by Anne Mather
‘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.
Emma sighed. ‘Don't look so—well, disapproving, Mrs. Cook. Why shouldn't I offer him coffee?'
‘Well, as you've asked me, I should have thought the reasons were obvious. Why is he here? What does he want?'
Emma set cups on a tray. ‘I don't know,’ she replied rather sharply. ‘Perhaps he wants to ask me if I enjoyed the concert.'
Mrs. Cook gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Oh, yes! I suppose he visits all his patrons and asks them that!'
‘All right, all right. I suppose he wanted to see me.’ Emma was resigned.
‘Why?'
‘I don't know.'
‘Don't you?'
‘No.’ Emma picked up the tray. ‘Is this everything?'
‘Unless you want biscuits.'
‘No, I don't think so. Thank you.'
Emma carried the tray along to the lounge and entering found Miguel seated at the piano, playing very softly. But he stopped when she came in, and rising to his feet took the tray from her hands and placed it on the low table in front of the fire.
Emma subsided rather thankfully on to the couch beside the table and trying to control her unsteady hands, asked: ‘Cream and sugar?'
‘No. Black, please.’ He came to sit beside her on the couch, stretching out his long legs in front of him, resting his head back against the soft leather upholstery. ‘Hmm, this is very nice. Much nicer than a cold concert hall.'
Emma placed his cup of coffee on the table near him and then busied herself pouring some for herself. But she was conscious of him only inches away from her, and of the lean brown hand with its carved gold ring lying on the couch between them. His fingers were long; artistic, and yet masculine, the silky dark hairs on the back of his hand signifying its strength.
Emma lifted her cup and swallowed a mouthful of coffee without thinking, almost scalding herself in the process. She coughed, apologized, and then replaced her cup on the tray.
‘You are so nervous, Emma,’ he remarked lazily. ‘Why? What are you afraid of? Me?'
‘Of course not.’ Emma straightened her shoulders. ‘Er—what are you playing this evening?'
‘I do not want to talk about my work,’ he stated briefly, and she identified the note of impatience that had suddenly entered his voice. Then, softening, he went on: ‘Have you looked outside? It is one of your English autumn days that makes one feel glad to be alive.'
Emma glanced towards the windows. She could see what he meant. Pale golden sunlight was spilling over the stark bareness of the trees in the garden, gilding the dew-wet spiders’ webs with an unearthly jewel-like fragility. Even the pale colours of autumn were magically strengthened, and although she knew the air would be cold, Emma guessed it was as clear and fresh as good wine.
‘I want to be out in the day,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to drive to the coast, and feel the cold wind from the sea on my face. I want to feel free again!’ He stretched out a hand and tugged gently at her braid which hung almost to her waist. ‘And I want you to come with me!'
Emma trembled. ‘That—that's impossible, I'm afraid—’ she began, when his face darkened ominously.
‘Why? Why is it impossible? Always you say this to me! It is not impossible! Nothing is impossible! And what is more, I will not accept any more excuses from you!'
He had straightened from his lounging position and was glaring at her angrily, and Emma found her breathing somewhat constricted by that close scrutiny. But trying not to be intimidated, she said: ‘I am not making excuses, señor. I work in a secretarial agency, and I'm due there in a little under two hours.'
He flung himself off the couch and away from her, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘A secretarial agency,’ he muttered grimly. Then he turned to look at her. ‘And this is your final word?'
Emma rose nervously to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I—I—what more cay I say, señor?'
‘My name is Miguel,’ he muttered broodingly, regarding her with a mixture of exasperation and malevolence.
Emma returned his gaze for a few moments, but then her lids dropped defensively before the intensity of his eyes. He remained staring at her for a while longer, and then he crossed the room to stand in front of her. Putting out a hand he lifted her chin, and her eyes flickered open. ‘Come with me, Emma,’ he murmured appealingly.
Although his fingers were cool, they burned her flesh where they touched, and she jerked away from him. ‘I can't.'
