by Anne Mather
They had lunch in the restaurant of the Capricorn Hotel, one of the larger hotels on the sea front. The food was good, but Emma's appetite was not. In spite of feeling empty inside, she realized that the sensation was not wholly physical, and although she drank a little of the soup and managed to swallow several mouthfuls of the steak they had to follow, only the wine enabled her to get anything down. Miguel waived the soup, but seemed to enjoy the steak, and spoke for a while on the eating habits of his country. Emma was fascinated and encouraged when he spoke about his homeland, but when she ventured to question him on a more personal level he closed up like a clam and said no more. She came to the conclusion that he was an intensely moody person, and felt irritated that it could upset her so.
Afterwards, they came out into the cold air, and crossing the road went down on to the shingly beach. Miguel scuffed his suede boots in the stones and stared out to sea. It was a grey sea, lightened only by the fading brilliance of the sun, and he turned to look at Emma with sardonic eyes.
‘So dull,’ he said. ‘So colourless. Have you ever seen the Pacific when the surf is running? Have you ever experienced the thrill of pitting your skill against the power of the ocean? Have you ever balanced on the crest of a wave and hurtled into shore at breathtaking speeds?'
Emma bent her head. ‘You must know I haven't,’ she replied, rather shortly.
‘How should I know that?’ he countered mockingly. ‘I know very little about you, Emma.'
‘And I know even less about you,’ retorted Emma, looking up, her eyes sparkling angrily.
‘So?’ He spread a casual hand. ‘I am unimportant. Come! Let us walk.'
They walked in silence for some distance, climbing up from the beach to walk through grassy sand dunes where there was a little shelter from the wind. With the sinking of the sun, it was growing colder, and darker, and Emma wished she knew how much longer he intended to go on.
And then, as though sensing her unease, he halted and seated himself on a grassy slope overlooking the shingle. He took one of the long thin cigars he favoured from his pocket and sheltering his lighter lit it and inhaled deeply. Then he looked up at Emma, standing beside him, and indicated that she should sit down also.
Emma perched awkwardly on the slope beside him, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms round them in an effort to keep warm.
‘Hmm,’ he said lazily. ‘That is good. The air is good.'
‘I thought you found it dull and colourless,’ remarked Emma, not looking at him.
He shrugged. ‘You find me difficult to understand, do you not, Emma?'
Emma hunched her shoulders. ‘I suppose so.'
‘Why? Because I do not conform to your ideas of what I should be?'
‘I wouldn't presume to tell you what you should be,’ retorted Emma stiffly, and he laughed.
‘Why not? Because you do not always get the reactions you expect? Hmm?'
Emma shook her head. ‘Do you realize it's after three o'clock and we're miles from the car?'
‘Oh, Emma! Always you are so correct. Do you never—how do you say it—let go? Forget the time? Time is relative.'
‘And if you don't get back to town in time for the recital?'
‘I don't get back,’ he replied calmly. ‘Already I am in trouble for missing today's rehearsal. What does it matter if there is a little more trouble, hmm?'
Emma sighed, and he turned to look at her with disturbing intensity. ‘You are disappointed, are you not?'
Emma raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Disappointed?'
‘Yes, disappointed. Because we have spoken so little; because I have used you merely as a companion, that is all.'
‘I don't know what you mean.'
‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes, Emma, you do. Agreeing to come out with me was a—daring—thing for someone like you to do, and now you feel it has all been a waste of time.'
‘No!’ Emma flushed.
‘But yes. Do not be afraid to be honest with yourself.'
She wished he would stop staring at her. She felt almost sure he could see into her mind, so accurate was his assessment of her feelings. What was she doing here, she asked herself desperately, risking Victor's anger and her job at the agency?
Miguel trailed the back of his hand down one of her cold cheeks, allowing his fingers to stroke the side of her neck. His eyes were concealed behind the dark lashes so that she could not read the expression in their depths, but they held hers and like a rabbit in thrall she could not look away.
‘Why do you scrape your hair back like this?’ he demanded softly, pulling painfully at the loosened strands at the nape of her neck. ‘Unfasten it for me!'
