The Horseman. Margaret Way
well-respected family. Bruce and Fiona must know all about him. I’m sure you could find the Montalvan estancia on the Internet, as they breed polo ponies.”
“Maybe he’s using someone else’s identity,” Stuart suggested, still frowning hard. “It’s been done before today. Australia is a long way from Argentina.”
She clicked her tongue angrily. “Nowhere is a long way from anywhere these days. Granddad would soon discover if Raul knew little about ranching, and polo isn’t the sport for a man without means. Besides he has all the graces expected in the son of a cultured family. He’s bilingual. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t speak other languages, as well. Italian, French, who knows?”
“I’m getting the strong impression you admire him,” Stuart said angrily.
“I’d say a lot of people admire him,” she said dryly. “Actually, Stuart, I’m on side with you. For all his charm, there’s something mysterious about Raul Montalvan. Something steely, possibly dangerous? He’s an enigma.”
Stuart reeled back at some note—perhaps betrayal—in her voice. “Aw, bugger that!” he said with a burst of violent jealousy. “All I know is, such men are best left alone.”
Such a pity, then, you’ve already burnt your fingers!
CHAPTER FIVE
CECILE GAZED DOWN the beautifully appointed dinner table, her eyes on her grandfather, who was swirling a deep ruby wine around his crystal goblet before drinking it and nodding to Robson, the major domo responsible for running the domestic affairs of the mansion smoothly. Her grandfather had always kept an excellent cellar, the best wines from home and around the world. The conversation at a table for fourteen guests eddied around her, her grandfather at one end, Great-aunt Bea at the other. The guest of honor for the evening was a well-known political figure, Senator Brendan Ryan. He sat to her grandfather’s right, her mother to his left. She herself sat a few chairs away with Raul Montalvan sitting opposite her across the gleaming table, set with the finest bone china, sparkling crystal and solid silver flatware. A set of six beautiful caryatid candlesticks, her favorites, supporting tall white tapers were set at intervals down the table. Her late maternal grandmother, Frances, had acquired them in London when she and her grandfather were on their honeymoon. Grecian goddesses rose from domed circular bases to support the wax pans and sconces above their heads. Her grandmother had always promised them to her. Frances had doted on her, whereas Justine claimed she had spent a lifetime trying to gain her mother’s love and attention. Sadly, from all accounts it was true. It was her uncle Jared, her mother’s late brother, who had been the apple of Frances’s eye. She had adored him to the exclusion of her daughter, a deprivation that had badly affected Justine and perhaps explained her unswerving, single-minded focus on her only child.
The scent of the wines mingled with the scent of the flowers in the low, very beautiful central arrangement of white lilies and orchids. Montalvan wasn’t looking at her. He was talking to her friend Tara Sinclair, his tone too low for her to hear, but it was easy enough to read Tara’s expression. She looked enthralled.
There, what did I tell you? It’s not difficult for any woman to become infatuated with an exciting man. Possibly he doesn’t even realize his hypnotic powers. Then again he most assuredly does.
Tara threw back her blond head and laughed. She was wearing a red silk dress cut low to show the upward swell of her breasts. She had lovely creamy skin, not a conventional beauty but attractive and vivacious. She and Raul appeared to be drawn together in an intimate joke. A peculiar feeling akin, not to jealousy, but to rejection rose in her. She had made a fool of herself the other night. She had quarreled with Stuart, sending him back home to Melbourne with no harmony between them. Of course he had since rung any number of times from his apartment and from work, but during these intervening days she had agonized over, not whether, but when to call off the engagement. She knew her mother’s reproaches would go on forever, Stuart being her mother’s idea of an excellent match.
I can’t believe what you’re thinking, girl!
She was beginning to tire of her inner voice. She hadn’t really done anything stupid, thank God. She took a sip of her wine, no more, quickly turning to one of her old beaus, an architect, newly married, as he asked for her impressions of a recent showing of aboriginal art they had both attended. She was happy to tell him. It took her mind off Raul and Tara.
After dinner her grandfather asked her to play for them, as she’d known he would. She was a gifted pianist. Glad, in the end, her mother had forced many long hours of practice on her, so that she had collected a clutch of diplomas, all high distinctions, even before she left school. Ordinarily she was happy to perform for dinner guests, but tonight his presence made her incredibly nervous when nervousness had been bearing down on her all day.
Everyone took their seats in the living room, all in wonderfully mellow spirits, induced by good conversation and a truly memorable dinner. It had been definitely on the sensual side, with superb oysters topped by caviar, succulent garden-fresh asparagus to accompany the melt-in-your-mouth beef and small pots of velvety smooth, ever-so-seductive chocolate mousse to finish. Certainly Raul Montalvan appeared to have enjoyed it. She had the idea that in nineteenth-century France a bridegroom was encouraged to eat several helpings of asparagus before joining his bride in the connubial bed, just as Montezuma consumed copious amounts of hot chocolate before visiting his harem. Just looking across the table had been enough for her to be devoured by her senses.
Her grandfather went to the big Steinway grand, lifting the lid. It was a small task he loved. Her mother played, or rather, had played until her daughter’s abilities had overtaken hers. After that, Justine never touched the piano again, which was an awful shame, because Justine desperately needed the relaxation. The magnificent Steinway her grandfather had bought Cecile some ten years back replaced the fine old Bechstein her mother had learned on.
Cecile settled herself on the ebony piano seat already adjusted to her height and particular requirements. Knowing she would be asked to play, she had spent an hour or so of the preceding days practicing. Her hands were slender, long-fingered, deceptively strong. Her technique had never let her down. Tonight, unfortunately, her emotions were all over the place. Should she not play well, her mother would be deeply disappointed in her and make a point of telling her so afterward.
Cecile bowed her head over the keys, her long graceful neck revealed by her hairstyle for the evening, an updated chignon. Normally she was very comfortable in this setting, surrounded by family and friends, none of them, outside of her mother, critical. For a moment her nervousness threatened to overwhelm her. She glanced up at the ceiling; the ceiling stared back. God, she was nothing without her confidence. No performer was. Someone was laughing, a soft little giggle. Sounded like Tara. Etiquette demanded an audience be quiet, but it was hard to quiet Tara, who wasn’t a music lover, anyway.
What was happening to her? Stage fright? Panic attacks could happen right out of the blue. She had seen them with sad regularity in the course of her work, but she had never actually experienced one until she’d laid eyes on Raul Montalvan.
Play something easy. Start with a couple of Chopin waltzes. Everyone just wants to enjoy themselves.
She glanced down at her hands, wondering if she had simply lost it.
Then suddenly he was approaching the piano, asking her very charmingly if the Spanish composer Albeniz was included in her repertoire. He pronounced the composer’s name in the Spanish fashion. She had never heard it sound so good. She had intended to start with a Brahms rhapsody, but Spanish music had always captivated her. She had kept up the repertoire. Why, given he was South American, had she not thought of it herself?
“As long as you don’t expect me to measure up to the great Alicia De Larrocha,” she said, finding she was able to breathe again.
“You’re an artist, I’m sure.” He looked deeply into her eyes. Then he moved back to his position on the sofa between Tara and Great-Aunt Bea, who claimed to have been in her youth—she was now seventy-eight—a regular love goddess. Bea certainly liked good-looking men, never