Spanish Surrender Read online

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note on Use of Italics

  Chapter 1

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Spanish Surrender

  © 2019 by Rachel Spangler

  This electronic original is published by

  Brisk Press, Wappingers Falls, NY, 12590

  Substantive Edit by: Lynda Sandoval

  Copy Edit by: Jonathan Crowley

  Cover design by: TreeHouse Studio

  Author Photo by: William Banks

  Book layout and typesetting by: Kelly Smith

  First printing: June 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author or the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9987907-9-4

  This one is for DREAMers

  And, for Susie, because while the first trip to Spain was for me, this one was all your fault.

  Author’s Note on Use of Italics

  My previous romance novel, Full English, was born out of my time spent living in England and the love affair I had with that country during my time there. It might be easy to claim a similar impetus for this project, as during our time abroad, we spent just over a month in Spain. Alas, that would be too simplistic a story behind a very complex motivation. I will not go into all of my reasons here and will largely let this story speak for itself, other than to make this note on a very deliberate stylistic choice I made in the novel that follows.

  It is traditional in English-language publications to italicize foreign words and phrases. I haven’t done enough research into why or how this practice originated, but I do know it denotes a clear line of “difference” some readers likely find helpful. However, English has always been a language that builds on and borrows from others, and that is truer in our increasingly global society than it has been in any recent epoch. As I wrote Spanish Surrender, featuring an American traveling in Spain accompanied by someone with a much more complex background, I had to ask myself questions about what constitutes “foreign.” For instance, words like “taco” or “salsa” have Spanish origins but are common enough not to require italicization. What about words like “fiesta” or “siesta” or “tapas?” Every middle-class, middle-aged American I spoke to understood their meaning without explanation, and yet no one felt they were exactly English words. It was generally agreed that italicization wouldn’t be wrong, though neither would it be necessary for comprehension. In the end, it came down to style, and when in doubt I chose not to italicize.

  I ran into a similar issue with names. We don’t, in general, italicize foreign sounding names of people. In a purported melting pot culture like America, how could we even begin to decide whose names are foreign enough to warrant such a mark of difference? And yet in some cases we do just that with the names of places. Not places like Barcelona or Madrid, but what about Larios or La Alhambra? Perhaps my choice not to italicize these was more political, a refusal to see the places I love as somehow existing separately or as wildly divergent than places like Broadway or the Ozarks are to me or in relation to each other. More than that, names are names. Your name is the same wherever you go. My name is the same no matter what country I happen to live in. I do not become Raquel when I cross the border. I am a firm believer in the power of chosen names, and I am a steadfast believer that names themselves have power. I would never dare to tell someone what their name should be, and I worry that to do so with places would be equally insensitive. The Alhambra has been the Alhambra for centuries. There is no translation that captures its essence, and I refuse to suggest it might have some English translation I should alert you to in italics.

  I understand there are times these choices might be disconcerting for some readers. I hope that if you are one of them, you will humor me, and perhaps even see those moments as a chance to add a little bit of international flare to your vocabulary.

  Chapter 1

  Simone sighed dramatically and tapped the tips of her high heeled shoes against the terra-cotta tile of the hotel lobby floor. The lone woman working the registration counter had been on the phone for six minutes and forty-three seconds. Simone checked her watch again, mentally preparing her strongly worded complaint to this woman’s supervisor. The clerk turned to Simone, giving her a little smile and shrug before laughing at something the person on the phone said and turning away once more. Simone’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t blow her top. Her temper simmered, slow and exacting, liquid nitrogen in place of fire.

  “Perdoname, señora,” someone said behind her, but Simone didn’t turn around until the person added in unexpected English, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  “Yes?” Simone spun on her three-inch spike of a heel, hoping for a manager, but the sight of a short, unassuming woman caught her off guard. She couldn’t be more than mid-twenties, with a broad, easy smile that didn’t seem consistent with management material.

  The woman scanned her up and down before giving her a knowing smile. “I’m sorry, señorita.”

  Simone was vaguely aware that the title made some sort of comment on her age, or her marital status, but she got enough of those speculations in English that she wasn’t going to indulge them in Spanish, too. “Can I help you?”

  “May I buy you a cup of tea?”

  Simone was exhausted from her red-eye flight from Milan, but she examined the woman more closely. Her chestnut hair wisped deliberately across her forehead, and her bright blue polo shirt that read ‘Corazones Española Tours’ made her cornflower eyes stand out against her golden tan. Even without having slept in twenty-four hours, Simone recognized a tempting little dish when she saw one. Had she been on the vacation she was supposed to be on, she would’ve accepted. However, the vacation had turned business trip, and she hadn’t gotten where she had by mixing business with pleasure.

