Книга - A Savage Beauty

A Savage Beauty
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.Blackmailed into marriage!Emma is comfortably – if unexcitedly – engaged to a wealthy business tycoon. Until the enigmatic, darkly handsome Miguel Salvaje arrives on the scene! Miguel makes no secret of his attraction to Emma, he just won’t take no for an answer – and blackmailed her into marriage!Emma has to admit that she is wild about him too. Before she can catch her breath, Emma is whisked away to Mexico as Miguel’s wife! But their relationship is far from paradise…as she discovers when she gets there…










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




A Savage Beauty

Anne Mather









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u7b9705ae-54f3-59b0-a44f-c3a93644a358)

About the Author (#u15b6a532-cde5-5466-aa95-8c8ecab9d8b5)

Title Page (#uf5296eb8-6849-531d-91ae-b50cdbc59535)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ueb85257e-d8e2-5d93-975c-098e8cb9d0f9)


IT was foggy, with one of those fogs that blanketed down suddenly, without warning, and soaked one through with a kind of heavy mist which was much more chilling than actual rain.

It was a night for hugging firesides, thought Emma wearily, pushing her loosened damp hair back from her face for the umpteenth time, and glancing back fearfully along the road behind her as though afraid that something might come hurtling out of the gloom towards her, demolishing her in seconds. She would not have believed she could be within a thirty mile radius of London and yet still find a road which as yet had not a sign of habitation. It was ludicrous really, doubly so when she thought of the annoyance of losing her way in the fog, which, combined with a body-shaking skirmish in a ditch, had left the car temporarily helpless. Added to that she had the ignominy of knowing that she might not easily be able to find the car again, even in daylight, for she hadn't the slightest idea where she was. She had been on the main Guildford to London road, but a roundabout had confused her and when she realized where she was her efforts to turn the car had resulted in her present predicament.

Victor would be furious. He had not wanted her to go to Guildford in the first place, and he had refused to accompany her because he had said she was foolish to go anywhere on such a cold and unpleasant evening. Possibly she had been foolish, she acceded now, but truth to tell, when she had set away from her London home it had only been raining, and no one could have foreseen with any certainty that the evening would turn out the way it had.

But she had gone to Stafford's every year on his birthday, and as he was her godfather and was in his eighties already, there would not be so many birthdays left for her to visit him. Victor said it was a duty visit, but it wasn't. Stafford Lawson might be old in years, but his mind was as active as ever, and Emma had always enjoyed her visits. It was fortunate, however, that Stafford was also partially blind, or he would never have allowed her to leave after the fog came down.

But Emma had wanted to get home. She had wanted to prove to Victor that she was perfectly capable of driving to Guildford without his escort, in spite of the weather. And now, here she was, lost and alone, without even the benefit of her car. Victor would be bound to find out. Tomorrow he would want to know where her car was and then…

She sighed. There was no point in worrying about what Victor might say yet. Her most pressing problem was to find some method of reaching a telephone so that she might summon a taxi and gain the comfort of her father's house in Kensington. What on earth would she do if she didn't come upon some form of habitation soon? And who might she find, she wondered uneasily, out here, miles from anywhere? There were so many stories of young women being lost without trace and her agile mind pondered the possibility of whether any of these disappearances had been in this area.

Angrily, she squashed these ideas. What on earth was she thinking of, allowing her imagination such dramatic rein? In a few minutes she would come upon a cluster of houses or a farm, and when she did so there would be people and lights and telephones, and offers of assistance.

But then another thought struck her. It had been quite late when she left Stafford's, now it must be nearing midnight, and who might be abroad or even awake at such a time? Farmers were early risers, and most probably that was why she had seen no lights. Everyone was in bed!

She shivered. She felt wet and cold and miserable, and this time she was unable to quell the feeling of unease that rose inside her. Whatever was she going to do?

And then, with scarcely a sound except the powerful hiss of heavy tyres on the wet road, she saw a car coming towards her, its yellow fog lamps gradually lifting a little of the gloom around her.

Emma was nonplussed. This was a contingency she had not considered. Who might be driving this car? After her uneasy thoughts of a few moments ago, she was quite prepared to believe that the car's occupant, or occupants, might be wholly undesirable. What ought she to do? What could she do? Stop the car and trust that the driver would be an understanding type, or hide until it had passed and hope nobody would notice her white leather coat? Left to herself, she might possibly have decided on the former, but Victor had influenced her life for so long that she automatically turned towards the hedge at the side of the road in an effort to conceal herself because she knew that that was what Victor would have expected her to do. And after all, it was late to expect many decent people to stop.

But although she was wearing boots, their soles were damp and slippery and when they encountered the greasy surface of the turf they caused her to slip and lose her balance. For a moment she remained poised between safety and disaster, desperately trying to right herself, and then, as there was nothing to grab on to and save herself, she fell backwards, awkwardly, into the path of the oncoming automobile.

There was the instant scream of brakes as whoever was driving applied them efficiently, but on the wet road the car still skidded a little before coming to a halt barely inches from Emma herself. Any moment, she expected to feel the crunch of those powerful tyres on her inert body, but the uncanny silence which had fallen following the braking of the car was broken only by the sound of its door opening and being slammed again with obvious impatience. Emma took a shuddering breath. The fall had stunned her, and the realization of how close she had come to death was sufficient to paralyse her. She lay there helplessly, unable to will life into her limbs.

But before she could begin to co-ordinate her thoughts, strong hard hands hauled her unceremoniously to her feet and a stream of harsh vituperative Spanish rang in her ears. Then the man, for no woman could speak so violently, seemed to realize she could not possibly understand and reverting to English, snapped: ‘Crazy fool! Throwing yourself into the road like that! Are you in the habit of trying to kill yourself?'

To Emma his anger was the last straw and she felt the hot burning of tears behind her eyes. But she drew herself up to her full height of five feet six inches and faced him bravely. Even so, she had to look up at him, and she blinked rapidly as the dampness misted on her lashes.

‘If you think for one moment my action was deliberate then you must be the fool!’ she declared fiercely. ‘I slipped and I fell!'

The man was looking down at her, but it was too gloomy to distinguish his expression. ‘Then please to tell me what you are doing climbing around ditches at this hour of the night on a private road!'

Emma's eyes widened. ‘This is a private road? So that explains it!'

‘Explains what?’ The man was clearly impatient. ‘Look, I am getting wet and cold. Where are you bound for? To see Gregory?'

‘Gregory?’ Emma was vague, and then realizing that this man had no idea of her circumstances, explained: ‘No – I was going to London, but I'm afraid I lost my way.’ It was no use pretending otherwise. At this hour of the night her motives for being on this man Gregory's private road might be misconstrued unless she was honest.

The man hesitated for a moment and glanced back up the road behind him. ‘I see.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are you in the habit of walking long distances in such weather?’ There was sarcasm in his voice now.

Emma grimaced, and then shivered, and her companion seemed to realize that their conversation could be conducted so much more easily in the warmth of his car.

‘Come!’ he said. ‘I am going to London myself. I will take you there provided you can offer me some reasonable explanation as to why you should be wandering about Paul Gregory's private road at this hour of the night.'

Emma had, perforce, to follow him to his car, but she did so without enthusiasm. Although he had agreed to take her back to town and this knowledge should have filled her with relief, it did not. She had not yet seen his face, she would not have been able to identify him again, and yet she was aware of an air of leashed strength and ruthlessness about him that disturbed her a little. Afterwards she was never quite sure how she had instinctively felt this about him. She only knew that she was reluctant to put herself, however tenuously, into his hands.

