Pale Dawn Dark Sunset

Rafael’s expression was wry. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I don’t think you should.” That was Constancia, the quieter, more introspective of the two. “Let Juan meet her himself!”

“I agree,” chimed in Carla. “Why should you have to waste your time going to meet some stuffy old maid?”

“That will do, Carla.” Rafael’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You know absolutely nothing about Miss Lord, and I do not think we should make wild statements about someone who is totally anonymous to us.”

Carla pouted. “Can I come with you?”

Rafael shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why not? At least you wouldn’t be bored—”

“I am never bored, Carla,” returned Rafael grimly, and climbed determinedly into the Landrover. “I’ll see you both tomorrow evening. When I get back.”

Constancia came to the door of the vehicle and touched his arm. “I wish I could come with you, Rafael,” she murmured wistfully, and for a moment he was tempted. But then he caught sight of Carla’s indignant face and realised he could not possibly take one without the other.

“There wouldn’t be room in the helicopter,” he replied, touching her cheek with a lean finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hmm?”

Constancia stepped back reluctantly and Rafael put the Landrover into gear. Then he drove swiftly down the drive and out on to the track to the village.

CHAPTER TWO (#u43f88df8-add0-53ab-a4b7-8ea56c909713)

THE international airport at Mexico City was a seething mass of humanity in the heat of the late afternoon. More and more people were discovering the fascination for the past which gave the Aztec civilisation such an irresistible appeal. Where once only scientists and historians came to investigate the relics of that ancient culture there now thronged safari-shirted tourists, slung about with cameras and binoculars, and all the other paraphernalia of the cult fanatic.

Rafael disliked the crowds. He avoided them whenever possible. And the reasons for his being here at all were gradually arousing an unmistakable feeling of irritation inside him. The aircraft bringing this woman who might or might not be the child’s aunt out from England had developed an engine fault and had been delayed twenty-four hours in Kingston, which had meant that Rafael had had to book in at the airport hotel and spend a whole day kicking his heels. But finally the flight’s arrival had been announced, and he walked reluctantly towards the reception area. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his close-fitting corduroy pants and as he wore no jacket because it was so hot, his thin cream knitted shirt clung to his skin. He was hardly aware that several pairs of female eyes turned speculatively in his direction. He was simply not interested. He was totally absorbed with the disruptive quality of his own thoughts.

The plane had landed by the time he reached reception, and because of the delay in Jamaica and certain formalities which had been conducted there the passengers were quickly dealt with. Luggage was unloaded and gradually the passengers trickled through to collect their belongings and be greeted by welcoming relatives and friends.

Rafael stood to one side, his feet slightly apart, assessing all the women who emerged with equal penetration. There were several middle-aged women and his stomach muscles tautened when he contemplated approaching one of them with his brother’s proposition. But fortunately they were all quickly encompassed into welcoming groups and Rafael viewed the men that followed without interest. Most of the passengers looked relieved that the journey was over and he conceded that knowing one’s aircraft had developed an engine fault on the first leg of the journey could not make for a comfortable completion.

A woman in a wheelchair came next, propelled by a tall girl who looked round the reception area with curious eyes. Rafael frowned. Could this perhaps be Miss Lord? This woman in the wheelchair who looked rather pale and drawn.

But no! He stifled his increasing impatience as a man and a woman approached them and bent to speak consolingly to the woman in the chair. Then they spoke to the girl and she smiled, and said something which from her manner appeared to be deprecating their obvious gratitude.

Rafael looked away. Where was the woman? he silently demanded, feeling his reserves of tolerance running desperately low. Surely she would have the sense to realise that someone would be sent to meet her! Surely she wouldn’t leave the confines of the airport and seek accommodation at some hotel?

“Excuse me, señor!”

The feminine voice to one side of him broke into his absorption and his brows drew together in a scowl as he turned to look at the girl who had spoken. She was the girl who had been propelling the wheelchair and at once his spirits rose a little. Could it be that the woman in the wheelchair was Miss Lord, after all?

“Si?” He was abrupt, but he couldn’t help it.

The girl smiled, seemingly unconcerned by his uncompromising attitude. Objectively, he had to concede that she was an unusually attractive young woman. She was tall, perhaps five feet six or seven, and without the angular thinness sometimes associated with girls of her height. She was slim, but not excessively so, and firm breasts were moulded beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. A mass of straight red-gold hair fell in a heavy curtain about her shoulders, her features were even, her eyes an amazing shade of green and fringed by dark, gold-tipped lashes, her mouth full and mobile. She was dressed in the kind of casual attire affected by the youth of the day—cotton denim jeans that clung to her hips and tapered at the ankle, thonged sandals on her bare feet. A canvas holdall was draped over her shoulder drawing attention to the open neck of her shirt where the smooth column of her throat was clearly visible. Without a doubt, he decided, she was not unaccustomed to the ready admiration of the opposite sex. It was there in the slightly slanting eyes, in her awareness, in the confidence she exuded—and Rafael withdrew behind a façade of coldness that was totally alien to him.

