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  Soon, castanets began clacking rapidly. The guitars silenced. The crowd hushed. The lights rose. The castanets stopped. Silence.

  The audience watched the curtains, excitement in their faces.

  As the waiter returned with two glasses of red wine and placed them on the table the castanets started again, slowly. A man’s thick-heeled shoe appeared from behind the right curtain. A woman’s high-heeled shoe came out from the one on the left. Their heels tapped on the tile floor. The castanets clicked along like drumming fingers. The guitars accompanied, strumming softly.

  The sound built, some of the crowd joining in, clapping along. The man and woman came out from behind the curtains striking their heels and twisting their bodies. The woman’s red dress was tight at the thighs, and when she spun it flew out from just above her knees exposing trim, shapely legs. The man’s tight black pants showed every curve, every bulge of his athletic body. Dressed as a matador, he wore a short, black jacket and a wide-brimmed, flat black hat.

  They crossed the floor, their backs arched, stepping boldly. They paused to spin around each other in the middle, her castanets clicking, his hands clapping sharply. Then they headed for the audience, looking momentarily into the eyes of each of the patrons sitting in the front row.

  Without even a glance to each other to pick a target, the matador’s eyes found Reeves. The woman’s found Spurs. They advanced to them, stamping their feet, clicking castanets and clapping hands to the rhythm of the strumming guitars.

  Spurs checked Reeves, his expression dead pan, watching the matador approach. She looked at her counterpart, stomping closer, castanets in one hand, a colorful fan fluttering in the other. They drew nearer, staring at the two.

  The crowded room witnessed the show intently, wordlessly, their clapping hands now silent.

  Spurs watched Reeves and the young, delicately featured matador. The man brought his face to within inches of the commander, Reeves looking back still unfazed, without blinking.

  The woman was now in Spurs’ face and she turned to her. She saw that the young woman also had delicate features. Auburn hair. Full, wet, cherry-like lips. Beautiful, sensuous, brown eyes. Her low cut dress left no guess whether or not she had full, firm breasts. Thin waist, shapely hips.

  Her face neared to within inches of Spurs’. She ran her tongue across her sexy mouth and stared deep into Spurs’ eyes, drawing uncomfortably nearer. Spurs felt a warmth rush through her body. It raised. Burned. She pulled her head back but the woman moved closer. Her eyes asked Spurs to kiss her. Her lips parted showing the tips of straight white teeth. Her mouth begged for a long, passionate, wet kiss. Her eyes, lazy, staring, longingly inviting. Spurs’ own eyes could not wander. They were drawn in to the woman’s.

  Something deep within told Spurs to go ahead, kiss this lovely young woman, experience her exotic beauty, taste her sensuous juices. The enticing Spanish woman was a beautiful art form. Something that should be appreciated. She told herself that these were not gay thoughts; she didn’t like other women sexually—had never experienced a gay relationship of any kind—even the thought of it was repulsive to her, yet. . . .

  She didn’t know where the forbidden notion had come from and once she had time to analyze it with her society-taught morality, she jerked her face away, dashing the temptation.

  The woman also moved away and Spurs looked at Reeves. The two men seemed to be in a stare-down. She wondered what went on inside Reeves’ head. Could he also be tempted to kiss the young man? Did he also have these strange, suppressed feelings that should never be explored or let out, but be held down, covered up, strangled, ashamed of. No, not him. He was just being his cool self. Able to handle any situation. In control, even as he sat there, the crowd watching, the young man glaring.

  The two flamenco dancers crossed behind them, changing partners. Now the young matador drew closer to Spurs, the young woman closer to Reeves.

  The young man’s lips parted. His eyes did not ask for, they demanded a kiss. He brought his face to hers and once again, she pulled back, but he pursued quickly. She felt the heat of his body, heard his heavy breath, took in his scent. It was not an offensive or pungent odor, but a mild musky smell with its own clean sweetness. She felt her nostrils flare, her face flush, a burning from within warmed her breasts. She didn’t turn away and when his kiss met hers, it was welcomed. But it was only a light touch, brief, disappointing. His lips glanced off of hers, in the same instant, the matador rose and glared at the young woman.

