Intimate Strangers Affair Page 5

  Except for the hacienda, there were no other homes for miles. This was still Rancho Cabrillo land. Apparently, no one had dared to squat this land like they had on others. The reputation of the Don was too formidable. Any would-be squatters had been evicted. Permanently. Soon the stories spread, perhaps exaggerated, perhaps not, about the menacing phantom in the night; quiet, deadly, efficient. Whatever the truth was, squatters decided that a home just wasn’t worth the gamble, or so Major Moore had told me. So except for the land that the Don had sold, the rancho was still the same as it had been since the very beginning when the first five Spanish families had settled here.

  Stretching my cramped limbs from the stupid carriage ride here, I stood on the front porch and looked around me. To the west rolled miles of sand dunes tufted with grass and the occasional scrub oak, and somewhere beyond that, farther than I could see, was the Pacific. I could see fishing boats riding low and heavy with their catches as they chugged past the Golden Gate back towards Yerba Buena harbor in the east. There were masts of great ships and the dockside warehouses, hemmed more and more by the encroaching city. It was a spectacular view of San Francisco. I felt like a bird flying over the city; I could see everything from here.

  My palms sweated inside my gloves, but it wasn’t because of the heat. I vainly rubbed them against my voluminous sky-blue skirts, pausing for just another moment as if I could put off the inevitable. This uncertainty was no good, no help whatsoever, and it was pointless to wait any longer. A good surgeon never hesitates, does she? I gritted my teeth and picked up the polished brass doorknocker, rapping it sharply against the front door. I stepped back and drew a sharp breath, suddenly remembering my dratted dress, which had been crumpled by the carriage ride here. I still felt like a pumpkin tossed in a moving crate, smashed in places, a little bruised in others. I hastily smoothed down the front of my dress skirt, but it was too late to fix it. The wrinkles stared at me in reproof. And there was something suspiciously looking like oil near the hem. How did I get that? What a mess! I never wore sateen outfits like this. This was why. I didn’t care if the flower-sprig pattern matched my eyes. So what? Why on earth had I let Catherine talk me into wearing this get-up, instead of my sensible navy blouse and split skirt? I didn’t care what she said, that a woman always displays her best assets. It didn’t matter. I felt like I was wearing a costume instead of clothes. My one contribution to this outfit was something I had no business wearing. The whole thing felt awful, but there was no turning back. I gripped my black bag so hard that the bone handles cut into my palm.

  The house was still silent, the front door closed. I peered through the stained glass window, but no one was there. Where were they? They were sure taking their time. Maybe they were busy. Maybe no one was home. Oh, too bad. I’ll just have to come back another day. Maybe never. I was turning on my heel, when the door opened behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder, stopping mid-spin. “Hello, I’m Nathalie Arnaud. I’m here to see Don Cabrillo.”

  A tiny Oriental woman stood on the other side of the threshold. She was small all over and well-proportioned like a porcelain doll: from her clear oval face to the fine bones of her hands and her miniature feet peeking out from under her black worsted skirt. She bowed quickly at the waist. “Come, Missy. In here. You come.”

  I followed her into the vestibule, through the long narrow hall, and past the front parlor. It was well appointed with large masculine oak and leather furniture, Spanish-style instead of fringed velvet nonsense.

  I paused in front of the open door in case the woman had misunderstood me. “Aren’t I…going in there? I’m visiting Don Cabrillo. Visiting. Parlor. Me.”

  She stopped suddenly, the keys at her belt jingling against each other. “No, no.” Her head shook vigorously as she resumed walking. “In study. He say so. He expecting you.”

  He is? That new information disturbed me. I’d thought that I would have the advantage of surprise. I made a note to myself. Perhaps I shouldn’t underestimate Don Miguel after this.

  Without another word, I followed my strange escort into the back room. She gestured to the leather chairs in front of the wide oak desk, then clasped her hands together. “You want chaw? Tea? I get.”

