A Savage Beauty Read online

  ‘Adept?’ supplied Emma questioningly.

  ‘Si, that will do. He was adept at playing the piano. From being a very little boy, you understand.’ Emma nodded again and Juan smiled. ‘So—when he is older, he is successful, very successful, and Don Carlos is delighted!'

  ‘You haven't mentioned Miguel's mother. Is she dead? Doesn't he have any brothers or sisters?'

  Juan hesitated, and then at last he said: ‘Si, señorita, Miguel has brothers and sisters. His mother lives, also.'

  ‘Oh!’ Emma felt slightly relieved. There was something reassuring about a mother—brothers and sisters.

  ‘Miguel will tell you about his family himself,’ Juan was saying now. ‘Is there anything else?'

  ‘You haven't told me how old he is.'

  ‘Thirty-three, señorita,’ Juan smiled. ‘Is that all?'

  Emma cupped her chin on her hand. ‘No. There are heaps of queries, but they will have to wait.’ She rose abruptly to her feet. ‘Mine is not an easy decision, señor.'

  She turned to him. ‘You haven't told me how he is this morning.'

  ‘Better, I think. At least the ribs are easier. He slept after you had gone, and that is what he needs—rest! He will get it at Lacustre Largo.'

  Emma stared at him. ‘He's going home? When?'

  ‘The end of next week, I believe, señorita.'

  ‘The end of next week?’ Emma was astounded. ‘And I suppose if I—if I agree to marry him—he will come back after Christmas.'

  Juan frowned. ‘After Christmas, señorita? No. If you are to marry Miguel, you will leave when he does.'

  Emma gasped, ‘But I couldn't! I mean—I should have to write to my father… in Canada. He would want to be here—'

  Juan rose now, looking at her patiently. ‘That is impossible, señorita.'

  Emma made a helpless movement of her hands. ‘But you can't mean to tell me that Miguel expects me to marry him before we leave?'

  ‘That is exactly his intention, señorita,’ replied Juan calmly. ‘And what is more, I think you will do it!'

  * * *

  Emma went to see Miguel that evening. She had taken some time deciding what to wear and had finally put on one of the dresses Victor had liked so much. It was very plain, its navy darkness unrelieved by any adornment, and yet with her newly styled hair it looked altogether different. She had been tempted to keep on the trouser suit, but it was hardly the attire for an evening appointment, and besides, she was no longer trying to prove anything—to anyone.

  To her surprise, a girl let her into the suite, a tall, dark girl dressed in a long black skirt and a white frilled blouse. She was a very attractive young woman and Emma felt the first twinges of something she was later to recognize as jealousy.

  ‘Good evening, señorita.’ The girl was polite but cool. ‘Please to come in. Señor Salvaje will be with you in a few moments.'

  She took Emma's black cape and hung it away and then crossed to a small bar and offered her a drink. Emma chose sherry, and a few moments later the glass was put into her hand.

  ‘Please to sit down,’ said the girl, taking charge of the situation. ‘You are Señorita Seaton, of course. My name is Loren Delmar. I am secretary to Señor Salvaje.'

  Miguel's secretary! Emma was surprised. She had not known he possessed the services of a secretary. But then she knew very little about his entourage at all. There was no sign of Juan Castillo this evening and she was rather disappointed. She had felt at ease with the quiet, older man. Perhaps it was a legacy from Victor and her father, she thought. She was used to older men.

  ‘You have a job, señorita?’ Loren was asking now, and Emma dragged her attention back to the present.

  ‘I—yes. I'm a sort of secretary, too, I work in an agency.'

  ‘I see.’ Loren looked politely interested. ‘You live in London?'

  ‘Kensington,’ Emma nodded.

  There was silence for a few moments as they both tried to think of something else to say, and then someone knocked at the outer door. Loren sprang to her feet.

  ‘Ah! That will be Paul,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘Excuse me a moment.'

  She went to the door and opened it, and glancing round Emma saw another man entering the suite. He was about the same height as Juan, but fairer, with silvery blond hair that fell over his forehead. Emma hadn't the faintest idea who he might be, so she remained where she was and tried to quell the butterflies which were beginning to disturb her stomach.

