‘You eat in bed?’ the waitress asked Bianca, hovering with her tray.
Nodding, Bianca sat up straight with pillows piled behind her, and the waitress carefully placed the tray in front of her.
‘Anything else you want, please to ring,’ said the waitress, without lifting her eyes, and left with the usual, ‘Buenprovecho!’
The herb omelette was excellent; Bianca ate most of it, with a little green salad, drank all her wine, then, feeling rather better, lay down and surprised herself by going to sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.
She slept through the night, too, and woke up with a start when some people walked past outside talking loudly. Yawning enormously, Bianca didn’t remember for a moment what had happened the night before, and then the memory came back with a thud like a blow and her eyes flew wide open. She sat up, looking hastily at the clock, and was stunned to see that it was around nine. She had slept for about eleven hours!
It was the best night’s sleep she had had since she got here, and she was amazed by that until she thought it over and realised that knowing that that young thug was in custody and would not, this time, be released, had lifted a pressure from her mind. She had been subconsciously worrying about him ever since the first night here, when she was attacked in Marbella.
She slid out of bed and opened her shutters; another bright, sunlit day. She stared at the blue sky and felt positively unreal. Everything around her looked like the advertisement for a wonderful holiday, but for her it felt more like a nightmare.
She turned away and went into the bathroom to shower, then stopped dead in front of the mirror, staring at herself in shocked dismay.
The bruises on her face were all the colours of the rainbow this morning. She certainly couldn’t face going over to the dining-room for breakfast; the idea of walking about getting curious stares was more than she could bear. She gingerly touched her face with a fingertip, wincing. How long would it take to get back to normal? Days?
She showered slowly, enjoying the clean feel of water on her face and body. The bruises were throbbing again, hot and stiff under her skin; she sighed with pleasure as the cool water ran over them. After a while, she towelled herself dry and wandered out to her bedroom to get dressed, but the phone rang as she was looking through her wardrobe.
‘I saw you had opened your shutters so I knew you were awake at last. How are you this morning?’ Gil’s voice said softly.
She caught back a sigh, wishing he hadn’t rung her. She didn’t want to see him, talk to him; she wanted to forget they had ever met.
Carefully she said, ‘Oh, hello. I’m fine.’
‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll come over later to see for myself.’
‘No!’ she broke out involuntarily, then hurriedly added, ‘I really don’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. I thought I’d just rest today.’
He sounded unsurprised and approving. ‘Very wise; in fact, I’d stay in bed if I were you—the doctor thought a day or two in bed would be a good idea. I’ll send Room Service over right away with some breakfast—what do you want? Anything cooked? Or just continental breakfast? Coffee or tea? Fruit juice?’
‘Coffee, orange juice, rolls, cherry jam,’ she said flatly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Get back in bed, then, and your breakfast will be with you in ten minutes.’
She looked at her bed as she hung up the phone, and decided to do as he said. Her energy levels were low this morning, she couldn’t go out anyway—why not spend the morning in bed? She could always get up this afternoon. First, though, she made her bed, and when it was pristine put on a new pink lawn nightie, climbed back into bed and lay back against the pillows, staring at the blue sky outside, listening to the birds and the sound of the sea.
There was a tap on her door and then the sound of a pass key being used. She turned her head lazily to give a polite smile to whoever was bringing her breakfast, and stiffened as she met Gil’s eyes.
‘Room Service,’ he said, advancing across the bedroom with a laden tray.
She should have guessed; why hadn’t she? Or had she secretly been expecting him?
No! she told herself angrily. Of course not. I’d have got dressed if I’d even suspected he might turn up!
‘Short of waiters this morning?’ she asked him coldly and he grinned, those grey eyes teasing.
‘I told you, I can do every job in the hotel trade; now, do you want to eat in bed or out on the balcony?’
‘In bed,’ she said, sitting up so that he could lay the tray across her knees.