  “Thank you, but I need to get checked in, and if that doesn’t happen in”—she glanced at her watch again—“the next thirty seconds, heads will roll.”

  “Spain has seen a few beheadings over the years,” the woman said, not seeming the least bit intimidated, “but it seems a shame to get blood on those fancy shoes.”

  Simone arched an eyebrow but didn’t budge.

  “Fine,” the woman said with a grin, “would you like some company while you wait?”

  “I really don’t think that’s—”

  “I’m Ren, by the way.” She extended her hand.

  Simone accepted with a quick firm shake, her frustration slipping despite her effort to maintain it. “Ren, you are persistent.”

  “You really have no idea, Americana.”

  “Simone. I’d love to chat, but I don’t have the time.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Which part?”

  “Both,” Ren said, her grin disarming despite the comment. “But we can focus on the latter, because I’ve been in this hotel every two weeks for the last two years, and I can
tell you with authority, no one’s getting into any of the rooms until at least noon.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Simone said, causing Ren to laugh softly.

  She didn’t appreciate the humor. Drawing herself up to her full height and folding her arms across her chest, she fixed Ren with a steely glare, but the smaller woman continued conversationally.

  “The clerk doesn’t speak English, and I take it you don’t speak Spanish?”

  “I speak with a Visa platinum card.”

  “Ah, so this your first time in this part of Spain?”

  “I’m an experienced traveler.”

  “Good. So, tell me this, experienced traveler, what do you notice about that sign?” Ren pointed to a white sheet of paper in a wooden frame that said, “Wait your turn.”

  “It’s shoddily made.”

  Ren laughed outright this time. “What about the fact that you can read it?”

  Simone read the sign again, then contrasted it quickly with the other signs in the hotel lobby. This was the only one in English, and it was written only in English, with no Spanish counterpart.

  “You, Ms. Impatient Americana, are that sign’s audience,” Ren said, “and you’re not the first of your kind to be in this predicament, so you have two choices: continue to stand here fuming, only to be summarily told there’s no room available yet, or have a nice, soothing cup of tea with me while my wife finishes up in our room. Then I’ll ask the clerk, in Spanish, to give it to you.”

  Impatient American? Simone’s anger at Ren’s presumptuousness warred with her practical side, which recognized a useful partnership when she saw one. She glanced once more at the clerk, who was still chatting happily on the phone with little sign of wrapping up, and decided that, despite the well-timed mention of a wife, Ren was clearly the more enticing option for getting what she wanted right now.

  Loreto opened one eye enough to see that the clock read nine. She mentally reviewed her schedule. It was a free day for her current tour group, so she didn’t have any responsibility to the students until dinnertime. She should be entitled to sleep off whatever it was she did last night, so why was her boss yelling at her from the other side of her hotel room door?

  “Loreto, open the door, por favor.”

  Lina didn’t sound like she was here for a fun chat, and Loreto tried a little harder to remember the fuzzy parts of the previous night as an arm snaked over her shoulder and slid down her chest. The details came back to her. She rolled onto her back, allowing herself to look at the owner of the hand, who was now drawing circles around her nipple. La Señora Markus. Loreto smiled. She always loved finding out one of those deliciously studious teacher types by day turned into a hellcat by night.

  La Señora bit Loreto hard on the shoulder and sucked her skin. Apparently, she could be a hellcat during the day, too.

  “Loreto, if you don’t open this door right now, I’m going to get the housekeeper to open it for me,” Lina called, her voice holding both annoyance and amusement.

  “Mierda.” Loreto groaned and disengaged herself from La Señora Markus’s lovely mouth. “I’m coming.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Lina said dryly, and Loreto laughed. She loved her boss’s dry sense of humor, and if she was wielding it so early in the morning, odds were good Loreto wasn’t in that much trouble.

  She pulled on a pair of boxer shorts but left her chest bare and opened the door. Lina stood in the hall with three of the girls from their current tour group. “Buenos dias, chicas.”

  All three students immediately turned bright shades of red and averted their eyes, while Lina took the chance to give Loreto a warning glare, then shook her head.

  “Loreto, the ladies are worried because they can’t find their teacher. She usually meets them for breakfast and then spends some time on the phone with her husband back in London, but she wasn’t in the restaurant, and her husband has been calling for her.”

  “Her husband, you say?” Loreto rubbed the bite marks on her shoulder.

  “She went out with you last night,” one of the girls cut in. “Do you know where she is?”

  Lina shook her head almost imperceptibly, and the little lie rolled naturally off Loreto’s tongue. “After dinner I suggested she take in the sunrise on the beach and then maybe walk through the markets back up through the old town. I’m sure she’ll return within the hour.”

  “See, girls, I told you Loreto had likely played tour guide to La Señora Markus,” Lina offered soothingly. “She’s always eager to introduce people to the finer experiences Spain has to offer.”

