“Well,” the arts commissioner’s wife said with a little smile, “he would think that, I suppose. I mean, he’s Mexican. Anything cooked without all that hot stuff, the chilies and what-have-you, would be an improvement.”
“Spanish,” Kyra said. All the heads swiveled toward her again and she swallowed hard. “He wasn’t Mexican.”
“Did he tell you that?” Ronald said, his brows knotting together again.
“No, of course not. I just—well, it was the way he spoke. His Spanish wasn’t Mexican, it was Castilian. I studied it in school for five years. I mean, and…and…”
And I am making a complete ass of myself. But then, it was a minor miracle she was able to talk any sense at all, considering what had happened, considering that an absolute stranger who’d spent half the evening undressing her with his eyes had dared speak to her that way…
“…don’t you agree, Kyra?”
Kyra blinked. “Agree with what?” she said, looking at the ballet master’s lover.
“I was saying, a man that big could never be Mexican.” He batted his lashes. “He was at least six feet tall, and all those muscles…”
He was more than six feet, Kyra thought. At least sixone or six-two. And yes, he certainly had a lot of muscles. You could tell, even beneath that dinner jacket. She had never seen a man with broader shoulders or with a broader chest, for that matter, and yet when he’d stood up she’d seen that his waist was narrow, and his hips. And he had such long, long legs…
The truth was that he was the best-looking man she’d ever seen. His face wasn’t a pretty face, nor even conventionally handsome. The bones were too pronounced, the nose too aquiline for movie-star good looks. But it was a wonderful face just the same: eyes so blue they might have been bits of a summer sky, fringed with lashes the same midnight black as his hair; cheekbones that might have been sculpted out of clay; a wide, sensual mouth, a square chin.
She had noticed him at least an hour ago. Lots of women had; she’d seen the sly little glances shooting his way. But then, to her surprise, she’d suddenly felt his eyes on her during the cocktail party. She’d wanted to turn around, to see if she were imagining things, but she hadn’t. He was too blatantly masculine, too arrogant, a man who thought he owned the world and everything in it. You could see it in the way he held himself. The blond number with him was the sort who ate that stuff up but Kyra knew better.
Besides, it would have meant being rude to Ronald, who was trying his best to entertain her despite the fact that her thoughts were back home, with her father. Charles hadn’t been well for months and today he’d seemed worse than usual. But he’d still insisted that a Landon had to attend the Arts Center opening.
Kyra’s mouth narrowed. And when he insisted, to try to reason was to court disaster.
“…to find our seats?”
She looked up. Ronald was on his feet; he was trying to pull back her chair and she realized, after a moment, that everyone else was filing out of the ballroom.
“Oh.” She smiled broadly. “Sure. Sorry.”
She took the arm he offered and let him lead her into the auditorium. The houselights dimmed, the curtains opened, and a dozen men wearing skintight leotards came leaping onstage to the beat of a drum.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Ronald whispered.
Kyra tried not to wince as a gong began sounding mournfully in the orchestra pit. “Wonderful,” she said, and settled back in her seat.
She tried to pay attention to what was happening onstage, but her thoughts kept drifting to what had happened at dinner. If only she hadn’t looked at the man. She’d tried not to, even though she’d known he was looking at her. But finally she’d just had to peek and when she had…
God, when she had!
That look of raw desire in his deep blue eyes had done something strange to her heartbeat and suddenly she’d felt a need so primitive it had terrified her with its intensity She’d been even more terrified that it had shown on her face. He’d seen it. And he’d known exactly what it was. That was why he’d said that awful thing to her.
Kyra sprang to her feet. Ronald looked up, startled, and she shook her head, smiled as best she could, and mouthed that she was going outside, to the ladies’ room.
What was the matter with her? To think that a man like that should hold any appeal for her was ridiculous. If she ever took an interest in a man, it would certainly not be in one who went around parading his boorish masculinity.
And yet, when she felt a hand press lightly on her shoulder, when a deep, male voice said, “Miss Landon?” Kyra swung around, her pulse racing.
Had the Spaniard come back? Was he going to tell her he’d never wanted to make love to a woman as much as he wanted to make love to her? Would she have the courage to say—to admit…
But it wasn’t he. It was the manager of the new Arts Center.
“Miss Landon,” he said quietly, “there’s a phone call for you in my office. I—I’m afraid it’s not good news.”
Kyra’s mind went blank. She managed to nod, to smile politely and make her way past him. She knew, even before she reached the office and picked up the phone; she knew who was calling, and why.
It was the doctor, phoning to tell her that her father, Charles Landon, was dead.
IT WAS a perfect morning, one that could make you forget that a raw Colorado winter was only weeks away. The early autumn sky was cloudless and so bright a blue that it was almost able to soften the dreary lines of the Landon mansion that dominated the top of the hill.
Kyra sighed as she paused beside the lower paddock and leaned on the railing. Last spring’s foals were playing some kind of catch-me-if-you-can game in the meadows. Their long legs flashed and their silky manes flew as they galloped past each other. Beyond the foals, the mares grazed on the tender grass with quiet dignity.
A smile curved across Kyra’s mouth. This was what made life on the estate bearable: the herd of elegant Morgans, the magnificent land rolling away to meet the soaring majesty of the Rockies…Her heart had always been here and not in the house looming above her, a house that had now become hers.
She turned, tucked her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans, and began walking slowly up the gravel path that led to the aspen grove behind the house.
There was a time she’d wondered why her father had ever built something so ugly. She knew her brothers thought it was because Charles saw all that stone and stained glass as a testament to his wealth and power. But that couldn’t have been the reason. There were other houses in the foothills of the Rockies that had cost small fortunes yet still managed to capture the mountains’ wild beauty.
When the reason finally came to her, it was so basic that she knew it to be true.
Charles had simply never given a thought to the aesthetics of Landon House. He’d have demanded the mansion be imposing in size and that it be built of the finest—meaning the most expensive—materials.
The rest of it wouldn’t have interested him.
The architect had understood. He’d seen the character of his client and given him exactly what he wanted. A house that reflected its owner, a house that was show without substance, that had no heart or soul. And Charles had been satisfied. He knew nothing about hearts, or souls. Not of houses, not of people.
Not even when it came to his daughter.