Gil’s eyes flicked over her nightdress; a delicate, pale pink, it had no sleeves, a low neckline and the soft folds of it clung to her full breasts.
She felt a surge of panic and ostentatiously inhaled the fragrance of the coffee. ‘That smells good!’
‘Hungry?’
‘A little.’ She poured herself coffee, sipped her orange juice.
He drew a chair near the bed and sat down. Was he planning to stay while she ate her breakfast? God, I hope not, she thought, spreading jam on a roll while she secretly watched him through her lowered lashes. I really can’t cope, not this morning; I don’t want to have him near me.
‘Don’t let me keep you from your work!’ she said, and Gil gave her one of his amused looks, his mouth twisting in sardonic appreciation.
‘My assistant is in charge, and you needn’t worry— I’m not intending to stay. I just wanted to see for myself how you were...’
‘Well, now you’ve seen!’
‘Yes. You’re as prickly as a cactus—which is good, I suppose. At least it’s better than finding you weeping into your pillow. You’re far too tough to collapse under pressure, though—aren’t you?’
She gave him a cross look. ‘You sound disappointed. Would you rather I was the weepy sort?’
He grimaced. ‘Certainly not! Stay just the way you are.’ He got up, leaned down and kissed her on top of her head. ‘I’d better get back to work. Stay in bed; someone will come and collect the tray later. Anything you want? Magazines? Books?’
She shook her head. ‘I have plenty to read, thanks, and I have my personal stereo and half a dozen tapes to play in it.’
‘Well, if you do need anything, just ring the hotel.’
She watched him leave, feeling stupidly regretful and at the same time relieved. She needed to be alone; she felt like a snail which had lost its shell and needed to build itself another one.
The day went faster than she had imagined it would. She dozed a good deal, read, listened to music—at one o’clock a waiter brought her a selection from the cold buffet table, chosen for her by Gil, she was told. Salad, cold rice jewelled with tiny fragments of sweetcorn, peas, red and green peppers, slices of cold, cooked chicken, large pink prawns, and a thin slice of pink salmon. He had chosen an apple mousse for a pudding. It was so light it melted in the mouth and had a delicious flavour.
Gil rang her that evening to ask what she wanted for supper and she told him she wasn’t hungry; she planned to eat a tin of soup she had, with toast, and some fresh fruit.
‘I want to get to sleep early,’ she added.
‘Good idea; rest is what you need. The police rang a couple of hours ago, by the way—they’ve charged him and he will not be given bail, so you don’t need to worry about him any more. It will be months before the case comes up in court, too. They’ll want you to make a formal statement before you go home, but there’s no hurry about that.’
She sighed. ‘OK.’
‘Goodnight, Bianca,’ he said gently, and put the phone down.
Tears stung in her eyes. She felt unbearably sad, as if watching something die.
She couldn’t bear to think about him any more—that was the truth. She didn’t want to see him, hear his voice, be reminded of him in any way. Remembering how she had felt the first time she’d seen him made her wince; she wanted to forget she had ever felt that way. It was too close to the horror of that moment in the apart
ment when she’d seen the lust in that boy’s eyes as he’d stared at her.
Oh, the way she felt about Gil was nothing like that! That boy had wanted only to hurt, to humiliate. That was not how she had felt whenever she looked at Gil. She had felt pleasure in his male beauty, had yearned to touch him, to caress him—it wasn’t the same at all. That boy had wanted to despoil, to degrade—the direct opposite of love, the other side of the coin, the dark side of desire. Nevertheless there was a subterranean connection in her mind. The two emotions seemed to her to come from the same source, from the instinctive reactions of the body. She was ashamed of having wanted Gil that way; it made her feel sick whenever that secret link was made. She kept shuddering, almost retching, at the memory, and each time alongside the memory of the boy’s vicious, gloating eyes she thought of Gil and flinched.
