A Savage Beauty Page 3

  But then she heaved a sigh. Her father was enjoying himself in Canada with her older brother and his wife, and as he had now retired from medical practice, there was nothing to stop him from remaining there another three months. He knew Emma was well looked after by Mrs. Cook, and in any case he considered her a sensible girl.

  During the following week, life settled back into its normal pattern. Emma worked part-time for a friend in a secretarial agency off Oxford Street, more for something to do than for the money involved, for although she had been offered a place at university seven years ago her mother had died at that time and she had known that as her brother was already married she could not leave home and her father alone. In consequence, she took a secretarial course at a London technical college and eventually joined Fenella Harding at the agency.

  Fenella was older than Emma, a contemporary of Victor's, in fact, and it had been through Fenella that Emma had first met her fiancé. Even so, the idea that the big, powerful industrialist should take anything more than a fleeting interest in her had never occurred to her until he introduced himself to Dr. Seaton and slowly but surely eased himself into her life. Emma had always been rather shy and withdrawn, preferring the company of books to that of the opposite sex, and Victor's worldly manner had aroused a sense of admiration in her. That he was so much older than she was had been unimportant. She had never considered herself a particularly trendy sort of person. Her clothes were square, the other girls in the office said so, and since she had taken to wearing her hair in its pleat, she knew she looked years older.

  But Victor approved, and after all, that was all that really mattered.

  The afternoon following her unfortunate accident in the fog, she had managed to contact a garage in the Guildford area who, for a fee, had been prepared to locate the whereabouts of her car from the description of the circumstances she was able to give them. The Mini had been returned to her as good as new, and Victor had learned nothing of the incident, much to her relief.

  All the same, from time to time, she couldn't help pondering the identity of the man who had rescued her and brought her home. The certainty that she had seen him before had strengthened and it was a tantalizing puzzle which intrigued her. But as such thoughts were abortive she endeavoured to put all such speculation to the back of her mind.

  On Friday evening it was late when Emma left the agency. They had had rather a panic on that afternoon, as several of the girls were away with ‘flu, and consequently they were inundated with work. Emma had volunteered to stay on as Victor was away in Brighton for the evening, attending a business dinner, and she did not expect to see him again until the following afternoon.

  It was a cold, frosty evening when she emerged from the office building, but there was no fog, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling of release. She walked the few yards to where the Mini was parked and drove home without incident, parking it in the drive before entering the house.

  ‘Mrs. Cook!’ she called. ‘I'm home!'

  There was no immediate response and, shrugging, Emma crossed the hall to the lounge, unbuttoning her tweed overcoat, thrusting open the door to enter the comfortable lamplit room. As she did so, a man rose from his position on the couch, and she stepped back in alarm, a hand pressed to her lips. But as the man moved into the light, she said incredulously: ‘You! What are you doing here?'

  The dark Spanish-American regarded her intently. ‘I came to see you,’ he replied simply, but his eyes were surveying her with a mixture of doubt and disbelief.

  Emma put up a hand to her hair. It was as smooth and elegant as ever, her blue tweed suit beneath the matching coat beautifully tailored, but rather severe in style. She was conscious of feeling years older than he was as he stood there so dark and lean and attractive in a close-fitting cream suede suit that moulded every muscle of his thighs.

  ‘I—well—have you been waiting long?’ she asked nervously, unable to assimilate the situation with any degree of composure. ‘Did Mrs. Cook let you in?'

  ‘Your housekeeper?’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Yes, she let me in. She didn't want to, but when I explained who I was…’ His voice trailed away. ‘You've suffered no ill effects of your midnight ramblings, I see.'

  ‘Oh, no—no!’ Emma glanced over her shoulder uneasily. ‘I—I'm very grateful to you for helping me.'

  The man inclined his head politely and she rubbed her finger tips together rather awkwardly. Why had he come? Had she left something in his car? But no, if she had, she would have missed whatever it was by now, wouldn't she?