The car he was driving, she saw, was a sleek Jensen sports saloon, and inside there was a warm smell of expensive leather and cigars, and what possibly might have been brandy. She glanced across the bonnet at the man as he indicated that she should get into the car and hoped she was not about to make the biggest mistake of her life. What if he had been drinking? She had not smelled alcohol on his breath, but then she had been too disturbed to notice. She sighed, inwardly berating herself. He had stopped expertly enough when she had fallen across his path. That was hardly the reaction of someone who was bemused with drink.

She got slowly into the soft bucket seat and slammed her door and he did likewise, flicking a switch as he did so which illuminated the interior of the vehicle. Emma blinked again, and put up an involuntary hand to her hair. What a mess she must look, she thought, and knew that had Victor seen her like this he would have been horrified. He was always so conscious of appearances.

Her companion turned to regard her with chilling appraisal, his eyes narrowed, calculating. ‘It is interesting to see you in the light, señorita,’ he observed mockingly, and to her annoyance Emma felt herself colouring, a thing she had not done for years.

But really, he was one of the most disturbing men she had ever encountered. Thick dark hair grew low on his neck, brushing the collar of his dark blue suede jacket in a way which would have caused Victor to twist his lips contemptuously. He abhorred the way men today allowed their hair to grow unchecked, and although he acceded to neatly trimmed sideburns, this was his only concession to modern trends.

This man's sideburns were longer and darkened his already darkly tanned cheekbones, while his eyes were almost black between the longest lashes Emma had ever seen on a man. His features were not regular; his face was thin, his nose decidedly bent, and there were hollows beneath his cheekbones. His mouth was thin, too, and yet it had a sensual curve to it which, added to the arrogant, alien attractiveness of him, caused Emma to feel a disquieting ripple of apprehension along her spine. His intent appraisal was disquieting, too, and as she was unaccustomed to being treated in this way she drummed up a feeling of resentment.

‘I can assure you my reasons for being here are entirely respectable,’ she said.

His eyes flickered. ‘Yes, I am sure they are,’ he conceded lazily. ‘However, you will forgive me if I choose to make my own assessment of the situation. I should hate to discover to my cost that you were some female decoy waiting to disable me the minute I set the car moving.'

Emma gasped. ‘If I were going to do that, I should hardly wait until the car was moving, would I? Whatever would I do with you slumped over the wheel?'

‘A pleasant thought,’ he agreed, with a wry twist to his mouth, and Emma looked abruptly away. She couldn't encounter that lazy mocking gaze of his, and in any case, the way he looked at her made her feel uncomfortable. He was obviously used to dealing with members of her sex, and from his attitude she guessed he was probably aware of his own attractions. He was young, too, only about thirty or thirty-two, and although she knew she had never met him before, there was something vaguely familiar about him. She quelled her curiosity. This would never do. So long as he sat there looking at her, making her aware of every inch of her own body, they would not get back to London.

As though realizing her discomfort, he raised his hand and flicked out the light, leaning forward to start the powerful engine. ‘Very well,’ he said, as the car's wheels began to roll forward, ‘now tell me: why are you wandering about in the fog? He glanced her way speculatively. ‘Trouble with a man, perhaps?'

Emma, who had been relaxing, stiffened. ‘Of course not,’ she denied sharply.

‘Why – of course not? It's a reasonable supposition. From the look of you, I'd say you'd been grappling with more than just the weather!'

Emma moved awkwardly, putting up a hand to her hair. Of course, she must look a mess. Her hair, which had begun the evening in its usual sleek pleat, hung in untidy strands down her back, while her face was devoid of all make-up.

‘I went to see a friend in Guildford,’ she explained in controlled tones. ‘But coming back I lost my way in the fog, and when I discovered I was on the wrong road and tried to turn the car, it ended up in a ditch.'

‘Another ditch?’ There was a trace of amusement in his voice.

‘Yes, another ditch,’ she answered abruptly.

‘And you came all the way from London in these conditions to see this friend? A man, without a doubt, señorita.'

‘Not in the way you mean,’ retorted Emma annoyedly.

‘What way do I mean?’ he inquired innocently, and Emma had to bite her lips to prevent herself from making some angry reply. He was deliberately baiting her, amusing himself at her expense, and while he was obviously used to this kind of verbal thrust and parrying, she was not. Victor didn't go in for playing with words.

‘I don't think my reasons for going to Guildford are any concern of yours,’ she stated coldly. ‘I shall be very grateful if you could simply take me to the nearest taxi rank. I can easily get a cab.'

‘Don't be so quick to take offence, señorita,’ he advised her dryly. ‘For someone who until a few minutes ago was lost, cold and bedraggled, you show a definite lack of appreciation.'

Emma felt a sense of contrition at this words. She was indebted to him, and she was allowing his attitude to influence hers. Endeavouring to speak naturally, she said: ‘I'm sorry. I know I must sound ungrateful, but I'm not really. It's simply that I'm not used to coping with this kind of a situation.’ She made a deprecatory movement towards her hair. ‘I must look a terrible mess!'

He glanced briefly in her direction and then returned his attention to the shrouded road ahead. ‘I shouldn't alarm yourself. A beautiful woman usually manages to look good whatever the circumstances.'

Emma caught her breath. ‘Beautiful?’ she echoed, her lips moving uncertainly. And then the colour in her cheeks deepened as she thought she saw a faint twisted smile on his lips. ‘You're very polite!’ There was sarcasm in her voice now.

‘Polite? Why should you think that? You are beautiful, and I'm quite sure you're aware of the fact, so why deny it?'

Emma gasped. ‘No one has ever described me that way before,’ she asserted dryly.

‘No? Well, I've always thought Englishmen lacked perception.’ His long fingers slid expertly round the steering wheel. ‘Among other things,’ he added mockingly.

Emma forced herself to take note of her surroundings. For the last few moments she had been so intent on what her companion had been saying that she had half forgotten her reasons for being in his car in the first place.

Amber lights burning ahead of them signified the roundabout on the main Guildford to London road and she sighed with relief. At last she knew where she was again.

She paused to wonder whether if she contacted a garage in the morning they would send someone out to locate her car. No doubt if Victor contacted them it would carry more weight, but she was not looking forward to explaining the details of her homeward journey to him, particularly after he had advised her not to go. She sighed. If she had heeded his advice she would not now be installed in this sleek, luxurious automobile with a man who, apart from his obvious material attributes, possessed a strong sexual attraction that disturbed Emma's normally placid disposition. Her eyes drifted continually in his direction, to that lean dark profile, sliding over the soft expensive suede of his suit to the strong hands gripping the wheel.

A moment later he startled her by leaning forward, flicking open the glove compartment and extracting a slim gold case. ‘Cigarette?’ he offered.

Emma swallowed quickly. ‘I – I'm trying to give them up,’ she answered automatically. It was true; Victor had been trying to persuade her to do so for weeks. But even as she said the words she wished she could retract them. Right now, a cigarette was what she needed to calm her nerves.

The man shrugged, dropping the case on to the parcel shelf, and drew a narrow cigar out of his pocket, putting it between his lips and flicking a lighter. The exhalation of smoke was intoxicating to Emma. She sighed, almost unconsciously, and he glanced at her again.

‘You want a cigarette? Have one. They're not marijuana.'

‘I never thought they were,’ she exclaimed indignantly.

‘But I am right, aren't I? You would like a cigarette.'

She bent her head. ‘Yes.'

‘Then have one, for God's sake!’ He leant forward and lifting the slim gold case dropped it into her lap. ‘Here. Help yourself.'

Emma opened the case and put one of the long American cigarettes between her lips. But when she would have searched in her handbag for a light he flicked the lighter he had used and she leant forward to apply the tip of her cigarette to the flame. She steadied his hand with hers, conscious of his hard skin beneath her fingers. She was conscious of him, too, and she was almost sure he knew it. She drew back abruptly when her cigarette was lit, breathing deeply.