  The female dancer’s lips lingered on Reeves’, and as she finished the prolonged embrace, she turned to the male dancer, her head bowed, eyes glimpsing up guiltily. He scowled back and began to move calculatingly around the table like a barnyard rooster about to run off one of his hen’s new suitors.

  The woman slinked behind Reeves, looking as though she was using him as a shield. The man stopped five feet in front of the commander, glaring first at the young woman, then at Reeves. He reached under his short jacket.

  Then the gun appeared.

  The crowd gasped. He pointed the revolver at Reeves, the commander still looked back unflinchingly. Calmly.

  Spurs knew this was part of the act. It had to be.

  The matador pulled the hammer back. His eyes squinted.

  Spurs had doubts. Was this real? The gun certainly was. Had the two dancers been in a jealous fight moments before taking the floor? Did the woman go too far with the act? Had he told her that he would kill the next man she kissed? Was he about to actually shoot Reeves?

  Spurs rose from the table.

  Reeves still sat, staring back at the gunman.

  She started toward the pistol.

  Suddenly; POP, POP, POP!

  Chapter 34

  GUN PLAY

  THE AUDIENCE BROKE into screams. Many rose from their seats. The club filled with gasps. Spurs’ hand was nearly on the pistol before she realized it didn’t smoke. Reeves didn’t slump in his chair. He sat, still in his deadpan stare.

  Spurs stopped. She gaped at the man, then at Reeves. Now she realized the crowd’s staring eyes. The room was quiet.

  The Spaniard tossed the handgun to Spurs and she caught it clumsily. Now he pointed his finger at her, looking serious, determined, dangerous, and slammed his heels on the floor three more times. Pop, pop, pop. Then his stern face brightened into a wide smile.

  The room erupted in laughter.

  Spurs knew her cheeks flushed deep red, already burning from the passion of the two dancers, now intensified by the embarrassment. She flipped the gun back to the young man and quickly found her seat as the two dancers went to the middle of the floor, dancing around each other gaily like courting pigeons.

  Reeves raised his eyebrows, then lifted his voice above the still roaring, now applauding audience.

  “Having fun?”

  Spurs blinked slowly and curled the corner of her mouth. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  Reeves shrugged, smiling, then turned to the dancers. The crowd clapped with the rhythm of the guitars and Reeves clapped along. Everyone seemed into the beat.

  The young woman now floundered around the man’s extended leg. He watched her arrogantly as she slipped to the floor, her arms reaching pleadingly. He turned away and walked boldly toward the curtain on the left. She collapsed to the floor as if crying. As soon as her eyes left him, he turned, came back to her quickly, then gracefully, nearly effortlessly, lifted her from the floor and swung her around him, both of them now showing big smiles. They twirled, their outside arms reaching. Faces beaming.

  The guitars stopped with the loudest of strums.

  The dancers hustled from the floor behind the curtain on the left.

  The crowd exploded. They stood, clapping wildly. The two dancers whipped out from behind the curtain, now out of character, grinning meekly.

  Reeves stood, beating his palms then nodded at Spurs seeming to want her to stand. The audience not only watched the dancers on the floor but most were alt
ernating glances from them to her.

  She smiled then, also. She stood up and clapped.

  “Bravo!” Reeves said, then turned to the dancers. “Bravo!”

  The crowd joined in with their praises. Their applause built even louder.

  The flamenco dancers bowed now with broad smiles. Their outstretched arms offered Spurs and Reeves to the crowd and the applause became deafening.

  “Bravo,” Spurs said, “Bravo!” as the waiter presented them with two more tall glasses of red wine.

  Chapter 35

  A BIG LETDOWN

  SPURS LOOKED ABOUT the room and nodded with a faint smile. What else could she do but go along with the gag in which she had been the target.