  “No, thank you…”

  “Lin-Mei. I Lin-Mei. I tell him Missy here. But he probably know.” She tittered behind one hand. “He always know.” She bowed again, then closed the door behind her.

  The click of the latch meeting the strike plate sounded as final as a jail door slamming. I almost jumped. What was I doing here? I was a doctor, not a spy. I had no business doing this, never had, yet here I was. Again. I told myself it didn’t matter. Better don’t think about it. Better don’t feel anything. Just get through it. That’s all I would need to do. Get through it. Survive.

  I set my bag on the floor, untied my new bonnet, and tossed it on to the chair. Its feather was already bent at the tip. Figures. Ruined already. So much work to reach the heights of fashion, even more work to maintain it. How did women do such things every day? It mystified me. Give me a hernia, or a good gout case any day. Now that I could handle all right. But this was different. This was foolishness. I was no femme fatale, my skills were in the operating room, not the bedroom. Major Moore would be sadly disappointed.

  Sighing, I unclasped the foolish cape that Catherine had talked me into and dropped it over the unfortunate hat. There. Hidden. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I paced around the room, pushed the globe on the desk, and set it spinning. There were maps, account books, and correspondence about an oil-run motor. On a small table sat a model of a clipper. She looked neat. Very neat. Clean lines, fast build. I would like to sail her all right. Then I walked towards the bay window. There was a spyglass on the sill. I picked it up, peered through it, focused, and the details of the harbor gradually sharpened as if I were only four feet away and looking straight at it. I pulled back a little and watched a man, a girl, and a small pigtailed boy flying kites off Black Point. They looked like they were having fun. The girl clapped her hands while the boy was running, his queue bouncing off his back. His red kite bobbled.

  “Go, go, go,” I murmured. “Ahhh…” The kite crashed to the ground. “Too bad. Better luck next time.”

  “Perhaps now,” said a low soft voice behind me.

  What? It couldn’t be. My heart suddenly stopped. It hurt as if someone had reached inside my chest, seized it, and squeezed. I could barely breathe. My hands turned so numb that I couldn’t even feel the spyglass any longer. Then the numbness spread down my arms, into my body. I was shocked, to hear that voice. I knew it. I had heard it a million times, saying a million impossible things. Foolish things I had no business thinking about, because no sensible woman would. That voice had haunted my dreams, even my waking moments. I hadn’t told Catherine, I’d die before I admitted it. The spyglass fell from my eyes. Hastily, I set the telescope back on the sill, feeling a little ridiculous as if I’d been caught doing something I should not. I took a deep breath and I turned around slowly, disbelief still rioting through me.

  The Captain. He stood there, just across the room from me, on land, instead of sea. He was here. Of all the places, he was here? Then suddenly the thought struck me right between the eyes. Worry swamped, then drowned my pleasure over seeing him again. Why now? He knew me. This was terrible. Connections were bad. Very bad. How did these two men know each other? One wrong word, and the Captain would ruin everything. I had to stop him first, but I didn’t know how. I only knew that I must.

  I wasn’t a good spy; didn’t have a lot of experience, didn’t really want to. But I was a darn good doctor, so I fell back on that hard-earned learning. James had taught me long ago about the first rule of a physician: observation. Don’t rush, learn by watching. So I followed his advice. I stayed by the bay window, and studied the Captain. I’d forgotten how tall, how commanding he was. The long line of his black frock coat and pants accentuated his lean muscles. His cheeks and j
aw looked sharper, the slight cleft in his chin standing out in relief even more. How odd. Most sailors gained weight, eventually losing their beef-jerky look after a week or two on shore leave. But he hadn’t. If anything, he’d lost some weight instead.

  Was he ill? I checked for signs, but I found none. His skin looked toned, still bronzed from our recent voyage. Then I looked deeper into his jade green eyes, and noticed that he wasn’t looking into mine any more. His attention seemed to have wandered elsewhere.