‘Is it good?’ he asked, and she nodded.

‘Marvellous! I needed it.'

He drew on his own cigar and concentrated on the lights of a solitary vehicle ahead of them and Emma relaxed a little. They would be approaching the outskirts of the city soon and then it would not be long before she was home. If Mrs. Cook was still up she would be worried about her. Emma only hoped the housekeeper had not had the idea of phoning Victor when she was so late. While her father was away Mrs. Cook felt a strong sense of responsibility for Emma.

As they neared the suburbs, traffic became a little more frequent even though it was so late, and there were one or two people making their way home from parties and such like. They crossed Putney Bridge, but when they stopped at some traffic lights, Emma said:

‘I can take a cab from here.'

The lights changed and the powerful Jensen rolled forward without letting her out. ‘If you tell me where you live, I'll drive you home. But you will have to direct me. My knowledge of London is limited to its main thoroughfares.'

‘That's not necessary, thank you,’ replied Emma quickly. ‘I wouldn't dream of taking you out of your way.'

The street lights were casting some illumination into the car now and she could see the faint mockery about his mouth. ‘You are perhaps afraid your husband may see us together?'

Emma's eyes widened. ‘Of course not.'

‘There is no husband?’ He frowned.

‘No.’ She felt herself colouring again.

‘Hombre! I am surprised. Are not most English girls of your age married?'

Emma resented his tone of voice. ‘I am twenty-five, señor, that's all. Why should you imagine I should necessarily be married?'

He raised dark eyebrows. ‘In my country, it is much different. At eighteen a girl is already a wife and mother.'

Emma speculated what country that might be. Although he was obviously Spanish, or at least of Spanish descent, she somehow doubted he came from Spain itself. There was a vaguely American inflection in his English and she thought he might come from one of the South American republics.

‘Strange as it may seem, señor, I have no particular desire to become a mother yet.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you do not say – a wife and mother. I take it the one is more desirable to you than the other.'

Emma felt impatient. ‘If you insist on taking me home, señor, I live in Kensington. We turn left at the next junction.'

It was comparatively easy to reach Emma's father's house in Dudley Gardens from Warwick Road, and as the fog was so much less dense here she knew he would have no difficulty in finding his way back to the main road again. When the car halted smoothly at the gates to the short drive, Emma turned to him politely.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said, hoping she sounded less nervous than she felt. ‘I don't know how I should have got home without your assistance.'

He shrugged his broad shoulders lazily. ‘No doubt you would have reached Paul Gregory's house eventually,’ he remarked. ‘You were going in the right direction and one way or another you'd have been able to make some arrangement there, I'm sure.'

‘Nevertheless, you've been very kind.’ Emma fumbled for the door catch without success, and without a word he leant past her and thrust open the door. For a brief moment, his hard arm was against her breasts, and she smelt the faint masculine aroma of his skin, and then she was tumbling out of the car, almost tripping in her haste. As she turned to close the door, the interior light was on and she encountered his dark disturbing gaze.

‘Good – good night,’ she said unevenly.

‘Adios!’ He smiled faintly, and then as the door slammed and the light went out, he drove swiftly away. And as he went Emma felt again that disturbingly positive notion that she had seen him before. But how was that possible? He was certainly not Victor's type, nor was he likely to move in Victor's circle. No. It was probably that he reminded her of someone, but who?

With a sigh, she turned and went slowly up the drive to the front door. As she did so, the hall light came on and the door opened to reveal Mrs. Cook, the housekeeper, wrapped in a warm red woollen dressing gown.

‘Miss Emma!’ she exclaimed, with relief. ‘Thank heavens you're back. It's after one o'clock. I've been so worried about you. I was just about to ring Mr. Harrison and ask his advice when I heard the car.'

Emma stepped into the hall, loosening the white leather coat automatically, and as she did so Mrs. Cook gave another exclamation. ‘Is something wrong, miss? Your hair – I mean – you look so dishevelled. Has there been an accident?'

Emma shook her head, throwing her coat on to the chest in the carpeted hallway. ‘Not exactly, Mrs. Cook,’ she answered carefully. ‘And I'm glad you didn't ring Mr. Harrison. I shouldn't like to worry him unnecessarily.’ She walked down the hall and into the comfortable living-room, appreciating the warmth generated from the radiators. ‘What a terrible night!'

Mrs. Cook clicked her tongue with the familiarity of long service. ‘Where have you been, Miss Emma?’ she asked reprovingly. ‘And why did you come home in another car? Where's the Mini?'

‘All in good time, Mrs. Cook.’ Emma ran a hand over her tumbled hair. ‘Tell me, is there any coffee on the stove?'

‘At this time of night?’ Mrs. Cook looked scandalized. Then she sighed. ‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose I can get you some.'

Emma followed the housekeeper into the large modern kitchen at the back of the house, and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar while Mrs. Cook plugged in the percolator and set it bubbling.

‘Now,’ she said, when that was done, ‘what happened?'

‘I ditched the car in the fog,’ said Emma bluntly. ‘I had to hitch a ride home.'

‘What?’ Mrs. Cook was horrified.

‘It's true. I lost my way. Then when I tried to turn the car I ran into a ditch. I couldn't get it out again.'

Mrs. Cook wrapped her dressing gown closer about her. ‘It's just as well your father's not here,’ she stated rebukingly. ‘Can you imagine how worried he would have been?’ Then she frowned. ‘And who was it who gave you a lift?'

‘I don't know.’ Emma shrugged. ‘I didn't ask his name, and he didn't ask mine.'

‘I see.’ Mrs. Cook turned back to attend to the coffee. ‘Well, it seems to me you've been remarkably lucky getting a lift at this time of night. Where's your car now?'

‘I don't know.’ Emma made a helpless gesture as Mrs. Cook began to look impatient again. ‘Well, I don't. Somewhere off the Guildford road, I guess. I should think if I give some details to an agency, they'll find it for me and bring it back. I just don't want Victor to know, that's all.'

‘Mr. Harrison is bound to find out,’ said Mrs. Cook disapprovingly.

‘Why should he? Unless you tell him, of course.'

Mrs. Cook shook her head, pushing a mug of creamy coffee towards her. ‘These things have a habit of coming out, given time,’ she replied dampeningly.

‘Not necessarily,’ retorted Emma, lifting the cup and scenting the aroma experimentally. ‘Hmm, this is good. Thank you. You're a darling!'

Mrs. Cook sniffed. ‘And you're spoiled, that's the trouble with you,’ she asserted, but there was an unwilling twinkle in her eyes. ‘And I'm away to my bed now, if you've everything you need. I have to get up in the morning.'

Emma wrinkled her nose. ‘All right, Mrs. Cook. And thanks again.'

Later, in her own room, Emma viewed her appearance without pleasure. She was horrified to discover that her nose was smudged with soot, and that her hair tumbled loosely almost to her waist. She extracted the few remaining hairpins and ran a brush through its tangled length. Loosened, it was the colour of burnt amber, thick and silky, glowing with health. But she invariably wore it in either a pleat or a chignon, and its colour was then subdued to a dark auburn. Victor preferred it confined. He didn't like loose hair. Maybe he considered it made her look rather young and unsophisticated. He could be sensitive about things like that.

Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared into the wide-spaced grey eyes which were reflected in the mirror. Without make-up her skin was creamy smooth, her lashes dark and thick, shadowing her cheeks. A tissue removed the smudges of soot from her nose and she regarded herself critically. Her hair did look more feminine loose like this, but a gust of wind would send it into wild disorder and Victor hated to find hairs on his immaculately tailored jackets. Her make-up was always very correct, foundation, powder and a bright but not vivid lipstick, and yet she was realizing now that without any colour added to her lips they looked fuller and more sensual…

She rose angrily to her feet. Whatever was she thinking of? What was the matter with her, sitting here assessing her potentialities? She was not a teenager, she was a mature woman of twenty-five, a woman moreover who was engaged to be married to a man quite a lot of years older than herself who was entirely satisfied with her the way she was. Why was she considering ways of improving her appearance? It was ridiculous, ludicrous, pathetic!

She began to take off her clothes quickly, but before going into the bathroom for her shower she glimpsed her naked body in the mirror and hesitated again. Her limbs were long and slender, her hips firm and curving, her breasts warmly rounded; was she a fool not to exploit her body more, to make herself attractive to other men as well as to Victor?

With determined steps she marched into the bathroom. Hell, she thought irritatedly, just because some man, some stranger, had suggested that it was high time she was married, she was allowing his uncultivated beliefs to intrude upon hers. She had not wanted to get married; she had been perfectly happy looking after her father until Victor came along. Why should she feel guilty because of that?

She drew off her diamond engagement ring and regarded it intently for a few minutes before turning on the shower. In any case, she told herself grimly, inadvertently stepping under the shower without her cap and soaking her loosened hair so that it clung in curling tendrils about her back and shoulders, the man she had encountered this evening was not at all the sort of person Victor would want her to associate with. Victor was not narrow-minded, he liked her to have friends of her own, and she did, but somehow she sensed that the dark stranger of the fog would not fall into that category.




CHAPTER TWO (#ueb85257e-d8e2-5d93-975c-098e8cb9d0f9)


THE next morning Emma slept late and she was awakened by the sound of raised voices in the hall downstairs. For several minutes she lay there listening, wondering if Mrs. Cook was having an altercation with the butcher, but then she realized it was Victor's voice.

Leaning over, she examined the clock on her bedside table, focusing on it with difficulty. It was after eleven-thirty, and she scrambled hastily out of bed, pulling on a soft brushed nylon housecoat over her nightdress, wondering apprehensively what Victor was doing here at this hour and what, if anything, Mrs. Cook had told him about the night before.

As she opened her bedroom door, she could hear Victor saying impatiently: ‘But what time will she be up? I can't hang about here all day. I have work to do.'

Emma went to the head of the stairs. ‘Victor!’ she exclaimed, beginning to descend slowly. ‘I didn't know you were coming this morning. I'm sorry I wasn't up when you arrived. I'm afraid I've overslept.'

Victor Harrison regarded her with disapproval, and Emma became self-consciously aware of her state of déshabille. Beside his sleek business suit she felt hopelessly out of place, and a feeling of embarrassment swept over her. But Victor always looked immaculate and as he was a tall, broad man, his clothes fitted him with elegance. Although he was in his late forties, and his hair was tinged with grey in places, he had a very distinguished appearance, and Emma had always admired him. His waistline was thickening now with so many business lunches to attend, but his height could stand it without it becoming too noticeable. When they went out together Emma always tried to emulate his elegant example.

But this morning the contrast between them was strongly marked, and Emma wished she had stopped and brushed her hair and put on some clothes before coming downstairs.

‘I came to see whether you'd like to have lunch with me,’ Victor said now, casting a dismissing glance in Mrs. Cook's direction. The housekeeper tactfully murmured something about coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, and sighing, Emma said: ‘Come into the lounge, Victor. We can't talk here.'

She led the way into a high-ceilinged room to the right of the hall where a warm fire burned in the grate. The flames reflected in the rosewood of the baby grand that stood in one corner, and cast shadows on the pale walls. Although the house was centrally heated, Emma's father insisted on keeping a fire in this room. It had been her mother's domain and Emma found the cheerful glow comforting as well as warming.

Victor followed her reluctantly, and she gave him an appealing smile. ‘I'm sorry, darling. I don't normally appear like this at lunchtime.'

‘I should hope not.’ Victor sighed, running a hand over his hair. ‘Did you get to Guildford last evening?'

Emma turned away so that he could not see her face, nodding. ‘Yes. Stafford was delighted to see me. I was glad I took the trouble.'

Victor accepted this without comment. It was obvious he did not connect the fact of her oversleeping with her visit to Guildford.

‘And how long will it take you – to – well – make yourself presentable?’ Victor was asking now, and she swung round frowning.

‘You'll wait?'

‘I shall have to, shan't I?’ Victor looked irritable.

‘Where are we lunching?'

‘The Dorchester.’ Victor thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘Sir Malcolm wants to discuss the Messiter deal with me and this is his only opportunity. But as his daughter's in London at the moment, he suggested we make up a foursome for lunch.'

‘Oh, I see. A business lunch.’ Emma was less than enthusiastic. ‘Do I have to attend?'

Victor's square face became stiff. ‘You don't have to do anything, of course. I simply thought that as my fiancée you'd want to take an interest in my affairs.'

‘But, darling, your business affairs have nothing to do with me.'

‘On the contrary, they have everything to do with you. Once Messiter Textiles comes within the sphere of Harrison Interloop, we shall hold a tremendous influence—'

‘All right, all right,’ Emma interrupted him with a sigh. She had no intention of allowing Victor to go into a long monologue about the possibilities of cornering the textile market. ‘I'll come. Mrs. Cook is making some coffee, so you help yourself and I'll go and take a shower.'

‘Very well.’ Victor's face relaxed agreeably, and Emma waited for a few moments to see whether he would now relax sufficiently to kiss her, to show her in some way that he was glad to see her. But Victor merely smiled in a satisfied way and took up a position in front of the fire, obviously prepared to wait for her to go and get ready. With an impatient gesture Emma left the room and encountered Mrs. Cook in the hall, on her way to the lounge with a tray of coffee.

‘Well?’ said the housekeeper, looking knowingly at Emma's exasperated expression. ‘Are you lunching out?'

‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ Emma brushed past her and ran up the stairs to her room, but once there she flung off her clothes irritably. Couldn't Victor sometimes let himself go and show a little emotion? Heavens, it wasn't as though he had never seen a woman in a dressing gown before; he had been married for almost fifteen years. Surely in that time he had grown used to seeing a woman about his home. He must have become accustomed to his wife, invalid though she had been; used to entering her bedroom, sleeping in her bed!

Emma went into her bathroom with ill-concealed dissatisfaction. Although she had known him for five years, although they had been engaged for almost six months, they had never got beyond the stage of gentle lovemaking he had first courted her with. And although it was rare that Emma ever felt that their relationship was not developing in the way that it should, today she felt inordinately dissatisfied with her lot. She wished her father would come back. Perhaps it was being alone so much that was unsettling her.

But then she heaved a sigh. Her father was enjoying himself in Canada with her older brother and his wife, and as he had now retired from medical practice, there was nothing to stop him from remaining there another three months. He knew Emma was well looked after by Mrs. Cook, and in any case he considered her a sensible girl.

During the following week, life settled back into its normal pattern. Emma worked part-time for a friend in a secretarial agency off Oxford Street, more for something to do than for the money involved, for although she had been offered a place at university seven years ago her mother had died at that time and she had known that as her brother was already married she could not leave home and her father alone. In consequence, she took a secretarial course at a London technical college and eventually joined Fenella Harding at the agency.

Fenella was older than Emma, a contemporary of Victor's, in fact, and it had been through Fenella that Emma had first met her fiancé. Even so, the idea that the big, powerful industrialist should take anything more than a fleeting interest in her had never occurred to her until he introduced himself to Dr. Seaton and slowly but surely eased himself into her life. Emma had always been rather shy and withdrawn, preferring the company of books to that of the opposite sex, and Victor's worldly manner had aroused a sense of admiration in her. That he was so much older than she was had been unimportant. She had never considered herself a particularly trendy sort of person. Her clothes were square, the other girls in the office said so, and since she had taken to wearing her hair in its pleat, she knew she looked years older.

