LITMIR.BIZ

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have had breakfast?”

      “As a matter of fact, no.” Rafael shook his head.

      Jezebel glared at him disapprovingly. “You see? You do not eat—you do not sleep—”

      “Jezebel, I had work to do last night—”

      “Ay, ay!” Jezebel nodded her head. “Of course. I am remembering. It was the Maqueras woman, was it not? Her time had come. Her husband—he come here looking for you last night—very late!”

      “That’s right.” Rafael moved his shoulders wearily. “Maria had another daughter. And now—I must see Juan.”

      “I will bring you coffee and croissants, señor,” insisted Jezebel firmly, and Rafael inclined his head.

      “That would be very nice, Jezebel,” he agreed, and with a faint smile he passed her and walked through the arched entrance to the reception lounge which opened out onto the patio at the back of the house.

      Juan Cueras was seated in a cane-latticed chair at the glass topped table. He was like Rafael, yet unlike. Rafael was tall, lean and dark, his features clearly defined. Juan was not so tall and thicker set, and yet the similarity was there in the darkness of their skin, the curve of their brows, the thin firmness of their mouths. Juan’s mouth was perhaps a little fuller, a little more sensual, but that was only to be expected in a man who did not share his brother’s desire for asceticism. He looked up now, as Rafael came through the long glass doors to join him, thickly spreading an apricot preserve over the croissant in his hand. He took a mouthful, nodding at his brother in welcome, and then wiping his lips with a napkin he said:

      “Good morning, Rafael. I see you got my message.”

      “Did you doubt it?” Rafael lounged into the chair opposite his brother, flicking an insect from his sleeve. “But I’d be obliged if you’d be brief. I have a lot to get through today.”

      Juan finished the croissant with evident relish, and poured himself more coffee, offering the jug to Rafael.

      “Jezebel’s bringing me some more,” said Rafael, shaking his head. “She has this inescapable idea that I’m not looking after myself.”

      “You’re not.” Juan was candid. “I simply can’t understand—” He broke off. “But we’ve had that argument before.” He pushed a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice towards the other man. “Go ahead—have some. I don’t enjoy eating alone.”

      Rafael took the glass that was proffered and poured himself some of the fresh fruit juice. He tasted it experimentally and then, finding it to his taste, drained the glass.

      “That’s better,” remarked Juan with a smile. “Don’t you think you deny yourself enough without including food?”

      “I eat enough,” replied Rafael quietly, toying with the empty glass. “It’s perhaps a question of how little one needs. One should not gorge oneself when half the population of the world is dying of starvation.”

      “And do you think if I deprived myself of one more croissant—one extra cup of coffee, I would be doing anything to aid those starving peoples?” exclaimed Juan impatiently

      “We have had this argument before, Juan, as you pointed out,” observed Rafael, pushing the glass away from him.

      Jezebel appeared with a laden tray, setting it down on the table and setting out a second coffee pot, cream and sugar, croissants and curls of butter, and more of the thick apricot conserve.

      “Now you make a good meal, señor,” she instructed severely, casting a less than respectful glance in Juan’s direction. “Your brother, for once, can show you a good example!”

      Rafael hid a smile as he obediently lifted a croissant on to his plate and spread it thinly with butter. Jezebel waited a moment to satisfy herself that he did indeed intend to eat it and then went away, muttering imprecations against anyone who neglected the common necessities of life.

      Juan waited until Rafael was tackling his second croissant and then he said: “I wish you to do something for me, Rafael.”

      Rafael looked up. “Yes?”

      “Yes.” Juan felt about his person for his case of cheroots. “You remember the child from the mission, do you not?”

      Rafael frowned. “The English girl—of course.”

      Juan nodded, putting a cheroot between his teeth and making a second search for his lighter. “Yes. Well, it appears that her name may be Lucy Carmichael.”

      “Maybe?”

      “That is correct. As the child has apparently forgotten who she is, it is impossible to say with any certainty who she might be. But aboard this aircraft which crashed several weeks ago there was a family called Carmichael; mother, father—and daughter of some eight years.”

      “I see. And you think this might be the child found by Benito Santos?”

      “Well, it may be.”

      “But is that possible? Where did this aircraft crash?”

      “In the mountains—some eighteen miles from here.”

      Rafael wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It seems a remote possibility.”

      “But a possibility nevertheless. And unfortunately the authorities have insisted that I investigate every possibility.”

      “Unfortunately?” Rafael was intrigued.

      “Yes, unfortunately. You must know that the child has taken a liking to me—that I have had her here several times to visit.”

      Rafael lay back in his chair viewing Juan through narrowed eyes and his brother felt a fleeting sense of envy that Rafael could exude such an aura of latent sensuality without any apparent effort. It was not fair in someone who was prepared to deny even his own masculinity. “But what were your intentions towards the child?” he asked curiously.

      Juan sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to say. I may have considered adoption—”

      “Adoption?” Rafael lifted his shoulders in surprise. “But she may have relatives.”

      “She has.” Juan got irritably to his feet. “That is why I need your assistance.”

      “My assistance?” Rafael shook his head. “I’m sorry, I seem to repeat everything you say. But I do not see what I can do.”

      Juan puffed impatiently at his cheroot. “If you wait a moment, I will explain.” He walked round his brother’s chair and back to the table again. “The authorities have discovered that there is someone—an aunt—the sister of the child’s mother.” He drew a deep breath. “As one would expect, she lives in England.”

      “And has she been informed of the possibility that her niece may still be alive?”

      Juan nodded. “Yes. Yes, she has. And that is how you can help me.”

      Rafael frowned. “Yes?”

      “Yes.” Juan licked his lips. “This woman is on her way to Guadalima to see the child—to find out for herself whether indeed she is this Lucy Carmichael.”

      “I see.” Rafael inclined his head. “But how can I be of assistance?”

      “Wait—wait!” Juan was obviously finding it difficult to put into actual words what he wanted his brother to do. He drew deeply on his cheroot and seated himself opposite Rafael again, resting his elbows rather nervously on the table. “You see, Rafael, it is like this. This woman—her name is Lord, Miss Lord—is arriving from England tomorrow. I—well, I want you to meet her!”

      “Me?” Rafael was taken aback. “Why me? Where is she arriving?”

      “Mexico City, where else?”

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