Frustrated, she yanked at the laces of her gown, snapping one in two. “And now look! My limited wardrobe is in danger of being entirely depleted.”
“It just gives you a good reason to buy more, my love. When we get to Mexico City, I’m sure you’ll make up for lost time. They may not have the very latest fashions, but there are seamstresses there who can create anything you like from a drawing.”
“That’s not the point, Steve. You can laugh at me if you like, but I feel these terrible premonitions, as if truly awful things will happen to you. To us. Please, tell Bishop that you’re through, that you no longer want to be the ambassador, and we can live on one of the estates and raise cattle for the rest of our lives….”
Turmoil seethed inside her, a simmering anxiety that he couldn’t assuage with anything but the assurance he wouldn’t work for Bishop anymore. But Steve had no intention of agreeing to that.
His gaze was flat and opaque, telling her nothing as he shrugged off her demands. Ginny gave up, for the moment. Why allow it to mar her time here, where she was made to feel so welcome? Still, there were times in the days that followed when she could not shake off the feeling of impending doom.
The fiesta was gay, and friends and acquaintances came from miles around to stay at the hacienda and show their respect to Don Francisco. Ginny drank too much champagne, and was able to forget everything but the music and the beauty of the night.
How wonderful it was to be in Mexico again, where she felt so free and alive! Even Steve seemed different, more relaxed without his gun belts. Don Francisco would not allow guns to be worn, of course, and Steve acquiesced to his wishes, knowing the futility of defiance. The old martinet had lost none of his authority, and made certain all knew it.
Though he seemed more stooped and used a cane since his stroke, and his gray hair had turned white, Don Francisco looked happier than ever before. It was his wife who made the difference, her serenity and elegance a welcome addition to the hacienda.
“I like her,” Ginny told Steve, and shrugged when he scowled. “You have nothing against her except that she’s married to your grandfather.”
“And bore his child to be raised by another man.”
Amused, Ginny said, “A fine time to remember morals, Steve Morgan! You know why she did that. Oh wait—I see. You resent the fact that your grandfather has a son. Is it your inheritance that worries you?”
“Don’t be stupid, Ginny.” His voice was harsh, and though she knew she should stop, she couldn’t help tweaking him a little.
“No, it can’t be that, since you inherited your mother’s portion…. I know, it’s that Richard is heir to a title and you aren’t—”
He grabbed her arm, fingers tight on her wrist, and said softly, “Enough, Ginny.”
She recognized the steel beneath his soft tone and shrugged, rubbing at her wrist when he released her. A curl of music drifted from the patio to where they stood beneath an archway covered in vines. She was suddenly sorry that she had provoked him.
“Dance with me, Steve.”
“Little hellcat. You insult me one moment, want me to dance with you the next. I ought to go dance with fat Rosa.”
“She can dance rings around you,” she teased, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She could feel his muscles tense. “I want to dance with the most handsome man here, and that’s you. Don’t tell me no, or I might have to choose another partner.”
“You would do it, too.” He slanted her a faint smile. “I may end up having to fight before the night is over if you continue to drink champagne. It makes you a flirt.”
She laughed, flashing him a glance from beneath her eyes as they reached the cleared spot where a dance floor had been laid beneath trees strung with bright lanterns. The music was familiar and lively, and she began to snap her fingers, her feet moving almost of their own volition. One of the things she loved best about Mexico were the dances that were so much a part of the culture, of the peόnes and the gauchopines alike, peasants losing themselves in the music as much as the aristocrats.
To her surprise, Steve did join her in the dance, his lean body supple and controlled, matching her steps with an expertise she had forgotten. Oh, it was just like Steve to try to match her, and she danced until she was breathless, until even the musicians were ready to stop.
Señora Armijo was shaking her head, eyes reproachful, her words reproving when they finally paused. “Both of you should be more careful of your reputations,” she scolded, but there was a note of admiration in her tone. “You dance like gypsies!”
With a wicked smile, Steve said, “And how is Señor Sanchez these days? Does he still come and visit you?”
Señora Armijo flushed, her mouth pursing in disapproval at his teasing, but there was a light in her eyes that belied her denial. “No, no, Esteban, you are too wicked to even suggest such a thing!”
“Ah, no, you must admit that there are few who can dance as beautifully as the gypsies, especially the women.” He shot Ginny a swift, teasing glance. “If I did not see an old friend over there, I would stay and dance with you, Señora, but as Don Francisco’s host for the evening, my duty calls.”
Ginny ignored him. He was only trying to tease her, of course, to remind her of Concepciόn. But she refused to let him see how it stung, and said only, “I feel the need for more champagne. If you will excuse me?”
It was crowded, and older guests sat around tables that were set up beneath vine-shrouded galerias, drinking wine or aguardiente while keeping a sharp eye on the younger couples
