Lynne Graham: Don Joaquin's Pride

Lucy was shocked by that confession. ‘For goodness’ sake, why?’

Cindy grimaced and shrugged. ‘I haven’t always been the world’s nicest person, like you are, Lucy!’ she muttered irritably, wiping away the tears in her eyes with an infuriated hand. ‘Why would I want to go and stay on some ranch in the back of beyond with an old man? And why would I have wanted to be landed with entertaining him here in London? I always had something better to do, but I did intend to meet him sooner or later…only right now happens to be lousy timing!’

‘Yes.’ Lucy could see that, and no longer wondered why her sister’s conscience was troubling her so much.

‘Roger knows nothing about Fidelio, and I wouldn’t like him to know about the money because he wouldn’t think very much of me for just taking and taking and never giving anything back,’ Cindy confided grudgingly, biting at her lip, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘There’s a lot that Roger doesn’t know about my past, Lucy. I’ve put it behind me. I’ve changed. I made a new start when I got back in touch with you and Mum last year, and I haven’t taken a penny from Fidelio since then—’

‘It’s all right,’ Lucy muttered, her own eyes smarting at her twin’s desperation and her uncharacteristic honesty.

‘It will be if you go to Guatemala for me. I know I’m asking a lot, especially when I haven’t exactly been honest about some things,’ Cindy continued tautly. ‘But I really do need your help with this, Lucy…and if you can do this one thing for me, I swear I’ll be your best friend for ever!’

‘Cindy, I—’ Enveloped in a huge, grateful hug, Lucy was touched to the heart, because her sister was rarely demonstrative.

The twins had been separated by their divorcing parents at the age of seven and had spent the following fifteen years apart. Only recently had Lucy had the chance to get to know her sister again, and that had not been an easy task. Until now Cindy had hidden behind a reserve foreign to Lucy’s more open nature, and their lifestyles and interests were so different that it had been a challenge to find shared ground on which to bridge those years of estrangement.

But now, for the first time since they were children, Cindy had confided in Lucy again and asked for her help. The idea that she could be needed by her infinitely more glamorous and successful sister astonished Lucy, but it made her feel proud as well. Once the quieter, more dependent twin, Lucy had been devastated when her bossier, livelier sister had disappeared from her life. She had never lost that inner ache of loneliness and loss, and Cindy’s appeal for her help, Cindy’s need for her, touched a deep chord of sympathy within her. Blocking out the more practical misgivings threatening at the back of her mind, Lucy smiled with determined eagerness to offer all the assistance within her power.

Cindy drew back and surveyed her twin with the critical eye of a woman who had worked as both a make-up artist and a fashion buyer and who took a great deal of interest in her own appearance.

Ironically, few identical twins could have looked more different. Lucy never used make-up and tied her defiantly curly caramel-blonde hair back at the nape of her neck. Her blue denim skirt was calf-length, her check shirt sensible and her shoes flat and comfortable.

‘I sent Fidelio a photo of me last year and I was dressed to kill. I’m going to have my work cut out turning you into me!’ Cindy confessed with a rueful groan.

Lucy just stood there, slightly dazed, suddenly not quite sure she could have agreed to do such an outrageous thing as pretend to be her sister instead of herself. Her homely self. Now that they were both adults, she simply couldn’t imagine looking like her twin. Cindy had the perfect grooming of a model and confidently revealed far more than she concealed of her slim, toned figure. Her blonde mane of hair hung in a smooth fall down her back, both straightened and lightened. Not one inch of Cindy was less than perfect, Lucy conceded, hurriedly curving her bitten nails into the centre of her palms and sucking in her stomach.

Outside the shabby bar, which was little more than a shack with a tin roof, a wizened little man in a poncho tied up his horse to the roadside post available and stomped in out of the sweltering heat. He joined the tough-looking cowboys standing by the bar and within ten seconds he was gaping at Lucy with the rest of them. In a badly creased pale pink designer suit and precarious high heels, she was a sight such as was rarely seen at this remote outpost in the Guatemalan Petén.

The humidity was horrendous. Pressing a crumpled tissue to her perspiring brow, Lucy studied the scarred table in mute physical misery. Cindy had insisted that she would need to dress to impress throughout her stay. But Lucy felt horribly uncomfortable and conspicuous in her borrowed finery. Furthermore the wretched shoes pinched her toes and nipped her heels like instruments of torture.

Yesterday she had flown into Guatemala City and connected with a domestic flight to Flores, where she had spent the night at a small hotel. She had expected to be taken from there to the Paez ranch, but instead she had been greeted with the message that she would be picked up at the crossroads at San Angelita. Once her ancient rattling cab had turned off the main highway the landscape had become steadily more arid, and the road had swiftly declined into a rutted dirt track. That incredibly long and dusty journey had finally brought her to a ramshackle little cluster of almost entirely abandoned buildings in the middle of a dustbowl overshadowed by what looked very much like a volcano and, according to her guidebook, probably was. Exhaustion and a deep, desperate desire for a bath now gripped Lucy, not to mention an increasingly strong attack of cold feet.

Suppose Fidelio realised that she wasn’t Cindy? Suppose she said or did something that exposed their deception? It would be simply appalling if her masquerade was uncovered. A sick old man certainly didn’t require any further distress. But what would have been the alternative? Lucy asked herself unhappily. Cindy wouldn’t have come, and the thought of Fidelio Paez passing away without a single relative to comfort him filled Lucy with helpless compassion.

Belatedly registering that the noisy clump of men at the bar had fallen silent, Lucy looked up. A very tall male, who looked as if he had walked straight out of a spaghetti western in the role of cold-blooded killer, now stood just inside the doorway, spurred and booted feet set slightly astride. Intimidated by one glittering glance from beneath the dusty brim of the black hat that shadowed his lean, hard-boned features, Lucy gulped and hurriedly endeavoured to curl her five foot tall body into an even less noticeable hunch behind the table.

The barman surged out from behind the counter and extended a moisture-beaded glass to the new arrival. A doffing of hats and a low murmur of respectful greeting broke the silence. Emptying it in a long, thirsty gulp, the man handed the glass back and sauntered with disturbing catlike fluidity and jingling spurs across to the far corner where Lucy sat.

‘Lucinda Paez?’ he drawled.

Lucy focused wide-eyed on the leather belt with gleaming silver inserts that encircled his lean hips. Then, not liking the menacing manner in which he was towering over her, she thrust her chair back and hurriedly scrambled upright. Even in her four-inch heels, it didn’t help much. He had dwarfed the other men at the bar. He had to be six foot three, and the crown of her head barely reached his shoulder. Wondering if she was going to need her Spanish phrase book to make herself understood, she gazed up at his aggressive jawline and swallowed hard. ‘You’re here to collect me?’ she queried weakly. ‘I didn’t hear a car.’