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“Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“Yes, I’ve been here many times. It’s just up ahead, but this is the best place to park.” He helped her from the car and took her hand to lead her down the cobblestone path.
The lane was dimly lit, and she clung to his hand even as she worried he might be leading her someplace she’d rather not go. “Are we getting close?”
He stopped. “Listen, do you hear the music? Bailaora, that’s a dancer in Catalan, was named for the present owner’s grandmother. The café’s been here a very long time.”
She was fluent in Spanish, not Catalan, and was grateful for his translation. “Yes, the music’s wonderful.” She was relieved they’d arrived until he ushered her through the narrow doorway and introduced her to Felipe Muñoz, the owner, as Miguel Aragon’s American daughter.
The main room of Bailaora had a low stage for the dancers and a dozen small tables circled by wooden chairs and benches. The café was nearly filled, and upon hearing her name, most of those present rushed forward to welcome her as though she were a celebr
ity.
She supposed she was to them but certainly not to herself. She forced a smile and returned the greetings so as not to disgrace her father’s image, but it was easily one of the most awkward moments of her life. As soon as they were seated, she leaned close to whisper to Rafael. “Please don’t mention my father’s name from now on.”
When he frowned and drew back, she wondered if her name hadn’t been the whole point of bringing her here tonight. Perhaps he was simply too proud to accept criticism, but she wanted to be clear. “I’m sorry, am I missing the point? Did you bring me here to show me off to your friends?”
“No!” he insisted, clearly insulted. “Do you want to leave?”
“We just got here,” she countered. She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “I intend to see the dancers before we go.”
He shook his head. “Of course. You expect to be entertained.” He ordered Ribeiro, a popular wine, for her, and it had a surprising bubbly fizz.
She’d taken only a sip before a lovely young woman stepped out on the stage. Her dark eyes held a teasing sparkle, and she wore her black hair in a chignon. Her fiery red dress had white polka dots, and her black dancing shoes shone like patent leather. She raised her arms to begin a slow rhythm with her castanets, and the guitarist accompanied her with a lively tune.
A second man stood beside the guitarist and matched the dancer’s steps with hearty claps. The three worked together beautifully, and Maggie enjoyed their performance enormously until she noted how frequently the spirited young woman’s glance rested on Rafael. It was a dark appraisal rather than a flirtatious one and gave Maggie an additional concern.
“Is she your girlfriend?” she whispered. “You should have told her not to be jealous.”
His warm breath brushed her ear as he replied, “No, she’s nothing to me.”
Maggie stared at him. He was as handsome as the top male models posing dripping wet for cologne ads, and he had the same careless mocking expression. He was simply what he was and didn’t care what anyone else thought of him.
“Well, clearly you’re something to her.” She returned her attention to the pretty dancer.
He leaned back in his chair and studied the shadows whirling across the low ceiling. He reminded her of her father who drew women so easily he valued none longer than a few weeks or months. Rafael had probably walked over so many broken hearts he no longer heard the crunch.
When the dancer finished to lively applause, she flounced off the stage and disappeared behind a hanging curtain. A couple soon replaced her. They were favorites of the small crowd and danced to many enthusiastic cheers. When they finished, the café’s owner came to their table.
“Will you dance for us, Rafael?” he asked in heavily accented English.
Rafael nodded to Maggie. “I’ll dance if you’ll dance with me.”
She thought of the advice she’d given the twins about mood, and tonight she could easily conjure up a fierce disdain. “If everyone will forgive my lack of appropriate costume and shoes, I will.”
Their host clapped his hands. “You may dance for us naked if you like.”
Rafael laughed; Felipe then realized what he’d said and blushed with embarrassment, but Maggie interrupted his rushed apology. “I understood what you meant. My clothes don’t matter. May I borrow some castanets if there’s an extra pair? ”
“Of course, I’ll find some.”
As she rose, Maggie glanced around the room. The women present were focused on Rafael, but the men were watching her. She was used to drawing attention when she danced, but she was usually on a stage separated her from the audience and here, she would be nearly in their laps. Perhaps it was only her father’s name that had impressed them.
“Do you dance here often?” she asked Rafael.
“No, a few times is all.” He rolled his sleeves up his forearms. “But people remember me.”
“Of course they do.” She took his hand to step up on the stage, but because he now knew how well she danced, she’d lost the advantage. This time the surprises would all come from him. She was grateful for the distraction of the castanets Felipe handed her. She clicked a slow beat in time with the guitarist and quickened it as she turned her shoulder to Rafael. She moved with a graceful sway and let the familiar steps carry her into the lively and seductive dance.
