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“Maybe you should get a second opinion.”
The glare came back, the gray of his eyes tempered steel. “When you have the opinion of the best, you do not question it.”
“How old is Señor de la Cueva?”
“In his eighties. Why?”
“Does he still perform?”
“No. He has arthritis in his hands.” Gabriel sat up straight. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“Maybe flamenco has changed. Maybe hearing differently wouldn’t be a bad thing. Do you know anyone who’s currently a great flamenco guitarist?”
“Yes, of course I do.” He was impatient now.
“Why don’t you play for them? See what they say?”
He rounded on her, his face a mask of pain. “Because I don’t want to hear her say I’m no good.”
That had laid his wound bare. Now it needed light and air to heal. “Do you believe that?”
“I—I don’t know.” He looked startled, as though he had never considered questioning his teacher’s verdict. Then he groaned. “But if it’s true, I have no idea what to do. Music permeated my life with passion. It was work that challenged me and brought the pleasure of accomplishment. Now…” He waved his hand vaguely. “I’m just a duke.”
She remembered their conversation en route to lunch. “You could run for the Consejo de los Señores and write laws for Caleva. That would be satisfying and worthwhile.”
The sound he made was like an animal in agony.
She flinched. “Or not.” She considered for a moment. “You know about music. Why not start some kind of music festival for Caleva? Bring in famous musicians from other countries. You speak their language so you could persuade them to come. Put Caleva on the cultural map.” She was excited about the concept.
Interest lit his eyes briefly before he shook his head. “I’m supposed to be taking burdens off my uncle’s shoulders, not adding new ones. That would require money and people and planning.”
Her phone chimed its doorbell sound, and they both jumped. She pulled it out of her pocket to check the video. A man dressed in a dark suit stood on her front stoop. Another man, wearing jeans and a windbreaker, was at the bottom of the steps, holding the reins of Gabriel’s horse. She turned the phone toward Gabriel. “Do you know these people?”
“Mierda! That’s my uncle’s assistant and the head groom at the palace.” Gabriel stood, wobbling slightly.
Quinn glanced at her watch. Gabriel had been at her house less than an hour before the palace had tracked him down and come to retrieve him. Of course, having a horse parked in front of her home might have made it easier than usual.
“They’re probably just worried about your poor horse.” She grabbed Gabriel’s elbow to steady him as he pivoted too quickly and staggered.
“Sure they are.” Sarcasm dripped from the words. He walked without mishap to her door and swung it open. “Buenas noches, Bruno, Hugo.”
Quinn would have cowered at his tone had it been directed at her, but Bruno was clearly accustomed to dealing with royal dukes. “Don Gabriel, Hugo has come to return your horse to the stable. Gaspar is here”—he gestured to a black Mercedes-Benz parked behind him—“whenever you are ready to return to the palace. Buenas noches.” He gave a slight bow and walked down the steps toward another sedan idling on the street.
“Gracias, Bruno,” Gabriel said, resignation in his voice. “I appreciate your care for my mount, Hugo.”
“Of course, Don Gabriel,” the head groom said as he led the horse away on the sidewalk, its shoes clopping loudly on the stone.
Quinn leaned around Gabriel to see a pickup truck with a horse trailer hitched to it pulled over on her quiet little street. Several of her neighbors were also out on their stoops, watching the spate of unusual activity. She wondered if one of them had called the police about the horse.
“I should go.” Gabriel sounded tired and unhappy. “I’ve created a scene and given your neighbors a reason to gossip about you. Lo siento. I’m sorry.”
She tugged at his elbow to get him back inside so she could close the door. “I don’t give a shit what my neighbors say about me.” Not true, of course. She tried hard to be a model citizen and fly under the radar. But she wasn’t going to pile on the guilt. “Let me get you that coffee.”
He waved a hand in a halfhearted negative. “Gaspar is waiting for me in the car.”
“You’re a duke. Let him wait.” She took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his to make it hard for him to pull away, and led him back toward the sectional. He came to a halt before they reached it, their intertwined hands bringing her to a stop as well. He gently tugged her around to face him.
“No coffee,” he said, his eyelids half-closed as his gaze angled down toward her lips.
