriously. “It could be done,” he said, nibbling hard on his lip. “All that charm, the expensive clothes, the handmade shoes, the solid gold watch, the meticulous grooming—it could all be window dressing. He could be an experienced con man, for all we know. There’s nothing would suit a con man more than to latch on to a beautiful heiress. Seduce her if he could. He certainly latched on to you and your grandfather.”
So he did, said that harsh little voice in her head. He made a huge attempt to reach you and succeeded. As a man, Raul Montalvan was very, very seductive. It was one way to cut across all borders.
“You can’t deny it’s a possibility.” Stuart frowned as he searched her tense profile.
“Fascinating if you were writing a novel,