  Loren brought the newcomer across to the chair where Emma was sitting and said: ‘Allow me to present Señor Paul Gregory, señorita. Paul, this is—Señorita Seaton.'

  ‘Doesn't she have a name?’ queried Paul Gregory, with a smile, and Emma took an immediate liking to him. She recalled his name, too. Miguel had been coming from Paul Gregory's house the night he had given her a lift in the fog.

  ‘Yes,’ she said now, as he took her hand in greeting. ‘I'm Emma.'

  ‘Emma!’ He said the name slowly. ‘Yes, I like it.’ He turned back to Loren. ‘Get me a Scotch, there's a good girl. I'm parched. The city traffic is appalling at this hour of the evening.'

  Loren Delmar twisted her lips, and then with an indifferent shrug went to do his bidding, but Emma sensed she didn't care for the casual dismissal. Paul Gregory didn't seem to notice, however, and subsided into the chair nearest to her and said: ‘Isn't it terrible about Miguel's fingers?'

  Emma gripped the stem of her glass so tightly she was amazed it didn't snap. ‘Yes,’ she managed tautly. ‘Terrible!'

  ‘How long have you two known one another?'

  Emma was at a loss for words. Until that moment, they had been strangers, meeting for the first time, with no strings attached. But suddenly, by his question, he had placed her in a certain position, and she wasn't sure how to answer him.

  But she didn't have to answer him. Miguel's door opened and Miguel himself came into the room, dark and attractive in a dark grey lounge suit and matching waistcoat. His linen was immaculately white, his tie subdued and faultless, and Emma's heart turned over painfully.

  Paul rose and went to meet him, exchanging a few low words with him in private before saying conversationally: ‘I was just asking Emma how you two met.'

  Miguel's gaze flickered towards Emma, still seated in her chair, and the look he gave her was almost insolently appraising. The bruises on his face were less pronounced this evening, and his face had lost the sallow pallor it had possessed in the early hours of the morning. Only his bandaged hand looked exactly as before.

  Deciding, as everyone else was standing, she should stand also, Emma, stood up, and as she did so, Miguel said: ‘We met one foggy night about three weeks ago. Didn't we—Emma?'

  Emma nodded. ‘I—suppose it was about three weeks ago,’ she agreed. ‘How—how are you feeling?'

  ‘I'm fine.’ Miguel smiled faintly, his teeth white and even. ‘And you?'

  ‘Fine.’ Emma felt rather self-conscious, aware of Loren's curious stare.

  ‘Good.’ Miguel seemed totally unaware of her tension.

  ‘I've ordered dinner to be sent up in half an hour. Does that suit everyone?'

  Paul rubbed his stomach. ‘Indeed it does. I don't mind admitting I'm starving.'

  ‘You were parched when you arrived,’ remarked Loren dryly.

  ‘So I was. Well, isn't that the way to come to a dinner party? Ready and willing to enjoy the host's hospitality?'

  Everyone smiled at this, and Emma tried to relax. But this wasn't at all the scene she had envisaged. She had expected to see Miguel alone and give him her answer, not to join this private dinner party.

  Talk became general and as Emma was not near enough to Miguel to speak privately to him, she was forced to behave as though she had expected all this. Dinner was served on the polished table in the corner of the lounge, served by waiters from the heated trolley they had brought. It was a delicious meal, but as on that other occasion when Emma had had lunch with Miguel, she fo
und her appetite sadly lacking. However, she managed to eat the prawn cocktail and a little fish before tackling the roast duckling. There was a strawberry gateau for dessert and this even she could not resist, finding Miguel's eyes upon her as she finished the last morsel of cream in her dish and wiped her mouth on a table napkin.

  Embarrassed at the intensity of that gaze, she immediately turned to Paul and made some inane comment about the luxury of having strawberries in November, hoping that when next she looked across the table Miguel would have found something different to occupy him.

  The meal over, the table was cleared and the trolley taken away, and coffee was served on the low table near the comfortable couch and armchairs. Emma was about to take one of the armchairs when she found Miguel's fingers round her wrist, and he drew her deliberately to the couch and seated himself beside her. He did not release her wrist even after they were seated, and Emma was conscious that both Loren and Paul had noticed the intimacy of that little gesture.

