The Spanish Connection. Kay Thorpe

commented on the general ruination of peace and tranquillity.

      ‘It gets much worse than this in the summer months,’ he said. ‘The traffic is nose to tail across the bridge, with accidents a frequent occurrence. The coaches alone are a hazard. It would be better if tourists were banned from driving into the town at all, but few of them know how to walk very far. I suggest we visit the bull-ring to begin with,’ he added. ‘The oldest ring in the whole of Spain. Pedro Romero himself fought here.’ He registered her expression with a quizzical lift of a brow. ‘You disapprove of the bull-fight?’

      ‘I disapprove of any form of cruelty to animals,’ Lauren acknowledged. ‘And I don’t much care whose toes I tread on in saying it!’

      The smile was tolerant. ‘That I can believe. However, there’s no corrida scheduled today, so you may rest easy and enjoy the architecture alone. I think you’ll find it worthy of study.’

      It would be labouring the point to refuse on principle, Lauren decided. Viewing the premises was hardly akin to condoning the practice. Bull-fighting wasn’t going to be eradicated by loud-mouthed foreigners calling the odds. It would take a total change of national attitude, and that was unlikely, to say the least.

      Only a step or two away from where they had parked, the Plaza de Toros was entered via a huge ornate doorway. The two coachloads of tourists had begun their sightseeing on the bridge itself, and at present there were few other people inside.

      Lauren was struck by the sheer size of the ring. Standing in the middle of it, gazing up at the circling tiers of seats rising beneath double sets of finely wrought arches, she had to acknowledge the picturesque quality of the scene. The sheer clarity of light gave added depth and vibrancy to the colours of sand and stone and red-painted woodwork.

      A door on the far side gave access to the museum. Lauren turned a blind eye on the many posters and photographs depicting various famous matadors in action, concentrating instead on the items of apparel displayed. The capes in particular were works of art in themselves, each one intricately embroidered in silk thread by hand, each design different.

      ‘They’re beautiful!’ she declared. ‘Workmanship like that has to be admired.’

      ‘Even for such a purpose?’ Rafael shook his head as she opened her mouth to reply. ‘No, we’ll leave it right there. Our viewpoints differ. That we must both accept.’

      And not only where bull-fighting was concerned, she reflected. They were at odds on most subjects, it seemed.

      From the bull-ring they traversed a traffic-free street lined both sides with shops and stalls. Either siesta was over, or the traders in general followed Rafael’s example in ignoring it, as business appeared to be going on apace. Judging from the numbers of non-nationals thronging the street, more coaches had arrived. Lauren was thankful to turn off into the quieter back streets.

      ‘I hadn’t anticipated so many this early in the year,’ Rafael admitted. ‘Next time we’ll make it an evening visit when the coaches have departed.’

      ‘You don’t have to feel under any obligation to entertain me while I’m here,’ Lauren protested. ‘You must have work to do.’

      ‘Nothing beyond Gabriel’s ability to take care of, for the next few days at least,’ came the smooth reply. ‘Tonight we have guests at dinner, all of them eager to meet you.’

      Curious would be more like it, she thought, stifling her trepidation. It stood to reason that the sudden appearance of Francisco’s wife and children would give rise to speculation. No doubt many would believe her an opportunist, here only for what she could get from the family coffers. It shouldn’t matter what people she neither knew nor cared about thought, but it did.

      They arrived back at the Plaza de España to find two of the coaches on the point of departure and few other tourists in immediate evidence.

      ‘Now, while it is quiet, would be the best time to take a walk across the bridge and back,’ suggested Rafael. ‘The only way to deal with vertigo is to accustom oneself gradually to heights instead of trying to avoid them altogether.’

      Which was true enough, Lauren knew. The bridge itself had been there for more than two hundred years; it was hardly going to choose the very moment she set foot on it to collapse into the abyss.

      ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said, trying to sound positive. ‘It’s high time I conquered it.’

      All the same, the thought alone of all that empty space beneath caused her lower legs to tingle as they moved on to the bridge. Iron-railed embrasures set within the side-walls afforded dizzying glimpses of the gorge, drawing her eyes despite every effort not to look. Rafael put a steadying hand under her elbow, causing a tingle of a different nature, and brought her to a halt at the central viewpoint.

      ‘Stand here for a moment or two and look at the view beyond rather than below,’ he bid her.

      Standing right behind her, he rested both hands on her waist, holding her firmly. She could feel his breath on her hair, his body heat at her back. Vertigo became secondary to other, more imperative responses. She had to forcibly stop herself from leaning into him.

      ‘I’m all right,’ she got out. ‘Really, I am!’

      ‘I can feel the tension in you,’ he said softly. ‘In a moment or two, as your senses adjust, it will begin to lessen.’

      Not while he continued to hold her, it wouldn’t, Lauren knew. She doubted that he was unaware of her response to his touch. It probably amused him to know how he affected her.

      ‘Your waist is so small,’ he murmured. ‘I can almost span it between my hands. One would never guess that you had borne even one child, much less two!’

      ‘I suppose I’m just naturally thin,’ she countered, and sensed his smile.

      ‘The word suggests shapelessness, and you’re far from that.’

      Her heart was thudding against her ribcage, her every sense alive to the sheer seductive quality of his tone. It meant nothing, she told herself with emphasis. She was his brother’s wife; his interest in her went no deeper than that. She just wasn’t used to compliments. These last two years, Francisco had treated her more like a piece of furniture than an attractive woman.

      ‘I’m all right now,’ she said abruptly. ‘You don’t need to hold me any longer. The railing is safeguard enough.’

      She made herself move on as he dropped his hands, more afraid of being touched again than she was of falling. Feeling this way over a man she didn’t even like very much was not only wrong, it was disgusting! He was her brother-in-law, for heaven’s sake!