  I followed his gaze downward. What was he was looking at? A skirt fetish? My hips, hidden under useless yards of flounced material? I looked even lower, trying to figure him out. He was staring at what? My hands?! Oh, no! Those damnable beautiful gloves. How mortifying. I wanted to slip through a trapdoor and disappear forever. He probably thought I was wearing his gift and mooning over him, or something equally ridiculous as that. What a wrong impression! What rotten timing! I hastily stuffed both hands behind my back, then flushed miserably when I saw his lips quirk at one corner. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. In the next moment, his mouth returned to the same stern line I remembered. Maybe I had imagined the whole thing.

  I left the bay window and walked around the desk until I reached the edge of the Turkish rug. I was only a few feet away from the Captain, and I stared up at him. “What are you doing here?”

  He jerked his head towards the model clipper.

  “Oh, of course. Sailing. You’re a captain of a ship. Do you work for Don Miguel?”

  “No.”

  “No?” I hoped that he might elaborate, but he didn’t. He only looked at me with a brooding intensity that made me uncomfortable. I felt like I was being turned inside out, examined, and maybe found lacking. Somehow, that bugged me. Irritation mounted. This man…I couldn’t believe it. This was like pulling teeth on a combative patient. “Oh, I see. So you don’t work for Don Miguel. Then you must work for the Cabrillo Shipping. One of those independent contractors who are running the blockade these days. High risk, high profit. I hope you’re not doing that. The Captain of The Cunning was caught last week and left for the crows. To set an example, you know. Doesn’t seem worth it. Too much danger.”

  “Danger is not a concern,” he said quietly, precisely. He spoke as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. No bragging, just facts. The plain, simple, severe facts of life. Of death. His tone sent shivers through me.

  “That’s foolish. You don’t care? You should.”

  “You care, señorita. Why do you?”

  “Because I should. Everybody should. If we all did, then the world wouldn’t be at war all the time. And things would be much better, a better place to live. Everyone should care about everyone else. That’s what makes us human.”

  “You believe that.”

  “Of course,” I said hotly. That was the basis for everything I had sacrificed for. “Don’t you believe that? You should.”

  “So passionate,” he murmured to himself. “And very young.”

  Not that again. So I was being dismissed once more. This time because of my age instead of my gender. “Now, see here. I’m not…” But then I drifted off, suddenly noticing that he was closer than I’d realized. Only a few inches away now. When had he moved in on me? Now he was close enough to smell. I caught his bay rum aftershave and the scents of brine and damp wool as if he’d just come from the sea. Maybe he’d been checking over his ship or trading at the harbor warehouse. Maybe…my mind started to spin little stories about him.

  Stop. Better stop. Those speculations were making the real world go away for awhile. I had to stop. Some observer I was. I was noticing too much of some things and not enough of the others. How had I let him sneak up on me like that? He was too close now. Close enough to pounce. Stop acting like an idiot. Do something. Say something. I felt adrift, the wind completely gone from my sails. I needed something, a little edge. So I pretended that he was a pesky hospital orderly instead of the tall dark Captain who intimidated the hell out of me. Pretending made it easier, gave me a small puff of courage.

  I pointed a finger at him. “I don’t know why you’re here, but you better not tell Don Miguel that I was on the ship. I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of greenhorn, okay?”

  “Too late, niña.”

  “Oh, no! But how did he find out? Did you tell him about me? How could you? I just got here. So did you.” Then Lin-Mei’s words came back to me. He always seems to know. I definitely was in deeper waters than I’d expected. What had I gotten myself into? I silently cursed Major Moore. “How could Don Miguel already know?”

  “He knows, because he was there.”

  “What?”

  “He was there all the time.”

  “No, he wasn’t. I didn’t see him, and no one talked about him. Not once during that whole three-month voyage.”

  The Captain looked a little surprised as if he wasn’t used to being contradicted. “My crew is well-trained. That is my way.”

  “Your way?”

  “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Don Miguel.”

  “You?!” I strangled on the word. Now I really felt like an idiot. “You’re Don Miguel Samuelle Cabrillo? You can’t be!”

  “I am,” he said gravely.

