Stronger Than Passion by Sharron Gayle Beach Page B

herself. Why had she done that? What had she seen in such an ordinary man that had for a moment nearly convinced her he was her missing American?
    Perhaps the strain of the last week had eroded her faculties of observation. There was no resemblance, except possibly a superficial one. The two men shared the same build, the same coloring. Other than that, they were as different as she and Don Ignacio’s fat daughter.
    “Señora . . .” It was Manzanal, calling after her.
    Por Dios, how was she to get rid of the persistent Colonel?
    He approached, and she sighed silently. Then she reached up and patted the smooth sides of her upswept hair. “Colonel, I am sure that my hair needs attention. Could you perhaps direct me to the ladies’ retiring room?”
    “At once, Señora, although may I point out that the Señora’s hair is extremely lovely.”
    “Gracias, Colonel. The retiring room is this way?” She headed in what she hoped was the right path through the guests, many of whom were dancing. The musicians were stationed on a dais near the west terrace, and they sounded quite good . . . Christina heard the early strains of a Viennese waltz being played.
    “Querida, I’ve been searching for you for an hour.” The plaintive voice came from somewhere to her left.
    “Oh, thank God, it’s you,” she muttered fiercely, finding Luis and giving him a slanting look. “You do remember Colonel Manzanal,” she said louder, inclining her head toward the Mexican.
    “Naturally.” Luis’s ironic face could take on a chilly expression when he desired it. Combined with his height and aristocratic name, he made a formidable figure. Especially to a mere Mestizo hoping to rise in the world.
    Manzanal bowed and murmured a greeting.
    “You will excuse us, Colonel?” Luis said. “The Señora has promised me this waltz.”
    Manzanal stared with narrowed eyes as the Marquès led her away.
    *
    The waltz was beautiful, and the swirling movements, combined with the flashing sight of the other colorful dancers and Luis’s easy conversation, all combined to soothe Christina’s taut sense of agitation. How comforting Luis was as he talked lightly to her of Mexico City gossip, the war balls being planned there, and his recent mining difficulties. Luis was not strictly handsome, but his face always displayed intelligence and strength, and of course, good breeding. They were actually well-matched, Christina thought for the first time. If she were ever to contemplate remarrying, why not Luis?
    They danced two dances, which was slightly improper, but pleasantly enjoyable. When Luis at last led her from the floor, she asked him to procure her a glass of champagne.
    He eyed a determined-looking group of gentleman who were gathered nearby, apparently waiting for Christina.
    “I am yours to command, querida. But fear my wrath if you run away.”
    A former compadré of Felipé’s came forward to greet the Marquès and to compliment Christina. He was followed by others. Luis was about to depart for the champagne table, grinning at Christina’s aloof air which he suspected covered an inherent shyness, when he abruptly stilled.
    “I don’t believe it.”
    Christina glanced at him, trying to pay attention to both Luis and the young caballero who addressed her on her left.
    “He’s got courage, no doubt.” Luis smiled as if at a joke. “Who would believe that there’s a Texan in our midst; or, rather, an Americano?”
    Christina followed Luis’s fascinated gaze across the room towards the main entranceway. Then her heart stopped. One of the men standing in conversation by the door was the tall man in gray - the Englishman!
    “Who is an American?” she hissed a Luis, feeling her skin grow hot and her temples start to pound.
    “The man speaking to General Solis. He has a rancho somewhere in Texas, I believe. An astute man, for a Yanqui. I wonder what he’s doing here? But I suspect he’s leaving now, so I won’t get to ask - or to