‘You mean you daren't,’ he returned bitterly.
Emma took a deep breath. ‘You place a very high value on your company, señor,’ she snapped. ‘I can assure you—'
But Miguel was reaching for her, his hands on her shoulders, impelling her towards him. ‘Be silent!’ he muttered impatiently, and bending his head he fastened his mouth on hers with devastating possession.
Emma struggled impotently for a few moments, but the hard muscles of his chest imprisoned her hands and they fluttered like birds trapped in a snare. His mouth hardened deliberately as she struggled and Emma felt her lips parting almost without volition. An awful weakness flooded her, all resistance ebbing away. His hands slid down her back to her hips, holding her firmly against him so that she was made aware of every muscle of his thighs. No one, least of all Victor, had ever kissed her so long or so thoroughly, and when at last he lifted his head she felt a sense of loss and dissatisfaction, as though her body yearned for a fulfilment it had not received.
But like a drowning man coming to the surface, sanity brought a sense of shame and humiliation, and although he did not move away when his hands fell to his sides she stepped several paces backward.
Miguel took a long narrow cigar out of his pocket and placing it between his teeth proceeded to light it with calm deliberation. ‘Stop looking as though I have seduced you,’ he remarked lazily. ‘For a woman of twenty-five, you're remarkably inexperienced.'
Emma gathered her scattered senses. ‘I'm sorry,’ she replied stiffly. ‘But I didn't ask you to find out.'
The corners of his thin mouth lifted. ‘No. But you didn't object either, did you?'
Emma uttered a gasp and turned away, pressing the palms of her hands to her burning cheeks, and with an exclamation he said: ‘Emma! Don't make such a thing of it. Now, go and get changed, and we'll go to the coast!'
Emma swung round. ‘Do you think I'd go out with you after this?’ she demanded in astonishment.
Miguel's face darkened. ‘I don't think anything, Emma. I know it!'
‘You can't make me!'
‘Can't I?’ His eyes narrowed.
Emma shook her head a trifle confusedly. ‘Why do you want to take me?'
‘Because I enjoy your company.'
‘But there must be other women—I mean—I'm sure I'm not the only woman you know in London.'
‘I don't—know—you yet, Emma,’ he replied disturbingly.
Emma took a shaking breath. ‘But I'm not your type. And besides, there's Victor.'
‘You want I should invite him also?’ Miguel raised his dark brows and Emma had to shake her head slowly. ‘So! Get ready. And please—wear something less—less unattractive.’ He flicked his fingers at the suit as though it offended him. ‘Don't you have any trousers?'
Emma hesitated. ‘I—I have an old pair of jeans,’ she faltered.
‘Good. Don't be long.'
And with that he turned his back on her and walked over to the piano. She left the room with the plaintive sound of lyrical pastoral music which she recognized as Grieg's filling her ears. Obviously, though he refused to discuss his music, it was terribly important to him. No one could coax such gentle melancholy, such compassion, from an instrument without awareness of the deep correlation between them. She had never experienced such a surging of emotion as was emanating from the keys, and she went out quickly and closed the door.
But in the hall, a chill feeling of apprehension settled upon her. What was she thinking of, allowing him to direct her movements like this? What did she know about him after all? His relationships, his background, his way of life? He could be married for all she knew, and very likely was. And what about Victor, and her job at the agency?
Mrs. Cook came out of the kitchen and saw her standing there. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, a look of concern on her face.
Emma sighed. ‘No, nothing's wrong, Mrs. Cook. I—er—I'm going out. With—with Señor Salvaje.'
Mrs. Cook looked horrified. ‘But I thought—that is—you rang Miss Harding and told her you would go in to work.'
‘I did. But I shall ring again and tell her I can't.'
Mrs. Cook shook her head, obviously confused and worried. ‘And what will you tell her? That you're going out with this—this piano-player!'
Emma's lips curved in an unwilling smile. No one could call Miguel Salvaje just a piano-player. It was sacrilegious! But she didn't contradict her.