Emma put a defensive hand to her throat. ‘Don't be silly!'
‘I mean it. Do you want me to do it? I warn you—I might not be very gentle.'
‘I—I can't.'
He shrugged and without a word began to fumble with the braids, hurting her deliberately, she thought.
‘All—all right, all right, I'll do it.’ Emma swallowed convulsively, and bending her head began to take the securing hairpins from the coronet of plaits. They fell, one over each shoulder, and his eyes softened miraculously.
‘Better, much better,’ he murmured, and reaching out threaded his fingers through the one nearest to him, releasing its heavy silkiness.
Emma sat completely motionless, aware of his fingers in her hair but unable to look at him. She despised herself for allowing him to force her to do what he wanted, and yet there was an aching delight in his touch. Bending his head, he pressed a handful of her hair to his lips, and then increased the pressure so that she was forced to turn and look at him. She knew he was going to kiss her again, and she uttered a little cry of protest which he completely ignored. His mouth moved on hers with gentle insistence that disarmed her so that her lips parted involuntarily. But when he felt her response, something seemed to snap within him, and his mouth hardened to a passionate demand. Her face was imprisoned between his hands and she lost her balance and fell back against the sandy grass, the weight of his body almost knocking the breath out of hers.
She put up her hands in an effort to push him away, but they betrayed her, sliding round his neck, tangling themselves in his hair, clinging to him. She felt him unbuttoning her jacket and his own so that presently only the thickness of her blouse and his sweater was between them. They were cocooned in an aura of warmth and intimacy, but when his hands separated her blouse from the waistband of her jeans and slid next to her warm flesh, Emma dragged her mouth away from his, turning her face urgently from side to side. ‘No,’ she said imploringly, ‘no! Please—don't!'
‘Why?’ he murmured into her neck, his breath warm on her soft skin. ‘Don't you want me to touch you?'
Emma was panting now, as much with the fight against her own yielding senses as with the need to stop him. ‘Miguel—please!’ she breathed weakly. ‘Let me go!'
He went suddenly still, and without a word rolled away from her, and only then did she realize how cold it really was, and how dark it had become in those few minutes. He got to his feet, buttoning his jacket and smoothing his hair with a careless hand. Emma stood up too, but she felt terribly dishevelled, her hair in wild disorder about her face. Trying to gauge his mood, she looked nervously at him, but he was staring out to sea, his face dark and sombre, and she could not tell what he was thinking. Unable to prevent herself, she stammered: ‘Are—you angry with me?'
He turned to look at her in the gloom. ‘Why should I be angry with you?’ he asked, without rancour.
Emma sighed. ‘Well, I just—I thought—'
He moved towards her and began to fasten the leather buttons of her sheepskin jacket, drawing her closer to him as he did so, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
‘Oh, Emma,’ he said softly. ‘Do you believe you could have stopped me just now if I had chosen to deprive you of your virginity?’ Her cheeks flamed, and he went on: ‘For you are a virgin, aren't you? I do have
some small knowledge of your sex, you know.'
Emma shivered, and he slid an arm around her shoulders. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘It's getting late, and I do not want you to catch a chill.'
The walk back to the car was accomplished almost in silence and not until they were on the London road did he speak again, and then only to ask if she was warmer now.
They seemed to get back to town so much more quickly than they left, and Emma found herself dreading the moment when he would deposit her at her gate and drive away. She didn't want to leave him, and the knowledge that she might never see him again was tearing her apart. She didn't know what was the matter with her. She had never felt this way with Victor, and the prospect of the years ahead stretched cold and lifeless. Oh, God, she thought despairingly, what was happening to her?
The evening rush hour had begun by the time they reached the suburbs, but as most of the traffic was leaving the city, they drove through almost without incident. Miguel brought the Jensen to a smooth halt at the foot of her drive, and Emma gathered all her composure to say goodbye. But when she turned to him, he was smiling. He lifted one of her cold hands from her lap and raising it to his lips pressed his mouth to her palm.