She was glad to put out the light and get to sleep a couple of hours later, and she slept deeply again, in spite of having been in bed all day. She woke up early, showered, and got dressed in white cotton jeans and a blue T-shirt; the clothes were chosen instinctively and it was only when she saw herself in them, in the mirror, that she realised why she had picked them—they were such cool, neutral colours and made her look businesslike, less feminine.
It was odd, the way the mind worked, she thought, grimacing at her reflection. Her choice of clothes was a disguise, a protection. There was something almost childish about that that made her laugh even though she felt more like crying. With faintly shaky fingers she brushed her damp hair and tied it up in a ponytail— pulling her hair off her face, giving herself a severe, nunlike look.
A thin young Spaniard from Room Service arrived with her breakfast a few moments later. On the tray was a note from Gil with a red rose in a thin glass vase. She flushed as she glanced at the note, aware of the waiter watching her.
‘Good morning!’ was all Gil had written but the rose was a wordless addition to the message which made her very tense.
She had to get home. She could not stay here.
There appeared to be nobody about outside in the gardens or the swimming-pool so she asked the waiter to carry the tray out on to the balcony, and when he had gone she ate breakfast in the early morning sunshine, safe from prying eyes, staring through the luxuriant, semi-tropical trees to the distant blue of the sea.
Gil’s red rose had a delicate scent; she kept looking at it, her breath catching in a sigh of regret.
If only...
But there was no point in starting a sentence with those words—there never was any point in wishing things were different. You just had to face up to the reality of your situation, and get on with life as you found it.
She had to forget about Gil.
How do you do that? her mind asked bitterly. They had got to know each other so fast—the days they had been together had flashed past with lightning speed and yet they had both learnt an incredible amount about each other. She had known others for a much longer time and never found out as much about them.
Time had behaved in a very strange way since she’d arrived in Spain. She seemed to have been here forever— yet it was just under a week since she’d started her holiday. It gave her vertigo to contemplate the way time had whizzed past and then dragged; no wonder she was dazed and confused! Looking back, she remembered grimly how she had come here for a rest. A peaceful holiday, relaxing in the sun, by the sea, was what she had been looking for.
Peaceful! These few days had been among the most eventful of her life! She was exhausted. She needed a holiday to get over her holiday. Except that she didn’t want another holiday—she wanted to go home.
Yet she couldn’t face the journey looking like this! People would stare; she could just imagine how they would sneak sideways glances at her, whisper, conjecture ... it would be a nightmare.
A movement among the trees startled her. She looked down and saw Gil watching her. He raised a hand, walking towards the apartment block.
He was coming to see her. Her heart skipped a beat; she felt colour creeping under her skin.
She was expecting him to ring her front door bell, and decided to open it but not admit him. He did ring the bell, but he did not wait or give her time to decide what to do—having rung, he immediately used a pass key to admit himself and walked in, so that they confronted each other in the sitting-room a moment later.
He was not wearing his dark, hotel manager uniform today—instead he was wearing a smoothly tailored pale beige linen suit, a soft brown shirt, no tie, his collar open at the throat, showing her the beautiful golden skin that had made her notice him the first time she’d seen him.
He studied her closely, his eyes searching. ‘Did you sleep? You look better this morning.’
‘I’m fine.’ If only he wouldn’t stare! She felt his gaze on her skin as if he were touching the bruises, and flinched.
He noted the tiny movement and frowned. ‘Does your face hurt much?’
‘It throbs a bit.’ What sort of question was that? Stupid man, she thought. Of course it hurt; it was painful every time she smiled or frowned.
‘I’ll get the hotel nurse over to put some more ointment on the bruises.’
‘I can do it myself—if she could supply the ointment, please.’
He nodded. ‘OK, but I think she should see it this morning, just to check on you.’ He paused, looking at her gravely. ‘Have you decided whether or not you want to go home? The other night you said—’
‘I know what I said!’ she interrupted with impatience because he had touched on what was mostly bothering her at the moment. ‘I meant it—I do want to go home, but...’ she gestured towards her face, her eyes angry ‘... not while I look like this!’