But Victor approved, and after all, that was all that really mattered.

The afternoon following her unfortunate accident in the fog, she had managed to contact a garage in the Guildford area who, for a fee, had been prepared to locate the whereabouts of her car from the description of the circumstances she was able to give them. The Mini had been returned to her as good as new, and Victor had learned nothing of the incident, much to her relief.

All the same, from time to time, she couldn't help pondering the identity of the man who had rescued her and brought her home. The certainty that she had seen him before had strengthened and it was a tantalizing puzzle which intrigued her. But as such thoughts were abortive she endeavoured to put all such speculation to the back of her mind.

On Friday evening it was late when Emma left the agency. They had had rather a panic on that afternoon, as several of the girls were away with ‘flu, and consequently they were inundated with work. Emma had volunteered to stay on as Victor was away in Brighton for the evening, attending a business dinner, and she did not expect to see him again until the following afternoon.

It was a cold, frosty evening when she emerged from the office building, but there was no fog, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling of release. She walked the few yards to where the Mini was parked and drove home without incident, parking it in the drive before entering the house.

‘Mrs. Cook!’ she called. ‘I'm home!'

There was no immediate response and, shrugging, Emma crossed the hall to the lounge, unbuttoning her tweed overcoat, thrusting open the door to enter the comfortable lamplit room. As she did so, a man rose from his position on the couch, and she stepped back in alarm, a hand pressed to her lips. But as the man moved into the light, she said incredulously: ‘You! What are you doing here?'

The dark Spanish-American regarded her intently. ‘I came to see you,’ he replied simply, but his eyes were surveying her with a mixture of doubt and disbelief.

Emma put up a hand to her hair. It was as smooth and elegant as ever, her blue tweed suit beneath the matching coat beautifully tailored, but rather severe in style. She was conscious of feeling years older than he was as he stood there so dark and lean and attractive in a close-fitting cream suede suit that moulded every muscle of his thighs.

‘I – well – have you been waiting long?’ she asked nervously, unable to assimilate the situation with any degree of composure. ‘Did Mrs. Cook let you in?'

‘Your housekeeper?’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Yes, she let me in. She didn't want to, but when I explained who I was…’ His voice trailed away. ‘You've suffered no ill effects of your midnight ramblings, I see.'

‘Oh, no – no!’ Emma glanced over her shoulder uneasily. ‘I – I'm very grateful to you for helping me.'

The man inclined his head politely and she rubbed her finger tips together rather awkwardly. Why had he come? Had she left something in his car? But no, if she had, she would have missed whatever it was by now, wouldn't she?

Her eyes alighted on the drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘Er – did Mrs. Cook – that is – can I offer you a drink?’ she inquired, stepping forward again.

‘Thank you,’ he nodded, and she walked jerkily across the room to the cabinet, conscious of his eyes upon her the whole time.

‘Wh-what would you like?’ she asked, inspecting the bottles. ‘Scotch? Gin? Brandy?'

‘Scotch would be fine,’ he replied calmly, folding his hands behind his back. His jacket was unfastened and the lapels parted to reveal a dark blue shirt and matching tie beneath. Emma's eyes were drawn to him almost against her will, and she had to force herself to concentrate on what she was doing.

As it was the bottle jangled noisily against the glass, and he moved swiftly across to her with lithe grace and took it from her unresisting fingers. ‘I'll do it,’ he said, and she stood aside and let him. The Scotch poured smoothly into the glass, the bottle was put back in its place, and he raised the Scotch to his lips. ‘Salud!’ he said, and swallowed half of it at a gulp.

Emma moved uncomfortably. She was suddenly aware of the quiet intimacy of the room, of his nearness, and of the fact that were Victor to come upon them suddenly he could only assume the worst.

‘Won't you join me?’ he was asking now, but Emma shook her head.

‘No, thank you.’ She moved away from him nervously, and with a careless shrug he lifted his glass and emptied it. She was aware that his eyes never left her. They moved over her insolently, intently, assessing her; and it was a disturbing experience for someone who was not used to this kind of mental assault.

As though sensing her unease he moved, his eyes drifting round the attractively appointed room. The wide couch of soft tan leather was complemented by the dull green velvet of the long curtains, while the carpet underfoot was a mixture of autumn shades.

But his eyes lingered longest on the piano, and without asking permission, he walked across to the instrument, sitting down on the matching stool and running his long brown fingers lightly over the keys.

And then she knew who he was, and the sudden realization caused her to utter a faint gasp. He was Miguel Salvaje. And that was why she had thought his face was familiar. She had seen a picture of him in The Times only a few weeks ago when his arrival in this country from Mexico had been widely reported in the press.

He looked up at her exclamation and the long black lashes veiled his eyes. ‘Well, Miss Seaton?’ he challenged softly.

Emma's lips parted involuntarily. ‘You know my name!'

He inclined his head slowly. ‘And you know mine, do you not?'

Emma nodded. ‘I'm sorry. I should have recognized you sooner.'

‘Why?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a lover of classical music, Miss Seaton?'

Emma shrugged awkwardly. ‘I like all kinds of music,’ she said. ‘I – I've never attended one of your concerts, but I do have some of your records. My – my mother was a keen pianist herself.'

‘And you?'

‘Oh, no.’ Emma shook her head. ‘Just to fifth grade. I'm afraid I'm not a very artistic person, señor.’ She frowned. ‘But how do you know my name?'

He rose from the piano stool and came towards her until they were only about a foot apart. ‘I was curious about you,’ he replied. ‘I wanted to see you again.'

Emma felt herself colouring. She couldn't help it. He was so direct. And how could she answer that?

But in fact she didn't have to. Instead, he went on: ‘Tell me! Now that we have been more or less introduced, why do you wear these clothes? Are they – how do you say it – your working clothes?'

Emma was taken aback. ‘I – I don't know what you mean.'

‘Of course you do.’ His dark eyes were disturbingly tense. ‘I do not like them. Take them off!'

Emma was horrified. ‘What did you say?'

‘I asked you to take off these – garments,’ he returned smoothly. ‘Go! Change! I will wait for you.'

Emma was astounded. ‘Señor Salvaje, I don't know what customs you have in your country, but in England one cannot simply walk into a person's house and demand that they change their clothes for your benefit,’ she declared heatedly.

Miguel half smiled. ‘No?'

‘No.’ Emma took a deep breath, conscious of a sense of breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing would assuage. ‘Look, señor, I don't know why you came here, but—'

‘I told you. I came to see you,’ he interrupted her softly.

Emma's palms moistened. ‘I – this is ridiculous! You really must excuse me, señor. I – er – Mrs. Cook will be wondering where I am – whether I'm ready for dinner—'

‘You are running away from me, Emma. Why?'

The way he said her name with its foreign inflection was a caress and Emma's heart pounded furiously. ‘Please, señor—’ she began, but he shook his head.

‘Invite me to dinner,’ he suggested. ‘I am a stranger, away from my own country. Surely you would not refuse a stranger a meal?'

Emma stared at him helplessly. Then she tugged off her overcoat. Her body was overheated already, and the atmosphere in the room was electric. ‘I would like you to go, señor,’ she said carefully. ‘I – I'm very tired.'

‘So am I,’ he remarked lazily. ‘There have been concerts every night this week. This is my first free evening.'

Emma made an impotent gesture. ‘I don't understand you.'