  “Well, you’re too young.”

  “Old enough,” he replied. “Thirty-two.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. I should have asked Moore for a picture of Don Miguel before starting all this. My mistake. I couldn’t afford to make another one. Claude was counting on me. “Well. Right. Let’s get to it. Where’s your bedroom?”

  His brows lifted to his hairline. Now it was his turn to look surprised.

  “Bedrooms are more private, but I don’t care. Whatever’s comfortable for you. We can do it right here, the study’s fine. Take off your clothes.”

  ***

  Location, they say, is everything, but this was a little too much for me. Don Miguel’s bedroom was next to his study. Could you believe it? Right next door. How convenient. Too convenient, I thought sourly, wondering how many women had taken advantage of this convenience. Michelle, no doubt. She frequently conducted business outside of The Golden Catherine. I could see them, her and the Captain, concluding their deal right here. And then, there was that little doll Lin-Mei, too young and pretty to be a housekeeper. Looked more like a concubine to me. I wondered who else belonged to his harem. The question rankled.

  He was a man of regular habits, according to Mrs. Bernard. Probably rotated through his women on the same day of the week. I’d heard enough stories about him from the girls below-stairs. Don Miguel? Wrong name. He should have been named Don Juan instead. And on the ship, well, it felt bad to admit it, but I’d been no different than other susceptible females. Me? Foolish? Like that? It galled me. At least that bad taste in my mouth made my job easier now. I told myself I didn’t care. And if I didn’t care, then it didn’t really matter that I was here, doing this inside his bedroom.

  It was a small room, but the high ceiling made it seem larger. Soft afternoon light streamed through the thin six-foot stained-glass windows, making quilts of reflected color on the inlaid floor. There was a violoncello propped against a leatherback chair near a music stand, several small tables, and one long, clean worktable with half-planed wood and carving tools neatly laid out. I didn’t see a single stray shaving. And on the walls hung masks: a jaguar, a Zulu warrior, a long-nosed commedia-del-arte clown, and other wide-mouth, funny-looking faces from places he must have seen. All of a sudden, this bedroom reminded me of that wooden gift box he’d given me: a plain exterior hiding a rich interior, which was surprisingly ornate. You’d never know just from looking at the outside of the box. I felt as if I was inside that gift box right now. There was more. Much more.

  I paused in front of a painting with thick heavy blobs of aqua, green, and purple. It was dashed here and there with pink and gold. Close up it looked obscure, but from far away the colors looked less blurry. They blended into a
peaceful picture of water, light, and water. Maybe a pond. “Are those water lilies?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not what it seems. Like a puzzle, isn’t it? I’ve seen something like this before once. In Paris. Who did this?”

  “An art student. Monet.”

  “Claude?” I made a face.

  “You know him.”

  “Sure, I do. He’s named like my brother, but you couldn’t find two more different people even if you try. He’s so old-fashioned, thinks women were made to be models or mothers. Nothing else. We met at the Café Guerbois. Paul took me there.”

  The Captain frowned briefly. “Paul?”

  “Paul Cézanne. Another student. We know each other from the university. He used to dissect cadavers with us. Artists need to know anatomy too, you know.” I took another second to look at the painting. Even if I thought Monet was a jerk, I could still appreciate his artwork. The painting wasn’t exactly what I expected in the home of a Spanish Don. Surprise trickled through my nervousness as I looked everywhere but at the main piece of furniture that dominated the room. Finally, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. My eyes flew back to the great four-poster bed that was large enough for an entire family to sleep in, or an orgy to play in. The bedcover was a wide turquoise lake of Chinese silk. Silk! The sunlight made it shimmer. I’d never seen the like of it before.

  It reminded me of my mission. Of the man who was silently watching me. Our eyes met from across the room. Now. Now or never.

  As if he heard me, Don Miguel slowly undid the ivory buttons of his coat. He shrugged it off, and neatly laid it over the back of the chair. Then he checked his fob watch before replacing it in his vest pocket.