‘Thank you,’ he said, his accent rather pronounced suddenly. ‘And now I must go. Castillo, my manager, will be having—what is it? Cats? Kittens?'
‘Kittens,’ said Emma automatically.
‘Ah, yes, kittens,’ Miguel nodded. ‘No matter. He will recover.'
Emma drew her fingers out of his grasp and fumbled for the door catch, but she couldn't find it, and she sighed impatiently. She was conscious of the prick of tears behind her eyes, and she wanted to get away from him before she made an absolute fool of herself.
Miguel thrust open his door, however, and climbing out walked round to swing open her door with a flourish. Emma scrambled out, stumbling over the rim in her haste, so that he had to save her from falling, grasping her wrists with his strong hands. But his brows drew together as he looked down into her pale face with sudden comprehension. Retaining his hold on her wrists, he demanded: ‘What is it? What is wrong? Why do you look so—so ansiosa?'
Emma shook her head mutely, not trusting herself to speak, and with an exclamation he went on: ‘It is I? Something I have done?'
Emma managed a faint: ‘No,’ but he was unconvinced.
‘You are sorry you came with me? You have not enjoyed yourself?'
Emma looked up. ‘It—it's nothing, really!'
Miguel compressed his lips impatiently. ‘I do not believe you, but I do not have the time right now to discover what it is that is troubling you. It will have to wait until later.'
Emma gasped, ‘Later?'
‘Si. After the concert. I will come back.'
‘No—that is—you can't!'
‘Why can't I?’ There was a trace of arrogance in his voice now.
‘I—Victor—will be here.'
Miguel shrugged. ‘So? I am not afraid to meet Señor Harrison.'
‘You don't understand. He wouldn't—understand—this!'
‘So? Sooner or later it will not matter what he thinks.’ He sighed, looking down at her slim wrists imprisoned within his hands. ‘Emma, Castillo will be pacing the floor like a caged mountain lion! We will talk later, si?'
Emma shook her head slowly. Ever since she had got out of the car a sense of coldness had been invading her lower limbs, which was not completely attributable to the weather. Today had been a day out of time, but tomorrow, and all her tomorrows, belonged to Victor. She was fooling herself if she imagined that just because Miguel Salvaje was temporarily diverted by her companionship it was going to make any fundamental difference to her life. By bringing Victor into this she was gambling with her future, and when, in a couple of weeks or so, Miguel left for some other European capital to continue his concert tour she would be left to pick up the pieces.
Miguel stared down at her, a frustrated gleam of anger in his eyes. ‘Emma! I have to go. Don't be like this.'
‘Like what?’ Emma managed to infuse a note of surprise into her voice. ‘I—thank you for—for the day. I've enjoyed it. Good-bye.'
Miguel flung her hands away from him and muttering an epithet to himself strode away round the Jensen, sliding inside with unconcealed impatience. The engine roared, and seconds later it tore away, an angry whine in the distance.
Emma watched it until it was out of sight and then, turning, walked disconsolately up the drive, tugging at a strand of hair over her shoulder. Feeling her hair made her realize its state of disorder, and with fumbling fingers she endeavoured to secure it in a roll on the nape of her neck. But she knew it was useless, and she thrust open the door with some misgivings. Mrs. Cook would be bound to think the worst, and who could blame her?
As soon as she heard the door, Mrs. Cook came out of the kitchen, and the worried look on her face was there even before she took in Emma's dishevelled appearance. Emma endeavoured to smile, and said, unnecessarily: ‘I'm back.'
Mrs. Cook came down the hall. ‘Not before time,’ she observed dryly.
‘Why?'
‘Mr. Harrison has been round here looking for you.'
Emma's lips parted. ‘Victor?'
‘Yes, that's right.'
‘But what did he want?'
‘You.’ Mrs. Cook helped her off with her sheepskin coat and hung it away in the hall closet. ‘He apparently went into the agency and—'
‘—Fenella told him I was unwell,’ Emma finished.
‘More or less.'
‘So what happened?'