‘No. I would agree with you there,’ he conceded, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and pulling down his tie so that she could see the brown column of his throat. His skin was deeply tanned and for a brief moment she recalled Victor's pale flesh, sallow from too many hours spent in boardrooms, loose from lack of exercise. Miguel Salvaje did not appear to have an ounce of spare flesh on his body, and the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the dark blue silk of his shirt as he moved. Emma was self-consciously aware of noticing this, and guiltily forced her eyes away from him. In a tight little voice, she said:

‘Will you please leave, señor?'

Miguel made an impatient gesture. ‘And if I choose not to do so? What then? What will you do? Will you call the policia? Will you have me humiliated in the eyes of the public – of the press?'

Emma doubted that anyone or anything could humiliate him. Indeed, the humiliation would be all hers. Making a last desperate attempt to appeal to him, she exclaimed: ‘Are you so desperate for companionship, señor, that you would spend an evening with someone who does not want your company?'

He uttered an imprecation. ‘Yes,’ he replied harshly. ‘Yes, I need companionship. I want to relax away from my work – away from the things that bring it constantly to mind. You do not wish me to dine here with you – very well, I accept that. Then let me buy you dinner somewhere. Surely there are restaurants where we need not be formal, where no one will recognize me!'

Emma moved uncomfortably towards the door. ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, señor.'

‘Why? Why is it out of the question? I would like to spend an evening with you, and I think you would not find it so objectionable, in spite of what you say.'

Indignation flooded her at his words. Did he imagine her refusal was merely a coy attempt to increase his interest? And to suggest that she would be prepared to eat with him at some out-of-the-way restaurant so that none of his friends or associates should learn of their association was insulting. What had she done to make him think she would welcome his attentions? Did he assume that as she was a woman who on his own admission he considered to be past marriageable age she would welcome an affair with someone like himself? How dared he? The audacity of it all!

Her breasts rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions, and she found it difficult to articulate clearly. ‘I – I can assure you, señor, that I am not desperate for company. And if my fiancé were here you would not dare to speak to me in this way—'

‘Fiancé?’ His thin face was sardonic. ‘You have a fiancé, señorita?’ He shrugged. ‘A novio? I am not interested in your novio.'

Emma gave an exasperated ejaculation. ‘What does it take to convince you that I mean what I say?’ she demanded. ‘Is this the way you treat women in your country, señor?'

He shook his head slowly. ‘In my country? No. But this is not my country.'

Emma sighed. Where was Mrs. Cook? Why didn't she come? Surely she must have heard her come in, must know she would be shocked to find this man waiting for her.

Miguel Salvaje continued to regard her for a few moments longer and then his lean fingers slid up and tightened his tie again. She noticed inconsequently that he wore a ring on his left hand, a carved antique gold ring that made a fitting setting for a ruby that glowed with an inner fire all its own.

He inclined his head. ‘It shall be as you insist, señorita. I regret the intrusion.'

He walked towards the door, and as he did so Emma felt a terrible sense of compunction. But why should she? she asked herself impatiently. Just because for a brief moment he had seemed completely defenceless she should not fool herself into thinking it was anything more than another attempt to get her to change her mind. She must remember he was Miguel Salvaje, rich, clever, aware of his own potentialities, prepared to use her as no doubt he had used other women in other cities, and not merely a lonely man seeking companionship.

She sighed, but he did not look back and a few moments later she heard the sound of the outer door closing. He had gone. She hesitated only a moment, and then she rushed across to the window, drawing aside the curtain and peering out. He was walking down the short drive, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't have an overcoat and she thought he must be frozen, used as he was to a warmer climate in any case. Where was his car? She frowned. She didn't remember seeing it as she came in. Surely she would have noticed such a conspicuous automobile if it had been parked anywhere near the house.

She bit her lip hard, but he had disappeared into the street and the hedges of the house next door hid him from sight. She allowed the curtain to fall back into place and as she did so Mrs. Cook came into the room.

‘Oh, you're home, Miss Emma!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn't hear you come in. When I heard the door just now—’ She looked round. ‘Has Señor Salvaje left?'

Emma cupped the back of her neck with her hands. ‘It looks like it, doesn't it?’ she asked impatiently. ‘You knew who he was, then?'

‘Of course.'

‘I didn't know you were interested in music, Mrs. Cook.'

‘Interested in music?’ Mrs. Cook frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

Emma stared at her. ‘I thought you said you knew who he was.'

‘Yes. He introduced himself to me. I understood he was the gentleman who brought you home the other evening.'

‘He was – he is!’ Emma heaved a deep breath. ‘He's also a concert pianist.'

‘Is he?’ Mrs. Cook made a suitably respectful grimace. ‘I didn't know that. Anyway, what did he want?'

Emma shrugged. ‘I don't really know. He – well, he invited me to have dinner with him.'

Mrs. Cook raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? And what would Mr. Harrison say to that, I wonder?'

‘Well, you've no need to, Mrs. Cook. Because I'm not going.'

Mrs. Cook nodded slowly. ‘Well, I just came to see what time you wanted your meal. Are you ready now?'

Emma looked down at the severe lines of her suit irritably. Then she shook her head. ‘No, not yet. I want to change first.'

‘Change?’ Mrs. Cook couldn't hide her curiosity. ‘Are you going out again then?'

Emma shook her head. ‘No – no, I'm not going out again, Mrs. Cook. I merely want to change, that's all.’ Her tone was eloquent of her resentment at Mrs. Cook's probing.

‘Yes, miss!’ Mrs. Cook was offended, her back stiff and unyielding as she went out again. Emma kicked off her shoes ill-temperedly. What was the matter with her? Speaking to Mrs. Cook like that! There was no cause for it.

Clenching her teeth, she marched out of the room and up the stairs. It was as though contact with that man, Miguel Salvaje, disrupted her. The last time she had felt like this was when he had brought her home in the fog, and now here she was a mass of conflicting emotions, just because he had taken it upon himself to enter her life again. It was stupid and childish. She wasn't an adolescent, so why was she behaving like one?

All the same, she found herself thinking about him a lot through that long evening, wondering where he was and what he was doing, and whether he had found someone else to keep him company…




CHAPTER THREE (#ueb85257e-d8e2-5d93-975c-098e8cb9d0f9)


DURING the following week, Emma endeavoured to put all thoughts of Miguel Salvaje out of her mind. But that was easier said than done. She had only to open a newspaper it seemed to see his face staring back at her, or some other advertisement of the fact that the Mexican pianist was presently giving a series of recitals with the accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra at the Festival Hall.

For the first time in her life she wished she had a close girl friend, someone of her own age in whom she might confide her fears and anxieties. But the girl she had been closest to had married some years ago and gone to live in the Midlands, and now there was only Victor, and of course she could say nothing to him. So she kept her thoughts to herself and concentrated her energies on her work at the agency.

Nevertheless, she was still taken aback when one afternoon her fiancé walked into the agency and after a casual word with Fenella came over to her desk. Perching himself on the side of the desk, he looked down into her face and said, without warning: ‘Miguel Salvaje is a favourite of yours, isn't he?'

Emma's hands trembled and she thrust them on to her lap so that he should not see them, but she could not prevent the colour from leaving her cheeks. ‘Wh – what did you say?’ she asked weakly.

‘Miguel Salvaje. You like his playing, don't you?'

Emma tried to gather her scattered composure. ‘I – I – yes, I suppose so. Why – why?'

Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I've got these.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out two tickets. ‘They're complimentary. You know the sort of thing they distribute to firms. Well, these came into my hands, and I thought we might go. But as they're for this evening, I thought I had better give you warning.'

Emma swallowed convulsively. The very last thing she wanted was to attend one of Miguel's concerts. She didn't want to see him again, to feel that awful, irritable, unsettled feeling he generated inside her.

