Dancing in the Shadows by Anne Saunders

looking totally unaffected.
    Isabel led the way, pretending to be unaware of the tension in her wake. But her back was unnaturally stiff.
    As it happened, their return to the room took second place to the arrival of another guest. The first intimation was voices, followed by a shuffle of feet, in the hall. A servant quietly entered, addressing Enrique Ruiz.
    â€˜Señor, there is a Señor West at the door.’
    Enrique Ruiz’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘Excellent! Show him in at once.’ He then explained for the benefit of the Rocas: ‘Señor West is Dorcas’s brother. We have been expecting him. We instructed the search soon after Dorcas was hurt in that dreadful landslide while saving my Feli and little Rosita.’ His thoughts lingered there for a moment. He went on, his tone more gentle, less brisk, ‘He has been a difficult man to find.’ Turning to Dorcas he said: ‘This must be a memorable moment for you, my dear.’
    Dorcas stared, pale and numb, momentarily overwhelmed. Finally she managed a wooden: ‘Yes,’ that emerged without the tiniest inflection of joy, causing the old señor’s eyes to search hers with shrewd concern.
    â€˜Aren’t you glad to be reunited with your brother?’ Carlos said quietly in her ear, offering for the company at large: ‘I do believe Dorcas is overcome.’
    It served as a possible explanation for her apparent lack of enthusiasm. She sent him a grateful smile.
    And then Michael was bursting through the door, his long stride making short work of the length of the room so that he seemed to shoot, tall and golden, in an arrow-straight line to Dorcas.
    Gathering her in his arms, as though her tiniest hurt caused him untold pain, he crooned gently: ‘Little sister, what have you done to yourself?’
    The falseness of it stuck in her throat, prohibiting reply. But it was all right. These kind, moist-eyed, deceived people took it as another demonstration of her full heart. With perhaps one exception. She didn’t think Carlos would be taken in like the rest of them.
    Not that she could blame him if he was, because Michael’s portrayal of a caring brother was faultless. Oh, he was clever, this brother of hers. Something—intuition?—must have told him to ignore everyone but her to the point of rudeness. His concern for her would naturally rise above the simple courtesy of first addressing the head of the house.
    Remembering this omission, his hand smote across his forehead. Dorcas awarded him top marks for that touch of realism. His eyes, so like Dorcas’s and yet with molten depths that made hers look pale and insignificant by comparison, turned appealingly to Enrique Ruiz. ‘Señor. Please forgive me for an appalling breach of etiquette.’
    Dorcas would never know how she resisted applauding, ‘Bravo! Splendid performance!’
    Enrique Ruiz’s pointed beard jumped with approval. ‘Think nothing of it. Your concern for your sister does you credit. But now I think we will give a little time to the introductions. I want you to meet my wife, my son, and our guests. Then, while a meal is being prepared for you, I will tell you all about your very brave sister to whom we are greatly indebted.’
    A big tear held in Dorcas’s throat, enlarging into a thought. Michael’s fingerprint on any passage of her life betokened no good for her. He would spoil everything. He always did. If there had been any hope in her that the unreality of the past few weeks could be anything more than a bitter-sweet interlude, it died a sudden death.
    It had been a forlorn hope, anyway, in opposition to fact and common-sense. Perhaps there was some good in Michael’s coming at that, because his presence would act as a truth serum. Had she ever truly thought that someone as remarkable in every way as Carlos would find lasting happiness with her? He had so much; she had nothing—but