‘You’d frighten the life out of your children!’ he agreed, smiling at her, and her mouth curled into a reluctant smile in reply.
‘I was thinking more about getting stared at all the way from here to England, but you’re right—it would give Tom and Vicky a shock.’
‘Do they know you were mugged?’
She shook her head. ‘It didn’t seem a good idea to talk about it on the phone. It might worry them.’
‘And it would worry them even more to hear what happened last night!’
‘I’m sure it would.’
‘Will you tell them when you get home?’ He considered her drily and she gave him a defiant look.
‘I’ll tell them I was mugged, I expect—I’ll have to, to explain why I need to come back here for the court case.’
‘But not that you came close to being raped?’
She looked restlessly away, frowning. ‘I couldn’t,’ she admitted. ‘I doubt if I’ll ever tell anyone that, except when I have to, in the court, but especially not my children.’
‘You’re very protective towards them, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I’m their mother, and they’re both still very young and—’
‘You’re young yourself,’ he said, looking into her blue eyes, a quizzical expression on his face.
Her flush deepened and she felt a little stir of irritation; she snapped at him, as if resenting him, which was ridiculous because her age was hardly his fault, ‘I am not young—I’m forty!’
‘Still obsessed with your last birthday?’ he mocked, laughing. ‘Bianca... don’t you realise that your age has its advantages? A woman of forty is at her sexual peak— young girls don’t know how to enjoy sex; for one thing they’re still too inexperienced—they don’t know enough about their own bodies to know what they’re doing, let alone have a clue how to give a man the deepest pleasure. Love needs time, you know that; if you hurry it it’s like gulping down food—you lose half the enjoyment. Young girls are usually in too much of a hurry; they don’t have the patience or the confidence to take love slowly, make it last. Whereas a woman of your age—’
‘Oh, stop it!’ she muttered, flushing at the soft, husky tone of his voice because it was making her blood stir and her breathing quicken. ‘I’m middle-aged and well aw
are of it. I have a nineteen-year-old daughter! When I’m out with her it’s Vicky men stare at, not me, so don’t give me any more stuff about men preferring older women!’
‘Young men of Vicky’s age, maybe! Perfectly natural—young men usually feel much too insecure to risk being turned down if they make a pass at an older woman. Try looking in the mirror, Bianca, instead of gloomily telling yourself you’re old. You’re a very attractive woman; I’m prepared to bet you weren’t as attractive when you were twenty as you are now. You’ve got style, you dress beautifully, you know what suits you, you don’t try to follow fashion mindlessly—oh, for heaven’s sake, you know what I mean!’ He moved impatiently, his eyes challenging. ‘Stop being so hung up about your age!’
‘You’ll be forty one day yourself. See how you feel then!’ she threw back at him.
‘I can tell you this—I won’t go around telling myself I’m too old to get a woman!’ he said, his grey eyes glinting with amusement and mockery.
She gave him a cross look. ‘No, well, life’s loaded in men’s favour! They don’t think they’re too old to get a woman even when they’re eighty!’
He laughed aloud. ‘And why should they? Life is meant to be lived, after all. Now listen—you don’t want to stay shut up indoors all day, do you? That would be very boring, especially as it’s going to be hot today. I suggest you come for a drive with me up into the mountains. There isn’t much traffic on the roads up there. You could get some fresh air, see a new part of the region, without having to endure people staring.’
She was tempted. He was right—it was boring being shut indoors all day, and she felt restless, but she was intensely nervous of being with Gil, afraid of the way he made her feel. It would make her sick if her body flared with desire at his touch; her stomach churned at the very idea of it.
‘No, I can’t,’ she muttered, but gave a yearning glance at the blue sky outside.
‘Don’t be stupid, Bianca!’ he said drily. ‘What are you going to do all day? Just sit in here brooding? Get out into the fresh air, give yourself something else to think about. Come on, Bianca, I won’t take no for an answer.’
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