‘Oh, I don't know, Victor,’ she temporized awkwardly. ‘I – we're awfully busy here at the agency. I don't know if I'll be able to get away in time…'

Victor frowned, and then swung round to face Fenella Harding. ‘Hey, Fenella,’ he said. ‘There's no reason why Emma should work late this evening, is there?'

Fenella looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’ Her delicately plucked brows drew together. ‘Did you say there was, Emma?'

Emma shook her head. ‘Not exactly.'

Victor turned back to her. ‘Don't you want to go or something? I thought you liked Salvaje! You have his records.'

‘I know I do.’ Emma felt desperate. What could she say? How could she convince him she didn't want to go without arousing his suspicions? Victor could be a very possessive man. ‘It's just such short notice, Victor.'

‘Oh, come on. It's not a première I'm taking you to. It's a concert. Go home, get changed, and I'll pick you up about seven. We'll have a drink beforehand and supper afterwards, right?'

‘All right.’ Emma nodded and shrugging again Victor slid off the desk.

‘Must go. Got an appointment in half an hour. See you later, then, my dear.'

‘Yes.'

Emma watched him go through the door, tall and immaculate in his city clothes. Then she looked down mutinously at her typewriter. She had not wanted to go to the concert, but that didn't matter to Victor. So far as he was concerned, any opposition she might raise to his plans was purely negligible.

She was ready when Victor arrived that evening, dressed in a plain gown of purple wool that did not enhance her colouring. But it was a dress Victor had brought back from Italy after a business trip and she knew he expected her to wear it whenever she could. The black cape she wore with it was more becoming, but as her hair was confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, she still managed to look staid and matronly. Was this to be her role in life? she had asked herself as her fingers trembled fastening the zip of her dress. Constantly aware of the age gap between herself and Victor and his obvious attempts to close it in this way?

The Festival Hall was almost full when they arrived and as Emma had not examined the tickets Victor had been given she was unaware that their seats would be in the front row until they were shown into them. Her heart pounded heavily. Surely Miguel could not fail to see her from this distance if he chose to look. She sighed. Why should Victor have been given such exceptionally good tickets? Surely they would have had no difficulty in selling these seats when almost all the hall was full. She moved uncomfortably. Had Victor in fact bought these tickets especially because he knew she liked the music and only pretended they were complimentary? She glanced at her fiancé uncertainly. If he had done so, then she should feel grateful and not resentful at all.

The orchestra leader came in to a loud burst of applause and after several minutes interval the conductor appeared. Emma waited tensely for the soloist. There was a grand piano waiting for him, a beautiful instrument, sleek and highly polished. Like the performer, thought Emma, with a rising sense of hysteria.

And then Miguel Salvaje came out and weakness flooded her being. Tall, lean; his immaculate evening clothes complemented his dark alien attractiveness, and Emma sank down in her seat, praying he would not notice her.

He seated himself at the piano, the applause died, and Miguel began the introduction to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto. There was absolute silence in the hall, and Emma found her initial nervousness dispersing under the pure delight of the music. It was obvious that Miguel was interested only in the instrument under his hands, and his mastery cast a spell over the audience so that when it was over there was a moment's spellbound silence before the applause broke out. Emma found herself applauding just as enthusiastically, and only when he rose from the piano stool to take his bow and his gaze flickered over the front row did she realize Miguel had known she was there all the time. There was no element of surprise in the depths of his dark eyes, but they moved away before she could register any acknowledgment of that brief appraisal.

However, afterwards she had reason to doubt the truth of her earlier beliefs. At no time during the remainder of the evening did his eyes turn in her direction, and she began to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. But she had not been mistaken, she told herself angrily. He had seen her, but whether he had actually been aware of her presence beforehand, she was less positive.

Victor enjoyed the concert without any of Emma's misgivings. Unaware of his fiancée's mental agitation, he could not understand the unusual pallor of her cheeks as they left the auditorium, and suggested that instead of having supper out they should go back to his service apartment and eat there.

But Emma felt that food of any kind would choke her. Forcing a polite smile, she said: ‘I don't think that's a very good idea, Victor. Perhaps if you took me home, Mrs. Cook could make us some sandwiches…'

Victor hesitated, his square face showing his perplexity. Exhaling his breath noisily, he eventually nodded. ‘Oh, very well, then. But I only had a sandwich before the concert, and I'm quite peckish.'

Emma tucked her skirts about her as she got into Victor's luxurious limousine. ‘I'm sure we can find something,’ she observed comfortingly, and Victor nodded without enthusiasm.

In fact, Mrs. Cook was out when they arrived back at the house. Emma realized the housekeeper would not have expected them back so early, and hiding her weariness she made Victor comfortable in the lounge with a drink and then went herself into the kitchen to prepare the food.

There was plenty to choose from: cold ham, plenty of bacon and eggs, salad, a cold meat pie. Deciding Victor would prefer something hot, Emma decided to make a cheese omelette, and she was beating eggs in the pan when the telephone rang.

Frowning, she waited a moment to see if Victor would answer it, and when he did not, she dried her fingers on a cloth and went out into the hall. Lifting the receiver, she gave her number, wondering who could possibly be ringing at this hour of the evening.

‘Hello, Emma!'

The deep accented male voice was instantly recognizable and she almost dropped the receiver from her nerveless fingers.

‘Y – yes, señor?’ she murmured huskily.

‘You enjoyed the concert, si?

Any doubts she had had about his possible recognition of her presence fled away. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, stiffly, politely. ‘You played brilliantly.'

‘Gracias, señorita!’ There was a trace of mockery in his tones. ‘I was sure your – fiancé – would use the tickets.'

‘You were sure – you mean—’ Emma broke off, breathing jerkily. ‘You sent Victor those tickets?'

‘But of course. Did you think otherwise?'

Emma glanced at the lounge door. It was closed, but she could not be sure that Victor could not overhear what she was saying. A pulse pounded heavily in her forehead, and her palms were moist. ‘I – I didn't realize,’ she managed unevenly.

‘But you came.'

‘Naturally.’ She infused a tone of indifference. ‘Why not? Was that why you rang? To find out whether I enjoyed it?'

There was silence for a long moment, and she thought with an awful feeling of bereavement that he had hung up on her. Then he said in a quiet voice: ‘No, I rang because I wanted to speak with you, to hear your voice. I want to see you, Emma.'

Emma's legs turned to jelly beneath her. ‘I'm afraid I can't talk now,’ she said uneasily.

‘Does that mean that you wish to talk at some other time?’ he queried lazily. ‘I gather the worthy Señor Harrison is there.'

‘How do you—’ she lowered her voice – ‘how do you know my fiancé's name?'

‘I made it my business to find out.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Will he be gone soon?'

‘Why?'

‘I've told you. I want to see you.'

‘Tonight?’ Emma was horrified.

‘Why not? Tomorrow I have a rehearsal and another concert. My time is limited.'

‘I'm afraid that's impossible,’ she exclaimed, glancing again towards the lounge door.

‘Why is it impossible? Unless…’ his voice cooled perceptibly… ‘you sleep with this man Harrison—'

‘Of course not!’ Emma was furious. ‘I don't sleep with anyone!'

‘No?’ His accent was very pronounced suddenly. ‘What time will he leave?'

The lounge door suddenly opened, and Victor's broad frame filled the aperture. ‘What's going on?’ he demanded, sniffing strongly. ‘Is something burning?'

‘Oh, heavens, the omelette!’ Emma looked down at the phone helplessly, and Victor made an angry gesture.

‘Who is it?'

Emma put the receiver to her ear. ‘I can't talk any more now – J-Jennifer. C-could you ring tomorrow?'

Without waiting for Miguel's reply, she thrust the receiver down on the rest and fled into the kitchen, grabbing the smoking pan from the flame. The eggs were ruined, a brown and lumpy mess in the bottom of the pan.