“Excuse me,” she said again, and her voice was warm and husky and unmistakably English. “But you’re not by any chance—Señor Cueras?”

Rafael stiffened. “I am Rafael Cueras,” he agreed politely.

“Oh, I see. Rafael!“ The girl looked disappointed. “I’m sorry. It was a Señor Juan Cueras I was looking for.”

Rafael drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her. “Juan Cueras is my brother, señorita. Do you speak to me on behalf of Miss Lord?”

“On behalf of—” The girl broke off. “Oh, no, señor. I don’t speak on behalf of anybody. I am Miranda Lord!”

To say Rafael was surprised would be a masterpiece of understatement. He was astounded, flabbergasted! He stared at the girl as though she had just announced her intention to stick a knife in his ribs. He couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t. That this female—this girl—was the expected aunt from England! It wasn’t possible. Aunts in his country were middle-aged to elderly women attired in black, not slips of creatures little more than children themselves.

Miranda Lord was smiling at his amazement. “Is something wrong?” she enquired in an amused voice. “Am I not what you were expecting?”

That she should so precisely put her finger on what was wrong irritated him. He disliked the way she was looking at him, the way her eyes mocked his confusion. “I—no, señorita,” he retorted curtly. “You are perhaps—younger, that is all.”

She nodded. “Well, my sister was twelve years older,” she conceded, a cloud of remembered grief darkening her eyes for a moment. Then she shook her head impatiently. “I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you.”

The amusement was back again and Rafael cast a swift look around them. He realised they could not go on standing here when at any moment another aircraft would be landing and other passengers would be crowding this lounge, but he was curiously loath to take responsibility for her. Still, it had to be done.

“You will please to come with me, señorita,” he directed, his English worsening as his irritation irrationally increased. “You have suitcases?”

Miranda looked across the room. “Only one. That’s it over there. I’ll get it.”

“I will get it, señorita.”

Rafael strode away and picked up the square black case, noting its battered edges with a tightening of his lips. It was obvious that the situation was as Juan had suggested. This girl had no money, and was certainly not the kind of guardian he would have chosen for a child of eight years. For the first time he felt a small sympathy towards his brother’s cause. Perhaps Juan was right after all.

He came back to the girl, and she said: “You don’t have to keep calling me señorita. My name is Miranda. I’m used to that.”

Rafael made no reply to this but merely indicated that she should accompany him across the well-lit entrance hall and out into the cooling warmth of the late afternoon.

“I expect you’ve been waiting since yesterday, haven’t you?” Miranda suggested, as they walked to where Rafael had left the car. “I’m sorry. The plane developed a fault. It was quite nerve-racking really.”

But she didn’t appear to be suffering any ill-effects, thought Rafael with unusual cynicism, and despised himself for feeling that way.

“Aren’t those flowers beautiful!” she was exclaiming now, spreading her hands and giving a little shake of her shoulders. “I can hardly believe it, you know. That I’m here—in Mexico. I’ve done very little travelling, I’m afraid.”

Rafael’s nostrils flared. “I should have thought that the reasons behind this journey were less than stimulating, señorita.”

She glanced sideways at him, and her eyes were coolly appraising. Tall as he was, she did not have to look up far into his face and it was rather disconcerting to him. Most of the people he associated with, men as well as his mother and sisters, were much smaller than he was.

Now she said quietly: “My sister and her husband went missing more than four months ago. I’ve had to adjust myself to the fact that they’re never coming back.”

Rafael felt reproved and didn’t care for the experience. He was guiltily aware that he was making a very poor impression, but he said nothing and she looked away again, making some further comment about the banks of blossom that fronted the airport buildings.

The grey Mustang gleamed metal-like on the stark concrete apron of the parking area. Miranda silently admired its sleek elegance and then asked: “Yours?”

Rafael shook his head. “My brother’s, señorita.“ He swung open the passenger door. “Won’t you please get in?”

With a shrug she curved herself into the seat and he stowed her case in the boot before joining her. It was some time since he had driven any woman other than a member of his own family, and he could smell the faint aroma of some perfume she was wearing and feel the warmth from her skin close beside his.

They swung out of the parking area and he was relieved to have the traffic to rivet his attention. He was conscious of her looking about her with interest and in an effort to behave naturally he pointed out the twin mountain peaks which have become world-famous since the Spanish conqueror Cortes viewed the Aztec city from the tableland between them. They did not drive into Mexico City, however, but swung away south towards Puebla. If she was disappointed that she was not to have some time in the capital Rafael couldn’t help it. If she wished to go sightseeing when the business which had brought her to Mexico was over, that was her affair.