  Her eyes alighted on the drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘Er—did Mrs. Cook—that is—can I offer you a drink?’ she inquired, stepping forward again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he nodded, and she walked jerkily across the room to the cabinet, conscious of his eyes upon her the whole time.

  ‘Wh-what would you like?’ she asked, inspecting the bottles. ‘Scotch? Gin? Brandy?'

  ‘Scotch would be fine,’ he replied calmly, folding his hands behind his back. His jacket was unfastened and the lapels parted to reveal a dark blue shirt and matching tie beneath. Emma's eyes were drawn to him almost against her will, and she had to force herself to concentrate on what she was doing.

  As it was the bottle jangled noisily against the glass, and he moved swiftly across to her with lithe grace and took it from her unresisting fingers. ‘I'll do it,’ he said, and she stood aside and let him. The Scotch poured smoothly into the glass, the bottle was put back in its place, and he raised the Scotch to his lips. ‘Salud!’ he said, and swallowed half of it at a gulp.

  Emma moved uncomfortably. She was suddenly aware of the quiet intimacy of the room, of his nearness, and of the fact that were Victor to come upon them suddenly he could only assume the worst.

  ‘Won't you join me?’ he was asking now, but Emma shook her head.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She moved away from him nervously, and with a careless shrug he lifted his glass and emptied it. She was aware that his eyes never left her. They moved over her insolently, intently, assessing her; and it was a disturbing experience for someone who was not used to this kind of mental assault.

  As though sensing her unease he moved, his eyes drifting round the attractively appointed room. The wide couch of soft tan leather was complemented by the dull green velvet of the long curtains, while the carpet underfoot was a mixture of autumn shades.

  But his eyes lingered longest on the piano, and without asking permission, he walked across to the instrument, sitting down on the matching stool and running his long brown fingers lightly over the keys.

  And then she knew who he was, and the sudden realization caused her to utter a faint gasp. He was Miguel Salvaje. And that was why she had thought his face was familiar. She had seen a picture of him in The Times only a few weeks ago when his arrival in this country from Mexico had been widely reported in the press.

  He looked up at her exclamation and the long black lashes veiled his eyes. ‘Well, Miss Seaton?’ he challenged softly.

  Emma's lips parted involuntarily. ‘You know my name!'

  He inclined his head slowly. ‘And you know mine, do you not?'

  Emma nodded. ‘I'm sorry. I should have recognized you sooner.'

  ‘Why?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a lover of classical music, Miss Seaton?'

  Emma shrugged awkwardly. ‘I like all kinds of music,’ she said. ‘I—I've never attended one of your concerts, but I do have some of your records. My—my mother was a keen pianist herself.'

  ‘And you?'

  ‘Oh, no.’ Emma shook her head. ‘Just to fifth grade. I'm afraid I'm not a very artistic person, señor.’ She frowned. ‘But how do you know my name?'

  He rose from the piano stool and came towards her until they were only about a foot apart. ‘I was curious about you,’ he replied. ‘I wanted to see you again.'

  Emma felt herself colouring. She couldn't help it. He was so direct. And how could she answer that?

  B
ut in fact she didn't have to. Instead, he went on: ‘Tell me! Now that we have been more or less introduced, why do you wear these clothes? Are they—how do you say it—your working clothes?'

  Emma was taken aback. ‘I—I don't know what you mean.'

  ‘Of course you do.’ His dark eyes were disturbingly tense. ‘I do not like them. Take them off!'

  Emma was horrified. ‘What did you say?'

  ‘I asked you to take off these—garments,’ he returned smoothly. ‘Go! Change! I will wait for you.'

  Emma was astounded. ‘Señor Salvaje, I don't know what customs you have in your country, but in England one cannot simply walk into a person's house and demand that they change their clothes for your benefit,’ she declared heatedly.

  Miguel half smiled. ‘No?'

  ‘No.’ Emma took a deep breath, conscious of a sense of breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing would assuage. ‘Look, señor, I don't know why you came here, but—'

  ‘I told you. I came to see you,’ he interrupted her softly.

