Page 43 of His Innocent for One Spanish Night

He might see it was open and knock, she thought, knowing she was being pathetic, but somehow letting her desperation override her.

She attempted to be casual and put on the television—some Spanish soap opera, all glittering eyes and jewels, and people so beautiful she felt pale and unsophisticated in comparison.

She poured a glass of wine and then tried to coax the last of her hair serum from the container and do what she could with her wild curls.

Oh, hi...she’d say casually when he knocked and came in, as he had today at the office.

She’d been so sure there was more he’d have said if there hadn’t been others around. There was so much still unsaid and undone.

She heard the main gates buzz, and then the sound of his footsteps on the mosaic steps. She held her breath as he climbed the stairs, then halted.

She took a sip of wine but didn’t swallow it. Instead her face crumpled as she heard his gates open. It was rather clear that Alejandro Romero had walked right on by and would not be accepting her unvoiced offer to drop in.

Perhaps she should go over there?

What the hell...?

Emily stood up and told herself to have some pride, reminding herself of the talking-to she’d given herself just that morning—sitting watching the sunrise on the very spot where he’d rejected her, telling herself it was time to move on.

She turned off the television angrily—not that the television noticed. And then she picked up her key and before she could talk herself out of it locked the door behind her and determinedly took the stairs.

‘Emily!’ Eva greeted her warmly. ‘You decided to join us.’

‘I did.’

Thank heaven for group classes.

She’d been seconds from disaster.

She stood in front of the mirror and picked up the edge of a borrowed shawl, and knew that night she’d been seconds away from making a complete fool of herself and going to him.

‘Quinta!’Eva said, clapping her hands to gain their attention, and then she raised her hands gracefully in the air. ‘Fifth position, Emily. Concentrate.’

Emily loved the group workshop, even if she was dreadful at it—she attended daily when her schedule allowed, and certainly nightly when the Alejandro urge hit.

She borrowed from Eva’s selection of flamenco shoes, though rather guiltily she intended to splurge and buy some expensive professional ones, even if they would only serve as a souvenir of her time here. On Saturday she’d been to a flea market at Mercadillo José Ignacio, a pleasant walk from the city centre, and had bought a practice skirt and top. She took these lessons seriously, and even had her own piece of wood to practise on at home.

A heel strike was atacón.

Using the sole of her foot,planton.

Andgolpemeant she struck the floor with the whole of her foot.

Eva was a hard taskmaster.

‘Come on, Emily, we only have four more weeks. You are like a tree that refuses to bend.’

She always singled Emily out but, given the limited time span, Emily tried to accept the criticism rather than burst into tears and run, as she sometimes felt like doing.

‘Be provocative, Emily,’ Eva told her now, in the one-to-one class she’d squeezed into her day.

What was the point of being provocative? Emily thought. She’d practically thrown herself at him.

‘Emily,move,’ Eva urged.

‘I am,’ Emily said, trying to inject some sass into her hips. But Eva was right. She was like a lump of wood that refused to bend to any wind.

Oh, but she tried.

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