A Savage Beauty

by Anne Mather

  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. ‘Wel
l, 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

  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 maki
ng 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.