Mrs. Cook gave a resigned sigh. ‘I told him you were in bed, asleep.'
Emma stared at her in relief. ‘Oh, you darling!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank you!'
‘I didn't say he believed me,’ said Mrs. Cook dourly.
‘What do you mean?'
‘Well, he said—if you were in bed, why weren't your bedroom curtains drawn?'
‘He'd noticed, I suppose.'
‘Naturally.'
‘So what did you say?'
‘I asked him if he was calling me a liar. He said not necessarily, so I asked him if he'd like to go up and see for himself.'
‘Mrs. Cook!’ Emma was aghast.
‘I know. It was a bad moment, believe me! Anyway, it must have done the trick, because he said no, that's not necessary, and left.'
‘Did—did he say when he'd be back?'
‘Yes. He said he'd call this evening as planned.'
Emma heaved a sigh. ‘Well, I'd better go upstairs and get washed and changed, hadn't I? And do something about my hair.'
Mrs. Cook folded her arms. ‘Well? Was it worth it?'
Emma shrugged. ‘Going out, you mean?’ She made a deprecatory gesture. ‘It was—all right.'
Mrs. Cook gave her a strange look. ‘Are you seeing him again?'
‘I doubt it.'
‘Thank the Lord for that!’ Mrs. Cook raised her eyebrows derisively, and marched off back into the kitchen. ‘By the way,’ she said as she opened the door, ‘what time do you want to eat?'
‘Whenever you like,’ Emma replied, going up the stairs slowly. ‘And, Mrs. Cook—'
‘Yes?'
‘Thanks again.'
Mrs. Cook snorted disapprovingly and went through the door, and Emma continued upstairs.
By the time Victor arrived Emma was dressed in a long black hostess gown and her hair was neatly confined in its pleat. She wore no jewellery, and felt as plain as she was sure she looked.
Victor came into the lounge after Mrs. Cook had admitted him, rubbing his hands together vigorously to warm them. Emma was seated on the couch and he bent to kiss her lightly on the forehead before taking up a position before the fire.
‘Now then,’ he said briskly, ‘how are you feeling? I must say you look rather pale. Fenella was most concerned about you.'
Emma smoothed the skirt of her gown. ‘I'm perfectly all right,’ she answered. ‘Help yourself to a drink, won't you
?'
Victor frowned, but walked across to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of Scotch. ‘What will you have?'
Emma shook her head, indicating the coffee cups on the table. ‘Nothing, thanks. Actually, Mrs. Cook brought two cups because she expected you a little earlier, but it's cold now, I'm afraid.'
‘Yes.’ Victor swallowed half his Scotch and came round the couch again. ‘Well, I was held up at the office. This Messiter deal is taking longer than I expected.'
Emma forced herself to sound interested. ‘You should delegate some of your work,’ she said. ‘There's no need for you to work the hours you do.'
Victor smiled. ‘No, I realize that. And once we're married I intend to take things much easier.'
Ema's nerves tightened. ‘I see.'
‘We'll have to be thinking seriously of putting a date on our wedding,’ he went on. ‘After all, once Christmas is over there's absolutely no need for delay. I thought perhaps February—or March. Your father will be back by then, won't he?'
Emma swallowed with difficulty. ‘Oh, oh, yes. He—he expects to be back for Christmas, I think.'
‘Does he?'
‘Well, he wouldn't want me to be alone here over the festive season, I suppose—'
‘Alone? You're not alone, Emma. You have me.'
‘I know, I know.’ Emma bit her lip. ‘It's just that—well, Christmas is a time for families, isn't it?'
Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I wouldn't know,’ he replied. ‘I've never had one.'
Emma was contrite. ‘I'm sorry. I—I didn't mean—'
‘I know you didn't.’ Victor swallowed his drink, and then looked reflectively at her. ‘Truth to tell, I've never cared for Christmas much. All that artificiality! Not for me.'
‘But it needn't be, surely,’ exclaimed Emma, in surprise. ‘Why, when my mother was alive and my brother lived at home, we used to have marvellous Christmases.'