  When she turned back to Reeves, she found he was already seated. He shoved the fresh glass of wine toward her and she sat down.

  “Funny,” she said, her voice elevated so that Reeves could hear her easily over the crowd. She gave him a lopsided grin. “Very, very funny. But just you remember, paybacks are hell—superior officer or not.”e

  He smiled and raised his glass briefly as if toasting her.

  After only a couple of sips of the second glass of wine, Spurs felt a fire smoldering from within. In the whirlwind of the evening, she couldn’t tell if it was a physical burning or if it might have been psychological. As she leaned toward Reeves to ask him how many times before had he brought women to this place to humiliate them, she knocked over her wine glass. The white tablecloth grew crimson from the red Barcelona.

  Now, embarrassing herself with her own clumsiness, she said, “Let’s get out of her.”

  Reeves stood up without a word and threw down a small stack of pesetas for the waiter.

  When they left El Club Del Flamenco in the cab, Spurs thought they would be heading back to the ship. Reeves had just told the cabbie, Parador de Barcelona. Spurs thought it might be Spanish for the shipyards of Barcelona.

  It had been a tiring but exciting evening. She tried to deny to herself that she hadn’t been turned on by the flamenco dancers, especially by the sensuous beauty that nearly kissed her. Her attraction to Commander Reeves, or Nick as he had asked for her to call him, was hard to deny also. He was like what she pictured her father might have been when he was younger. She wondered if the Admiral hadn’t looked—even acted like Reeves did now, thirty years ago. If she couldn’t get her father’s approval, should she try to get Reeves’?

  The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder at her as he drove.

  He spoke in broken English. “Señorita, be careful. The murderer is out anoché. Es muy mal—very bad.”

  She frowned at him curiously, then at Reeves. He nodded.

  She asked the driver, “Murderer?”

  “Si, Señorita, he killed nine Mediterranean women. This evening, here in Barcelona, a woman I know, Maria Sevilla, makes ten. But no be scared much, he kills mostly whores. Still, be careful, por favor.”

  She asked Reeves, “You’ve heard about this?”

  “Maria was my informant.” Reeves eyes went blank and his face grim. “Interpol won’t put out the MO to the public. They’re afraid it’ll jeopardize their investigation. But we have reliable information it was a knife. That seems to be the weapon of choice around here.” He stared out the side window.

  Spurs thought about Captain Chardoff’s knife. She reached across the back seat of the taxi to Reeves and placed a consoling hand on his. He gazed at her. She turned away.

  “Have a boyfriend?” Reeves asked.

  Spurs looked to see him still staring. She smiled and turned away again, pretending to study the ancient back streets of Barcelona.

  “I was engaged up until a couple of months ago,” she said. “There’s no one now, nor am I looking.”

  She glanced at him coyly without intending to. Realizing it, she dropped her eyes. Her head began spinning, like she’d had too much to drink. Maybe she had. It had been months since she’d drunk more than a few sips of alcohol. Still, she wouldn’t have thought that less than a glass and a half of wine would make her intoxicated.

  He moved closer and put his right arm around her. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said. “I can’t help but feel attracted to you.” He drew his face nearer.

  She looked up into his brown, paternal eyes.

  His left hand came up and gently caressed her cheek, then he kissed her teasingly, pulling away after only a brief touch.

  She brought her lips to his.

  His large but gentle hand moved from her face to her throat. She could feel its light grasp most of the way around her neck. He caressed her softly while kissing her face passionately, then took his hand away and nibbled down to her collarbone. Now the roving hand unbuttoned her blouse and quickly groped in and seized her right breast.

  Spurs tried to push him away, her hand shoving against his shoulder, but he was too strong.

  “No,” she pleaded softly.

  Reeves didn’t pay attention.

  “Please, Nick. No!”

  He continued.

  She put the heel of her right hand under his nose and gave it a solid shove.