  Emma's palms moistened. ‘I—this is ridiculous! You really must excuse me, señor. I—er—Mrs. Cook will be wondering where I am—whether I'm ready for dinner—'

  ‘You are running away from me, Emma. Why?'

  The way he said her name with its foreign inflection was a caress and Emma's heart pounded furiously. ‘Please, señor—’ she began, but he shook his head.

  ‘Invite me to dinner,’ he suggested. ‘I am a stranger, away from my own country. Surely you would not refuse a stranger a meal?'

  Emma stared at him helplessly. Then she tugged off her overcoat. Her body was overheated already, and the atmosphere in the room was electric. ‘I would like you to go, señor,’ she said carefully. ‘I—I'm very tired.'

  ‘So am I,’ he remarked lazily. ‘There have been concerts every night this week. This is my first free evening.'

  Emma made an impotent gesture. ‘I don't understand you.'

  ‘No. I would agree with you there,’ he conceded, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and pulling down his tie so that she could see the brown column of his throat. His skin was deeply tanned and for a brief moment she recalled Victor's pale flesh, sallow from too many hours spent in boardrooms, loose from lack of exercise. Miguel Salvaje did not appear to have an ounce of spare flesh on his body, and the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the dark blue silk of his shirt as he moved. Emma was self-consciously aware of noticing this, and guiltily forced her eyes away from him. In a tight little voice, she said:

  ‘Will you please leave, señor?'

  Miguel made an impatient gesture. ‘And if I choose not to do so? What then? What will you do? Will you call the policia? Will you have me humiliated in the eyes of the public—of the press?'

  Emma doubted that anyone or anything could humiliate him. Indeed, the humiliation would be all hers. Making a last desperate attempt to appeal to him, she exclaimed: ‘Are you so desperate for companionship, señor, that you would spend an evening with someone who does not want your company?'

  He uttered an imprecation. ‘Yes,’ he replied harshly. ‘Yes, I need companionship. I want to relax away from my work—away from the things that bring it constantly to mind. You do not wish me to dine here with you—very well, I accept that. Then let me buy you dinner somewhere. Surely there are restaurants where we need not be formal, where no one will recognize me!'

  Emma moved uncomfortably towards the door. ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, señor.'

  ‘Why? Why is it out of the question? I would like to spend an evening with you, and I think you would not find it so objectionable, in spite of what you say.'

  Indignation flooded her at his words. Did he imagine her refusal was merely a coy attempt to increase his interest? And to suggest that she would be prepared to eat with him at some out-of-the-way restaurant so that none of his friends or associates should learn of their association was insulting. What had she done to make him think she would welcome his attentions? Did he assume that as she was a woman who on his own admission he considered to be past marriageable age she would welcome an affair with someone like himself? How dared he? The audacity of it all!

  Her breasts rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions, and she found it difficult to articulate clearly. ‘I—I can assure you, señor, that I am not desperate for company. And if my fiancé were here you would not dare to speak to me in this way—'

  ‘Fiancé?’ His thin face was sardonic. ‘You have a fiancé, señorita?’ He shrugged. ‘A novio? I am not interested in your novio.'

  Emma gave an exasperated ejaculation. ‘What does it take to convince you that I mean what I say?’ she demanded. ‘Is this the way you treat women in your country, señor?'

  He shook his head slowly. ‘In my country? No. But this is not my country.'

  Emma sighed. Where was Mrs. Cook? Why didn't she come? Surely she must have heard her come in, must know she would be shocked to find this man waiting for her.

  Miguel Salvaje continued to regard her for a few moments longer and then his lean fingers slid up and tightened his tie again. She noticed inconsequently that he wore a ring on his left hand, a carved antique gold ring that made a fitting setting for a ruby that glowed with an inner fire all its own.

  He inclined his head. ‘It shall be as you insist, señorita. I regret the intrusion.'

  He walked towards the door, and as he did so Emma felt a terrible sense of compunction. But why should she? she asked herself impatiently. Just because for a brief moment he had seemed completely defenceless she should not fool herself into thinking it was anything more than another attempt to get her to change her mind. She must remember he was Miguel Salvaje, rich, clever, aware of his own potentialities, prepared to use her as no doubt he had used other women in other cities, and not merely a lonely man seeking companionship.