  The evening passed away pleasantly enough, although Emma found it hard to concentrate on anything but Miguel. When he spoke she listened and when he was not speaking she found her eyes drawn to his lean dark features. Once, when he was saying something to Paul, he found her eyes upon him and he returned that gaze, continuing to talk to Paul as though nothing had happened. But something had happened to Emma, and she was forced to look away. Her breathing was constricted, and a trembling awareness of her need of him was invading her lower limbs. She needed him. She knew that now. But was that love? Was this aching agony for possession only infatuation? Was she allowing his undoubted physical magnetism to blind her to what might otherwise have been recognizable? She didn't know. But she did know one thing: she would marry him!

  At eleven o'clock, Paul finally said he would have to go. Rising to his feet, he looked down at Emma and said: ‘Can I give you a lift?'

  Emma was about to agree when Miguel stood up too, and shook his head. ‘Thank you, Paul, but I shall see that Emma gets home safely.'

  Paul gave him a wry look. ‘Of course, of course. That was rather de trop, wasn't it? Okay, Miguel. I'll ring you next week.'

  ‘Fine.’ Miguel grinned warmly at the other man and Paul held his hand firmly for a long moment. Then with a nod, he walked towards the door, and raising his hand in salute let himself out.

  Immediately, Miguel turned to the other girl. ‘I'd like to speak to Emma alone, Loren,’ he said. ‘Do you mind?'

  Loren shrugged. ‘Of course not, Miguel. I will go to bed.’ She looked at Emma. ‘Good night, señorita.'

  ‘Her name is Emma,’ remarked Miguel quietly.

  ‘Very well. Good night, Emma.’ Loren inclined her head.

  ‘Good night—Loren.’ Emma managed a smile, and watched the Mexican girl walk elegantly across the room to disappear into one of the other rooms of the suite.

  Once Loren had gone, Miguel moved and put some distance between them, deliberately, Emma thought uneasily. Unable to prevent herself, she said: ‘Does—does Loren sleep here? In your suite?'

  Miguel looked up from lighting one of the long thin cigars he favoured. ‘Yes,’ he agreed formally.

  Emma twisted her hands together. ‘But isn't it—I mean—don't you think that's rather unusual?'

  Miguel gave her a wry look. ‘If you mean do I sleep with her, why don't you say so?'

  Emma coloured hotly. ‘It's none of my business.'

  ‘Isn't it?’ Miguel put his cigar between his teeth.

  ‘Well, do you, then?’ she demanded tremulously.

  ‘No.'

  Emma bent her head. ‘But—have you?'

  ‘In the past, you mean? No.'

  Emma looked up. ‘But why does she sleep here? In your suite?'

  ‘Because it's convenient that she should. Juan sleeps here also. A suite of rooms with several bedrooms is very little different from a house, you know.'

  ‘I suppose not.’ Emma moved uncomfortably.

  ‘Well?’ Miguel took the cigar out of his mouth again. ‘Have you come to a decision?'

  ‘Well—yes and no.’ Emma sighed. ‘I'll marry you—but I can't come to Mexico with you straight away.'

  ‘Why not?’ His voice was hard.

  ‘Well, for one thing, there's my father to consider.'

  ‘Where is he?'

  ‘In Canada, with my brother and his wife.'

  ‘Canada?’ Miguel stared at her. ‘You cannot mean to tell me that you expect me to wait while you write to your father for his approval?'

  ‘Something like that,’ murmured Emma uneasily.

  ‘No!’ He was adamant.

  ‘What do you mean—no?'

  ‘What I say.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out some papers. ‘See! Do you know what this is? It is a marriage licence, made out in our two names. And this—this is a permit supplied by my own consul here in London. I have made inquiries, and we can be married next Thursday.' He spread a hand expressively. ‘Once you are my wife, all difficulties concerning immigration are made simple, and naturally you will have the right to Mexican citizenship.'

  Emma put a hand to her forehead. ‘You—you're going too fast for me,’ she murmured faintly. ‘How—how can you have these papers? You don't even know whether I'm going to agree to marry you yet.'

  Miguel regarded her intently. ‘Very well, then. What is your answer?'

