Sharon was discovering that there was a real pleasure to be derived from startling Ruy Sanchez. It was fascinating. She’d never been at all interested in climbing mountains, but now she could understand at least some of the thrill involved.
The Matterhorn, all of it, beneath her feet. Ruy Sanchez, all of him, completely taken aback.
“Ah . . .”
“What is so hard to understand?” She gestured angrily at the window. “You think I give a damn what those people think? You’ll see hell freeze over first, Ruy Sanchez. Freeze up like an Alaskan glacier. Siberia, with the Devil buried ten miles down.”
Sanchez chuckled. “I was actually not concerned about them, Dona—”
“And cut the stupid Donna business! My name’s Sharon, not Donna. Plain and simple Sharon. Been that since I was a toddler. Except for that jerk Falasha Jones when I was ten who thought it was funny to call me ‘Cherie’ until I pounded the crap out of her.”
“Um. Yes. Somehow I do not find that difficult to believe. But what I was trying to say—ah, Sharon—is that it was your own people who concerned me. I would not give offense.”
It took her a moment to understand what he was talking about. That just made her angrier. “To hell with that. If Mike Stearns doesn’t like—whatever I do—I will explain to him that the difference between ‘prime minister’ and ‘prime rib’ doesn’t mean squat to a nurse. As for my father . . .”
She couldn’t help but wince a little. “Oh, sure, he’d have a fit if I decided—which I probably won’t, Ruy, I’ll give you fair warning—but so what? Won’t be the first time. He had a fit about Hans, too, at first. Had an even worse fit over Leroy Hancock, although I’ll admit my dad turned out to be right about that one. What a sleaze bucket he turned out to be.”
She tried, for a moment, to picture Ruy Sanchez with her father in a room somewhere. Discussing it like gentlemen. The image caused a burst of laughter. “Do me one favor, though. In the event—not likely—that you wind up meeting James Nichols, do try to maintain, will you? I don’t even want to think about a room filled waist high with testosterone, between you and my dad putting on the act.”
Sanchez suddenly bowed. It was a purely formal gesture.
“Very well, then. I shall respect your wishes, Do—ah, Sharon. Yes. I wish to formally request—what is that American expression?—’your hand in marriage,’ I believe.”
When he rose, he looked very dignified. Ruy did “dignified” extremely well, too. Sharon had noticed that before. It was one of the things she liked about the man.
One of many, in truth, now that she thought about it. Granted, there were other things she found quite unlikable. However, that had also been true of Hans Richter. The span of centuries could be bridged, but it could not be waved away.
And, so what? Sharon had made no attempt to change Hans, after all, beyond a few habits. She’d always thought it was stupid anyway to accept a man only to immediately try to turn him into something he wasn’t. On a practical level, why bother? Find someone else, dummy, if it bothers you that much. On a deeper level, because something about the idea offended Sharon Nichols’ concept of basic human dignity.
That concept also included honesty, she reminded herself. “Ruy, understand that the answer will probably be ‘no.’ There are many—ah—problems—”
“I understand.” He gave the mustachios a little flick of the finger. Not a stroke, just a gesture to highlight their color. The mustachios were thick and rich, to be sure. They were also more gray than black. “My age.”
Sharon shook her head. “That’s the least of it. Well, maybe not the least, but—”
She broke off, startled. It actually wasn’t that important to her, she suddenly understood. Not trivial, certainly, but not vital either. Why should it be, really, other than the certainty—if she made that decision—that she would be a widow at an early age. “Old goat,” Ruy Sanchez might be, but he was a very, very vigorous goat. The many decades of his life were apparent in the lines of his face. Few of them showed in that stocky, broad-shouldered body, so obviously still muscular even under the rich costume of a hidalgo.