Clancey looked at him, surprised. “Of course he likes me—I’m his kid sister. Well, adopted, sort of,” she clarified. “Me and Tad. He’s way older than me,” she added, flustered at Banks’s somber expression.

He scowled. “He’s thirty-five,” he said.

She just stared at him, uncomprehending.

“That’s not way older than you.”

“It’s twelve years,” she pointed out, still all at sea.

He scowled. His black eyes averted. Hollister wasn’t that much older than his own thirty-two years, but Clancey thought of the other man as too old to interest her. Did she feel that way about any man on the wrong side of thirty?

“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” she added, fumbling with her water glass while her little brother stared raptly at a man playing the guitar while a woman in a beautiful red-and-black flamenco dress stomped her feet to the Spanish music while the dance band rested. “I have too many obligations.”

She said it softly, so that Tad didn’t hear her. He wasn’t an obligation. She loved him to distraction. She smiled at him, her eyes soft and loving.

Banks drew in a breath as the waitress stopped by their table to see if they wanted dessert.

“Yes,” Tad said at once, diverted. He grinned. “Flan!”

“Make that three,” Banks added with a smile.

The waitress jotted it down, nodded and went to fetch it.

“They have great desserts here,” Tad piped up.

“They do, indeed,” she murmured.

The dancer and the guitarist finished, and the crowd applauded. The master of ceremonies announced that the band was taking a brief break but would be back shortly to provide music for dancing.

“They’re so good,” Clancey said, indicating the couple. “Cal said they’ve been married for over...” She stopped, because the guitarist was coming toward them, smiling.

“You guys are great!” Tad enthused.

The man, tall and dignified and very Latin, made him a bow. “Mil gracias,” he said softly.

“De nada,” Tad returned, grinning.

The guitarist pulled out a chair and handed Clancey the guitar. “Your friend the police captain over there,” he indicated Cal, “says that you play like an angel. May I presume upon you?”

She flushed scarlet, although nobody nearby was paying them any attention. “Well...”

“Go on,” Banks said gently.

She drew in a breath, turned sideways and gently took the guitar that the man offered. “It’s exquisite,” she whispered, running her long fingers along the sounding board and onto the frets.

“It belonged to my father,” the guitarist said. “He was magnificent.”

She smiled. “I’m not magnificent,” she said shyly. “But I love to play.”

He extended a hand, palm up. “Please.”

She drew in a breath, drew the guitar close, and began to play “Recuerdos de la Alhambra,” by Francisco Tárrega, one of the most beautiful pieces for guitar ever written.