‘No,’ she answered now. ‘I shall tell her I've got a headache.'
Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘And Mr. Harrison? What about him?'
‘Oh, I'm not seeing Victor until tonight. Besides, I shall be back some time this afternoon, I expect. Mig—that is—Señor Salvaje—has a recital this evening.'
Mrs. Cook could not have looked more disapproving. ‘I don't know,’ she exclaimed. ‘Telling lies to Miss Harding, going out with another man behind Mr. Harrison's back! What's got into you?'
Emma bent her head. ‘Nothing's got into me, Mrs. Cook. Good heavens, you're behaving as though I was planning to run away with the man! We're only driving to the coast. What harm is there in that?'
Mrs. Cook shrugged. “You know the answer to that as well as I do,’ she retorted. ‘Have sense, girl! What's a man like him troubling with you for, if it's not for—well, the obvious reasons!'
Emma clenched her fists. Mrs. Cook was voicing all her own fears and apprehensions and right now she didn't want to listen to them.
‘I've got to go,’ she said shortly. ‘I need to change, and I don't have time to argue about it any longer. I'm sorry if you don't approve, but I'm still going.'
Mrs. Cook made an eloquent gesture as though washing her hands of the whole business and Emma walked quickly back along the hall and up the stairs to her room.
Maybe she was being foolish, behaving like an infatuated schoolgirl with a man who was obviously experienced in the ways of her sex. But everyone was entitled to be foolish at some time in their lives, and this was her moment, and no one else's.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE jeans had been bought several years ago before Emma's lean young flanks had filled out, and now they felt absurdly tight and clinging. But as she took in her appearance while fastening the buttons of the turquoise cotton shirt she had chosen to wear with them, she realized they suited her. The shirt, long-sleeved and masculine with a severely cut suit, acquired different characteristics when matched with the jeans, and her reflection in the mirror startled her somewhat. She looked attractive, and young, and wholly unlike the Emma she had grown used to seeing over the years.
Only her hair caused her some misgivings, but finally she divided it and plaited it and bound it round her head in a coronet of braids. She hesitated about make-up, but eventually used only a faint eye-shadow and a colourless lustre that one of the girls at the agency had given her on her last birthday in an effort to show her what cosmetics she ought to use.
She descended the stairs as quietly as possible. She hoped Mrs. Cook would not emerge from her kitchen until they had gone, but as she extracted her sheepskin jacket from the hall closet, the housekeeper reappeared.
For several minutes she just looked at Emma, causing the bright colour to flood her cheeks, and then she said in a scandalized voice: ‘You're not going out like that!'
‘Why not?’ Emma managed to sound nonchalant.
‘Those trousers—they're practically indecent! Miss Emma, your father would be most upset if he knew.'
Emma sighed. ‘But he doesn't know, does he? And in any case, I'm well past the age of consent, Mrs. Cook.'
‘Yes, miss.'
Emma sighed again. ‘Mrs. Cook, try to understand how I feel. I've never—well, for years there's been only Victor. Surely everyone is entitled to a bit of freedom now and then.'
Mrs. Cook shook her head. ‘I can't stop you. It's your life.'
‘Yes. Yes, it is, isn't it?’ Emma gave her one last appealing look and then walked down the hall to the lounge door. When she looked back, however, Mrs. Cook had gone into the kitchen again.
There was no sound from the piano now, and when she entered the room she found Miguel stretched out lazily on the couch, his eyes closed. He looked completely at home there, as Victor had never done, and her heart lurched sickeningly. She was crazy allowing him to get any small foothold in her life. It could only cause her heartbreak in the end.
She had thought at first he was asleep, but as she moved further into the room, his eyes flickered open and alighted on her. Then he swung his booted feet to the ground and got to his feet.
‘You're ready?’ he inquired casually.
Emma nodded, her throat tight. If her appearance had caused some reaction with Mrs. Cook, it certainly did not appear to surprise Miguel Salvaje. She almost felt disappointed, but then he was holding open the door for her and slipping on her sheepskin coat she preceded him outside.
