Page 138 of Gabriel: Duke of Bencalor

As Vin­cent opened the trunk to get the gui­tars, one of the carved wooden doors swung out­ward and was held open by a pony­tailed man dressed in black.

Gabriel stood on the side­walk, his head tilted back to gaze at the mar­quee. She won­dered if he was imag­in­ing his name up there.

Vin­cent joined them, a gui­tar case in each hand, say­ing, “Let’s move in­side.”

The lobby was small but or­nate, with mo­saic-cov­ered col­umns ris­ing to a high ceil­ing.

The driver passed the gui­tars to Gabriel. “Good luck, sir.”

A sur­prised smile flashed on Gabriel’s face. “Gra­cias.” He lifted one case to in­di­cate that Quinn should pre­cede him through the the­ater door.

The stage was spot­lighted in a blaze of white, leav­ing the semi­cir­cu­lar rows of vel­vet-up­hol­stered seats in near dark­ness. It was a rel­a­tively small space, seat­ing only about five hun­dred peo­ple, she’d been told.

Gabriel stopped at the top of the slop­ing aisle and stared at the empty stage. Since his hands were full, Quinn wrapped her hand around his up­per arm, the leather of his black jacket smooth against her palm. “Mucha mierda!” she said, stand­ing on her tip­toes to press a kiss on his cheek. “Break a string!”

He turned his in­tense gaze on her. “Thank you for be­ing here.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She de­lib­er­ately in­sulted him to lighten his nerves. “I got to sleep in the king’s air­plane bed and stay in a ho­tel so ex­clu­sive no nor­mal per­son has heard of it.”

He huffed out a sin­gle laugh. “That’s why I wanted you to come.” He hefted the gui­tars. “Come meet Marisela.”

“Later,” Quinn said. “You need to talk with her, mu­si­cian to mu­si­cian. I’m go­ing to be the au­di­ence for now.”

“Near the stage so I can see you,” he said, nod­ding to­ward the front row.

“I’ll be front and cen­ter.”

She ges­tured for him to go first. As they got to the fifth row, a slim woman dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, a flam­ing red braid fall­ing over her shoul­der, walked onto the stage. “Gabriel, buenos días, guapo!”

“Qué bueno verte, Marisela!” He lifted the black leather case higher. “I brought the Tor­res for you.”

“I can’t wait to hold it in my arms,” she said, com­ing to the edge of the stage with her hands flung dra­mat­i­cally out­ward.

Gabriel placed both gui­tar cases on the stage be­fore he vaulted up onto it. He and Marisela did the Eu­ro­pean dou­ble air-kiss and then moved into a gen­uine hug.

Quinn slipped into the fourth row of seats.

“Who’s your friend?” Marisela shaded her eyes to peer in Quinn’s di­rec­tion.

“My girl­friend, Quinn Pier­son. She came with me from Cal­eva.” Gabriel turned to­ward Quinn and pro­jected his voice. “Quinn, meet Marisela Alejo, the great­est fla­menco gui­tarist in the world to­day.”

Marisela laughed. “De­pends on who you ask, but I’ll take it from one who knows his stuff. Un placer, Quinn.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Quinn said.

As she watched Marisela and Gabriel chat­ting while a stage­hand set up a cou­ple of chairs on­stage, Quinn saw what Gabriel had meant. Marisela did not treat him like a duke. She hadn’t curt­sied or called him Don Gabriel or Duque. She be­haved as though they were equals. That must spring from the con­fi­dence of be­ing the best at what she did. Quinn liked that about Marisela. And en­vied it.

As the two gui­tarists set­tled on their chairs, Quinn re­al­ized they were wear­ing al­most iden­ti­cal out­fits, even down to their black boots. But Gabriel’s long legs and sculpted mus­cu­la­ture made his black jeans and T-shirt stretch in ways that drew her gaze like a mag­net, es­pe­cially since she knew how his bare skin looked un­der­neath.

When Gabriel reached down to flip open the latches on his brown gui­tar case, Quinn bur­rowed into the cush­ioned vel­vet seat, her grip on the arms whiten­ing her knuck­les.

“Aren’t you go­ing to play the Tor­res?” Marisela asked.

“No,” he said as he set­tled his gui­tar on his thighs. “That’s a clas­si­cal in­stru­ment. To­day, I am play­ing fla­menco. Be­sides, the Tor­res is yours now.”

“Te has vuelto loco!” Marisela shook her head in dis­be­lief as Gabriel bent to tune his gui­tar. When he was sat­is­fied, he straight­ened and looked at Quinn. She saw him take a deep breath, his shoul­ders ris­ing and fall­ing.

Then his fin­gers flew across the gui­tar strings, and wild mu­sic filled the the­ater.

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