  “Well if you see her, tell her we’re going shopping in Larios this morning,” the same girl said, her tone infinitely more relaxed.

  “If I see her, I’ll let her know,” Loreto said, and the girls hurried off, but Lina stayed put. “Yes, boss?”

  “What do I have to say to make you understand we have a responsibility to the people on our tours?”

  “A responsibility to introduce them to the finer experiences Spain has to offer?”

  Lina rolled her eyes. “We’ve talked about this, Loreto.”

  “No, we talked about not sleeping with the students, you never said anything about the teachers.”

  “Then put on your pants and come downstairs so I can clarify the company policy.”

  “Right now?” Loreto whined. “I have plans.”

  “Your plans have to call her husband back.”

  Loreto’s stomach tightened just a bit. “Oh yeah.”

  Lina tapped lightly on the large hickey on Loreto’s shoulder. “And wear a shirt with sleeves.”

  Ren set a small kettle of tea on the table between them. The hotel’s restaurant was more of a café or collection of tables on a patio off a small kitchen. Simone had no idea why her boss’s secretary had booked her in a place like this. Something about a film festival, and last minute. The excuse hardly seemed acceptable.

  “What brings you to España?” Ren asked, pouring the tea through a small mesh sieve and into a baby blue mug.

  “Work.”

  “Trabajo,” Ren said, then added, “just in case you wanted to pick up a little Spanish.”

  “I’d rather pick up a good translator. Are you interested? I’d be willing to pay well above the going rate.”

  “I’m a tour guide, not an interpreter.”

  “I could use a guide, too. I have an important meeting this time next week, and I need to pick up some conversation topics between now and then that make me seem in tune with Spanish culture. If you want the job, I’ll gladly compensate your employer for your time.”

  Ren’s smile faded. “Make you seem in tune with Spanish culture, not actually help you get in tune with it?”

  Before Simone had the chance to dismiss that idea, a sexy, young woman with long, dark hair and olive skin sidled up next to Ren and placed a sweet kiss on her cheek. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Loreto is on her way down.”

  Ren snorted softly. “Down on who?”

  “La Senora Markus, but then down here for a talking-to before we head home.”

  “This day just keeps on getting better.” Ren sounded tired for the first time, but she regained her smile quickly enough. “Lina, this is Simone, una Americana with money to burn and in need of a tour guide to help her fake an affinity for Spain.”

  “Hola Simone. Forgive my wife. Spain has softened her edges, but she hasn’t lost all her American bluntness yet.” Lina ran her fingers through Ren’s hair and gave it a loving tousle.

  Simone sipped her tea. “I can respect bluntness as long as it’s paired with efficiency.”

  “Excellente,” Ren said with a mischievous grin. “Then I’ll go tell Marcela to turn over our room so you can get some rest. After the siesta we’ll meet back here, and I’ll introduce you to your guide.”

  “Introduce me? I made the offer to you, or maybe to your employer.”

  Lina slipped an arm more possessively around Ren’s shoulder. “H
er employer isn’t willing to share her.”

  “Corezones Española is your company?” Simone asked coolly, refusing to show the hint of disappointment that pricked her chest.

  “It’s our company,” Lina corrected, exuding pride, “and between school trips and family holidays, this is our busiest time, but if Ren thinks we can spare one of our guides, I’ll trust she has a good reason.”

  “I’m certain her reason is better than good,” Simone said. “It’s platinum.”

  Lina bit her lip as if trying not to smile. “Be careful. The last time I underestimated her, I ended up wearing this.” She pointed to a gold band on her left ring finger.

  “Thankfully, that’s not something I have to worry about.” Simone stood. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to show me to my room, I’ll freshen up and meet you back here at one o’clock?”

  “Three o’clock,” both women said in unison.

  Simone sighed. She was used to setting the schedule. Why was everyone in this country so contrary?

  Loreto checked her coal-black hair in a mirror she passed on her way down the hotel’s wrought-iron staircase. Not that she minded looking disheveled. If anything, she preferred it. Women like La Senora Markus seemed to prefer it, too. The fact that her white T-shirt and cargo shorts weren’t exactly business attire didn’t bother her either. Lina and Ren had always been lax about stuff like that, though judging by the stern look on their faces when they saw her, that may be about to change.

  Loreto was not what anyone would call a morning person, so she bypassed the table in the café and ordered a café cortado, a strong, black coffee with just a kiss of milk, before joining them and laying her arm, palm up, across the table. “Okay, here’s my wrist, boss. Go ahead and give it a little slap.”

  Lina shook her head. “We’ve been through this before.”

  “Not exactly this. You said no university students, and I listened. La Señora Markus is a teacher, and she crawled into my lap, not the other way around.”