The Jensen awaited them at the bottom of the drive, sleek and latently powerful. Seeing him beside his car made Emma realize how great was the gulf between them. He might look like a student, but his potential was vastly superior. And yet he treated the vehicle with the same casual indifference he assumed towards his music. It was apparent that possessions were not a particular source of pleasure to him.
He unlocked the passenger side door and Emma got quickly inside. Miguel walked round and climbed in beside her, and without wasting any more time started the engine. There was a low roar and they moved forward, out of Dudley Gardens into the main stream of traffic.
Emma tried to relax. She was committed now, so she might as well make the best of it. There was the same warm, luxurious smell in the car as there had been the night he had driven her home. Leather, and good tobacco, and what might have been shaving lotion. But it was daylight now and she was able to see the refinements of the vehicle. Not even Victor's opulent limousine boasted a cassette recorder or a refrigerated cabinet.
Miguel didn't speak much. He was concentrating on the heavy traffic, manoeuvring the Jensen with smooth expertise, and Emma tried not to watch him. But it was difficult when her eyes were drawn to his frowning profile by the primitive strength of his magnetism.
But eventually the city was left behind, and the Jensen was allowed a little more freedom. It responded eagerly, obviously more at ease in the sixties and seventies than when its power was subdued to conform to speed regulations.
Emma looked across at her companion. Although the traffic was less heavy now, Miguel seemed as absorbed as ever, and with a nervous cough, she said: ‘Where are we going?'
Miguel roused himself with obvious difficulty. ‘Well, where do you think we are going?’ he parried.
Emma shrugged. ‘We're on the Brighton road. Are we going there?'
Miguel dr
ew in his lower lip with his teeth. ‘I do not know these places well. My London agent took me there once, but I thought there might be somewhere out of town where we might just walk.'
Emma nodded. ‘It's possible to walk from Brighton to Worthing,’ she agreed. ‘We could do that, although—'
‘Although?’ he pressed her.
‘I was thinking of the time factor,’ she replied. ‘Don't you have to be back in London—'
‘Leave me to concern myself with my affairs,’ he snapped shortly, and Emma shrank back in her seat.
For a time there was silence and Emma knew she would not be the one to break it this time. She didn't understand him. At the house he had been so—so different, somehow. Approachable, appealing, attractive. Now he was silent and morose, engrossed with his own thoughts.
Brighton was quiet on this rather windy November day. The wind was off the sea, and chilling in its intensity. Emma was glad of her sheepskin jacket which she wrapped tightly about her, and Miguel pulled a fur-lined jacket from the back of the car and put it on. It was black and accentuated his darkness, that alien quality about him. Emma began to wish she had never agreed to come.
He parked the car, and after locking it, glanced at his wrist watch. ‘It's almost one o'clock,’ he remarked. ‘Shall we have some lunch?'
Emma, who had had no breakfast, was beginning to feel rather empty, but the idea of sitting in a restaurant with him, constantly afraid of recognition appalled her.
‘I—er—a sandwich would do for me,’ she volunteered awkwardly.
Miguel regarded her dourly. ‘Why? Don't you normally eat lunch? You don't look to me as though you have to consider your diet.'
Emma sighed. ‘I thought you'd rather have a sandwich at a snack bar than risk being identified in some restaurant.'
‘Why should I care about being identified?'
Emma made a helpless gesture. ‘The last time you asked me to eat with you, you said—'
‘I know what I said.’ The planes of his face were shadowed. ‘Nevertheless, we will have a meal.'
Emma made no comment and he indicated that they should walk out of the parking area and along the sea front. They walked together like strangers, and Emma thrust her hands into her pockets so that he should not think she wanted him to touch her. There was something vaguely melancholy about the day, as though Miguel's mood had overlaid it, and yet for all that, Emma knew that given the same circumstances, she would probably have done the same thing over again.