  Emma moved her head helplessly. ‘I—I suppose it's yes. But really, Miguel, I can't—'

  ‘Eso basta! That is enough. If this problem of your father troubles you so, we will return to Mexico by way of Montreal and you may go and see him for yourself.'

  Emma swayed a little. ‘Go—to Canada!’ she echoed.

  ‘Why not? It will not be so far out of our way, and besides, I should meet your father. Emma, when you marry me, you will become a rich woman. Surely that must mean something, even to you.'

  His tone was sardonic and she wondered exactly what he was thinking. It had all begun to sound unreal again, and even Victor's sordid involvement with those youths seemed less fantastic than what Miguel was suggesting now.

  ‘And—and if I refuse?’ she murmured.

  Miguel's jaw tightened, and a trace of that ruthlessness she had seen before flickered across his face. ‘I do not think you will,’ he replied grimly, and she wondered if anyone had ever been allowed to thwart his plans…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE cry of a mountain lion disturbed the stillness of the night and Emma sat bolt upright in the huge bed, wrapping her arms about her chiffon-clad body in alarm. How close it had sounded. How near to the house did animals come? Had they ever invaded the grounds of the estate?

  She looked towards the terrace beyond the floor-length windows of her room, but there was nothing to be seen. Moonlight spilled its paleness over mosaic tiling and basket-woven chairs, and beyond the terrace the tropical brilliance of plant life was unnaturally robbed of its colour.

  Trembling, she lay down again and tried to sleep. But it was useless. She felt lost and utterly alone, and she rolled on to her stomach trying to tell herself that it was silly feeling this way when she was a married woman now and her husband was only a few yards away in the adjoining room.

  But that was the whole crux of the matter, she thought despairingly, feeling hot tears burning at the backs of her eyes. She had thought she knew why Miguel wanted to marry her; she had vainly imagined that it was a combination of mutual attraction and his desire to take her away from Victor, but it seemed now that it had been neither of those things. Since the night she had visited his suite at the London hotel and accepted his proposal of marriage, he had never even touched her, and she didn't know how much longer she could bear it.

  She supposed she was painfully naïve when it came to understanding men. She had had so little experience, after all. And this evening, after their stormy arrival at Lacustre Largo, she had been confronted with the incarnation of her own stupid ignorance…

  Once her accept
ance of Miguel's proposal had been formalized, her life had seemed to resemble a ski-run with herself as the skier at the head of the slope. Once she was embarked on her course, however, Miguel allowed nothing and no one to stand in her way, and everything happened so quickly that she was not given time to have second thoughts even had she dared to have any. He had instituted a telephone call to her father in Perisoire, a suburb of Montreal, and Emma had stammered out her reasons for breaking with Victor and marrying Miguel Salvaje in a matter of minutes. Naturally, she had not given her father the whole truth, and she sensed his anxiety. But when she went on to explain that they were flying to Montreal on their way to Mexico, he had sounded much more enthusiastic.

  After that, there was nothing to stand in their way. Emma attended medical examinations, submitted to inoculations, and generally prepared for the journey. But she was in a daze most of the time and Mrs. Cook found the whole affair most disturbing. She was no longer antagonistic towards Miguel, but she sensed he had some hold over her employer's daughter, and on one occasion told him outright that he had better take good care of her. Miguel had seemed amused by the incident, but Emma had found herself unable to discuss it with him. She had told herself that things would change, that once they were married they would achieve the closeness which seemed so lacking in their relationship, but it had not worked out like that.

  The only person she could really talk to was Juan Castillo. Through her developing knowledge of Miguel's affairs, she had discovered that as well as being Miguel's manager, Juan was also his friend and assistant, and was capable of turning his hand to almost anything. He was the only person who seemed to understand the strain that was being put upon her at this time, and he did his best to make things easier for her.

  But only Miguel could really do that, and she had seen little of him in those days before the wedding. They were married by civil ceremony at Caxton Hall. It was a very quiet affair with only Juan and Loren Delmar and Paul Gregory present, the information not being given to the press until after it was all over. Emma wore the blue slack suit and a rather attractive blue hat with a broad brim, but it was not like a wedding, and she certainly didn't feel any different afterwards, particularly as Miguel had only bent to kiss her forehead before urging her outside.