Victor had followed her and looked over her shoulder critically. Wrinkling his nose at the remains of the omelette, he said: ‘Who's Jennifer?'

‘Jennifer?’ Emma sought wildly for an explanation. ‘You remember Jennifer. She – she and I used to be great friends before she got married.'

‘I thought that was Sheila.'

‘I did have more than one friend,’ retorted Emma, with an amazing amount of composure in the circumstances. She looked down into the pan. ‘Go and sit down again, and I'll make another omelette.'

‘No, thanks.’ Victor stretched his arms tiredly. ‘Quite honestly, after waiting so long my appetite's somewhat diminished.'

Emma bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘So'm I.’ Victor turned and walked back into the hall. ‘I'll just finish my drink and then I'll go. You look tired. Aren't you sleeping well?'

Emma moved her head helplessly. ‘Reasonably well,’ she answered. She followed him into the lounge. ‘At least let me get you another drink.'

‘No, thanks. I've had enough. I have to drive home, remember?'

Emma nodded and stood uncertainly, twisting her hands together as he swallowed the remains of his Scotch.

‘What did she want anyway?’ Victor returned to the subject of the phone call and Emma who had thought that matter over made a deprecatory gesture.

‘Oh, she'd tried to ring me earlier, and when I wasn't in, she decided to ring back.'

‘Was it something important?'

Emma managed a smile, feeling the guilt burning in her cheeks. ‘Not really. She's – expecting her first baby.’ That was an inspiration and seemed to satisfy Victor at last.

‘Oh, well, I must go.’ He came towards her, taking her by the shoulders and holding her firmly as he bent to kiss her lips. It was meant to be a very chaste kiss, but Emma, disturbed and needing reassurance, allowed her lips to part beneath his, pressing closer against him.

Victor drew back at once, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth rather vigorously. ‘I must go,’ he said, his face flushed for once. ‘Good night, Emma.'

‘Good night, Victor.'

Emma pressed her lips together and accompanied him to the door. If only he showed a little more emotion! Heavens, they were to be married soon. What kind of a relationship were they going to have if he backed away from the most natural demonstrations of their love for one another?

Victor didn't kiss her again. He squeezed her hand warmly, and then went down the steps. Emma closed the door with a kind of suppressed violence, wishing for the first time in her life that she had a little more experience where men were concerned.

She had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when Mrs. Cook returned. The housekeeper came into the room looking in surprise at the scoured pan. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were eating out.'

Emma had not told Mrs. Cook they were going to the Salvaje concert. It was easier that way.

‘We were,’ she answered her now. ‘But I wasn't very hungry, so we came back here.'

‘So I see.’ Mrs. Cook took off her coat and went to hang it away. Emma realized she had accepted the explanation without elaboration and decided to say no more. There was no point in relating the circumstances which had led up to the present state of affairs unless she wanted to make more explanations. Instead, she said good night, and went up to bed.

But although she was tired, sleep was elusive. She kept wondering what Miguel Salvaje had thought of her abrupt ending of their telephone conversation. She was half prepared to believe that he might indeed come round to the house, but the dawn light was paling the sky when she at last fell into a deep slumber and no one had disturbed the silence of the night.

Mrs. Cook awoke her at ten with a cup of tea. Regarding Emma's pale face critically, she said: ‘You look terrible! Didn't you sleep?'

Emma struggled up and took the cup of tea. ‘Not very well,’ she conceded, pushing back her heavy hair. ‘What time is it?'

‘Ten o'clock. Do you want breakfast in bed?'

Emma grimaced. ‘No, nothing, thank you.'

Mrs. Cook shrugged and walked towards the door. Then she halted. ‘By the way, there was a telephone call for you.'

Emma's nerves tightened. ‘Already?'

‘Yes. That Miss Harding from the agency. She said to ask you whether you could go in this afternoon. Apparently she's short-staffed again.'

‘Oh!’ Emma put down her cup and lay back against the pillows. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose I could. Was that all?'

‘What more did you expect?’ Mrs. Cook was curious.

Emma shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing.'

‘Did you enjoy the concert last evening?'

Emma stared at her. ‘How do you know we went to a concert?'

‘Miss Harding told me. When I told her you were still in bed she asked whether you'd had a late evening.'

‘I see.’ Emma swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. ‘Oh, well, it was no secret.'

‘Then why didn't you tell me?’ Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘Does Mr. Harrison know that Salvaje brought you home the night of the fog and then visited here a week later?'

Emma rose to her feet. ‘No, why should he?'

‘Strange that he should buy tickets for that particular performer, don't you think?'

Emma gave an exasperated sigh. ‘You're an inquisitive old woman, Mrs. Cook!'

‘I know it. I also know that while your father's away I'm responsible for you.'

‘I'm twenty-five, Mrs. Cook!'

‘I know that. But you're still my responsibility. If you ask me, there's something peculiar about the whole thing.'

‘Nobody asked you, Mrs. Cook.'

The housekeeper sighed and her expression became anxious. ‘Miss Emma! You wouldn't be thinking of doing anything silly now, would you?'

‘I don't know what you mean.’ Emma moved towards her. ‘Make me some coffee, there's a love. I'm not hungry, but I could certainly enjoy some of your coffee.'

Mrs. Cook moved aside reluctantly. ‘Oh, all right. Are you going to ring Miss Harding? She asked if you could ring her back.'

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I'll give her a ring.'

She waited for Mrs. Cook to move out on to the landing and then she passed her on her way to the bathroom. She knew the housekeeper suspected there was more to this than she could possibly know, but now that she had learned about the concert what more could Emma tell her? There was nothing more.

Emma was in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when the doorbell rang. There was nothing unusual in that. Trades-people were always calling. But when Mrs. Cook came to the foot of the stairs and called up to her, her heart began to thump a little more vigorously.

‘Miss Emma! There's someone here to see you.'

Emma rose to her feet, looking helplessly at her unbound hair. It would take ages to fold it into its pleat, so she hastily plaited it into a thick braid and secured it with an elastic band. Her suit looked rather ridiculous with the childish hair-style, but it would have to do.

She hurried down the stairs and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw Miguel Salvaje standing below her. She wanted to turn and dash back up the stairs again, but he had heard her and swung round to face her.

‘Good morning, señorita,’ he greeted her, gallantly bowing his head, and Emma took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs.

‘Good morning, señor.'

Not one would have recognized the elegantly attired soloist of the night before as this casually dressed stranger. Close-fitting denim jeans topped by a navy roll-necked sweater and a waist-length denim jerkin disguised him most effectively, and he could have been taken for a student.

‘You are surprised to see me?’ he inquired, in his lazy accented voice.

Emma shook her head slowly. ‘N-not entirely,’ she admitted. ‘But—’ she glanced round to make sure Mrs. Cook was not hovering in the background, ‘I thought you had a rehearsal today.'

He tipped his head on one side. ‘I did. I do. But I am afraid I am – how do you say it – playing truant? Si?'

‘Si.’ Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘Why have you come?'

‘Ah!’ he shrugged. ‘Are you going to offer me some of that excellent coffee I can smell from the kitchen?'

Emma hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose so.’ She crossed the hall and thrust open the lounge door with rather jerky movements. ‘If – if you'll go in there and wait, I'll speak to Mrs. Cook.'

‘Very well.’ He did as she had suggested and with an exasperated shrug Emma hastened down the hall.

Mrs. Cook was busy at the sink and she looked up reprovingly as Emma entered the room. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Has he gone?'

‘No.’ Emma looked at the percolator bubbling on the stove. ‘He – er – do you think we could have some coffee?'

Mrs. Cook dried her hands. ‘I expect so.’ But her tone was not encouraging.





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