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Uncle Francisco had smoothed his path, being the solicitous brother to Ana-María; the protective uncle to Shelene; the guardian of Las Colinas; the long-lost white knight returning triumphantly.
Initially, her grief had been unbearable. But sometime, sometime in the following weeks, Shelene’s mind had turned to the likely possibility that when Uncle Francisco had heard she’d married Roman—his sworn enemy—he had done something to harm him. But how?
Hatred had always run deeper than compassion with him. There was no forgiveness and Shelene found such feelings stirred in her too.
She hadn’t forgiven Roman for leaving her. She hadn’t forgiven her uncle for his high-handed management of her life, and she hadn’t forgiven him for what she had imagined he’d done.
“Dear Shelene,” Raúl said as he approached again, holding out his hand. “There is a faction demanding our presence on the dance floor. I do not want them to become unruly.”
“It is only the fine-quality drink that is inciting them. Surely, it is not our dancing skill.”
“I don’t know about that. I think you are light on your feet, and I am quite graceful when I have a woman in my arms,” Raúl said.
“Fanfarrón!Let us see if your dance abilities match your boastful words,” she said. They had danced together a few times. Tonight, of course, and at two other celebrations. This would be their first paso doble.
He took her left hand in his right. They each stamped their feet in the appel, a sharp tap against the stone floor. Shelene took her red skirt and waved it as if she tempted an angered bull in the ring. The quick tempo had started, pushing her heart to beat at the same time that would soon match their steps. A few other couples had joined them on the floor.
The dance kept their hands connected while they moved their bodies in parallel motions—together and apart as their feet moved in double-time. The dance had grown from the famed march of the Spanish military and the movements were quick and precise, Raúl holding her securely with each turn and drop. Then he spun her about, and she lifted her hands over her head, her fingers gracefully turning. Her skirt whirled in a circle about her legs. Raúl struck the floor with his feet, and she turned into his arms.
And then they were alone on the floor, everyone watching the stunning betrothed couple, as they turned and whirled into the last steps.
Raúl stopped mid-dance and glanced toward the parting crowd.
Shelene’s skirts wrapped around her legs again as she came to a stop, looking in the same direction. She opened her mouth to speak, reached out to brace against something solid but nothing was there, including the earth beneath her feet.
“Papa?” she said. “Roman?”
The candles went dark as her vision collapsed into a single pinpoint of light. Her breath came hard and the spinning she’d done on the floor now swirled in her head. Her knees buckled, but the floor felt like a soft bed when she landed.