  She sighed, but he did not look back and a few moments later she heard the sound of the outer door closing. He had gone. She hesitated only a moment, and then she rushed across to the window, drawing aside the curtain and peering out. He was walking down the short drive, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't have an overcoat and she thought he must be frozen, used as he was to a warmer climate in any case. Where was his car? She frowned. She didn't remember seeing it as she came in. Surely she would have noticed such a conspicuous automobile if it had been parked anywhere near the house.

  She bit her lip hard, but he had disappeared into the street and the hedges of the house next door hid him from sight. She allowed the curtain to fall back into place and as she did so Mrs. Cook came into the room.

  ‘Oh, you're home, Miss Emma!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn't hear you come in. When I heard the door just now—’ She looked round. ‘Has Señor Salvaje left?'

  Emma cupped the back of her neck with her hands. ‘It looks like it, doesn't it?’ she asked impatiently. ‘You knew who he was, then?'

  ‘Of course.'

  ‘I didn't know you were interested in music, Mrs. Cook.'

  ‘Interested in music?’ Mrs. Cook frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

  Emma stared at her. ‘I thought you said you knew who he was.'

  ‘Yes. He introduced himself to me. I understood he was the gentleman who brought you home the other evening.'

  ‘He was—he is!’ Emma heaved a deep breath. ‘He's also a concert pianist.'

  ‘Is he?’ Mrs. Cook made a suitably respectful grimace. ‘I didn't know that. Anyway, what did he want?'

  Emma shrugged. ‘I don't really know. He—well, he invited me to have dinner with him.'

  Mrs. Cook raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? And what would Mr. Harrison say to that, I wonder?'

  ‘Well, you've no need to, Mrs. Cook. Because I'm not going.'

  Mrs. Cook nodded slowly. ‘Well, I just came to see what time you wanted your meal. Are you ready now?'

  Emma looked down at the severe lines of her suit irritably. Then she shook
her head. ‘No, not yet. I want to change first.'

  ‘Change?’ Mrs. Cook couldn't hide her curiosity. ‘Are you going out again then?'

  Emma shook her head. ‘No—no, I'm not going out again, Mrs. Cook. I merely want to change, that's all.’ Her tone was eloquent of her resentment at Mrs. Cook's probing.

  ‘Yes, miss!’ Mrs. Cook was offended, her back stiff and unyielding as she went out again. Emma kicked off her shoes ill-temperedly. What was the matter with her? Speaking to Mrs. Cook like that! There was no cause for it.

  Clenching her teeth, she marched out of the room and up the stairs. It was as though contact with that man, Miguel Salvaje, disrupted her. The last time she had felt like this was when he had brought her home in the fog, and now here she was a mass of conflicting emotions, just because he had taken it upon himself to enter her life again. It was stupid and childish. She wasn't an adolescent, so why was she behaving like one?

  All the same, she found herself thinking about him a lot through that long evening, wondering where he was and what he was doing, and whether he had found someone else to keep him company…

  CHAPTER THREE

  DURING the following week, Emma endeavoured to put all thoughts of Miguel Salvaje out of her mind. But that was easier said than done. She had only to open a newspaper it seemed to see his face staring back at her, or some other advertisement of the fact that the Mexican pianist was presently giving a series of recitals with the accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra at the Festival Hall.

  For the first time in her life she wished she had a close girl friend, someone of her own age in whom she might confide her fears and anxieties. But the girl she had been closest to had married some years ago and gone to live in the Midlands, and now there was only Victor, and of course she could say nothing to him. So she kept her thoughts to herself and concentrated her energies on her work at the agency.

  Nevertheless, she was still taken aback when one afternoon her fiancé walked into the agency and after a casual word with Fenella came over to her desk. Perching himself on the side of the desk, he looked down into her face and said, without warning: ‘Miguel Salvaje is a favourite of yours, isn't he?'