  This time he reeled back.

  They passed the street she’d been on earlier when she had the thick Spanish coffee. They were going the wrong way to go to the ship.

  “Where’s he taking us?”

  Reeves frowned at her.

  “I’m sorry, I thought . . . ,” he began, then turned toward the cabbie.

  Spurs looked at the attractive Naval officer. She was rejecting him. Tonight he’d been a friend. He’d cheered her up. They’d had an exciting time. She felt safe and secure with him in the middle of a chaotic world. She had failed with Doug. She had failed with her father. She shouldn’t fail again.

  “Amigo, por favor . . . ,” he said to the cabbie.

  He was going to ask the driver to take them back to the ship. Tonight was her chance to prove to herself that she was worthy of someone’s affection. But to make love with Reeves—to have sex—would be far too much too soon. Maybe they could drive around some more—talk.

  “No,” she said and leaned to him. She didn’t know what had come over her. The dizziness increased.

  They gazed at one another momentarily. She smiled.

  He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her feverishly.

  * * *

  As they pulled up to the Parador de Barcelona, an ancient castle turned into a spacious hotel by the Spanish government, the cabbie repeated his warning. “Remember, señorita, the murderer,” he said. “Be careful.”

  They checked into the hotel and were in their room so quickly that there had been little time to think. Her head was still spinning from the wine. Was she doing the right thing—no, she thought at first. But then, how could this be wrong? He was an attractive man. He was sure of himself, intelligent. He was wise and realized how to deal with her from the start. Testing her at first, then discovering she could handle her assignment, he had trusted her, opened up to her, and done away with the chauvinist act he put on when she first boarded the ship.

  Now, forgiving that he got a little carried away in the cab, to her, he seemed kind, gentle, caring and considerate. His passion for her seemed to overflow, and it had been so long since she’d been on the receiving end of such ardor. Even with her fiancée, Doug, what seemed at first a mutual fervor of love seemed to wane during the months following their engagement. Then, tonight, she finally found out why. He was gay. How could he have been gay when they first met? The first time they made love? The times they shared the weekends together, locked in passion, only finding a few spare moments to break apart to eat and sleep. Was it something she’d done? Had she driven him to homosexuality?

  After they’d entered the hotel room, Spurs went directly to the restroom and vomited. When she staggered out, she was about to tell Reeves of her dizziness. Tell, him that they were moving much too fast, anyway. Apologize to him—it was the wine. Wine had never affected her like this before, but that’
s what it had to have been. Perhaps, he’d understand and not be too disappointed.

  But he was waiting naked in the bed, the sheet up to his middle.

  Reeves smiled at her and she came to him. She gave him a half smile and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry . . . ,” she began.

  He sat up before she could finish and pressed his lips to hers.

  He kneaded her breasts then moved his hands down her body to her butt and gripped firmly.

  Again the dizziness took over but this time, she seemed to lose complete control of her senses, unable to push him away, unable to say anything to stop him. Surely he would stop. Her breath, after all, she thought—she’d just thrown up. He would—should understand.

  He released her lips and forced her underneath him, then began pulling off her clothes. The room spun. She was sure she’d be unconscious soon. Her thoughts were deadening, arms unable to move. Now, she felt in a daze and wasn’t sure, but she thought she was completely nude. His lips were exploring her body from her forehead down to her nose, mouth, neck and breasts. He began suckling on her left nipple. She could feel his penis chafing against her as he writhed. But it wasn’t hard. There was no erection. She had no doubt, though, that his feverish passion would soon give it life. Maybe he’d had too much to drink, also, although he didn’t seem impaired otherwise. Maybe he’d find it useless and give up.

  She watched his thick, dark brown hair as his tongue flicked around her chest playfully. Still, movement of her arms was drudgery, nearly impossible. Finally, she brought them up, trying to grab his hair, his ears, anything to get a hold of to pull him back, but her energy ran dry and her arms collapsed on his back.