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‘If you hurt Charles in any way I’ll kill you!’ she told him.
His brows shot up and he gave her that cool, sardonic smile, then took her breath away by what he said next.
‘If he was going to marry you, he’d have done so long ago, you know. You’re wasting your time waiting for him; which seems a pity, looking the way you do.’ His dark eyes flicked down over her body and a wave of heat flowed through her. Softly he added, ‘I’m sure a lot of men would be only too happy to help you forget Charles. I might even volunteer myself!’
Martine went dark red, her hands clenching, her teeth together, but she refused to play his game by answering or defending herself, explaining that he was wrong. Information was power, Charles had taught her long ago. Never give it away, use it for your own purposes and do so sparingly. So she let Bruno Falcucci imagine that he had hit on the truth, just gave him one icy glance, then said in a tight, brusque voice, ‘Take the next turn on the right, would you?’
The Bentley spun round the corner and began moving along the wide street of rather stately Victorian houses.
‘No comment, then?’ Bruno Falcucci asked her, watching her out of the corner of his eyes.
‘Stop here, please,’ was all Martine said.
He braked and turned towards her but she was already getting out of the car. She slammed the door then bent towards the window and he leaned over to wind it down to hear what she said.
Martine looked into his gleaming, dark eyes. ‘Remember, if you hurt Charles, I’ll make sure you pay for it,’ she said, then turned on her heel and walked away.
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU have to admit,’ said Annie, one of the share analysts, some months later, ‘he’s an asset to the bank!’
‘Oh, please, no puns this early in the morning!’ winced Martine.
‘You’ve got no sense of humour where he’s concerned, that’s the trouble,’ complained Annie, who was a year younger, and very pretty: small, fair, bubbly, and very popular with the men. ‘And you’ve dodged my question! He’s the hottest thing we’ve acquired in years. Look at that Ambleham-Tring merger—I hear we’ve picked up a lot more business from that, and his client list has doubled since he arrived.’
‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ Martine was staring at her VDU, frowning over the string of figures coming up. ‘Because if you haven’t, I have. With Charles ringing in to say he’s working at home today, and our trip to Rome starting tomorrow, I’ve got so much to do I’ll be working until very late tonight, so get off my desk and go away, Annie!’
‘In a minute,’ Annie said, wriggling like a child on the edge of the desk, her small feet swinging back and forth. ‘I wanted to ask you something...’
‘Well, what?’ Martine irritably asked, wondering how Annie could be so thick-skinned. What did you have to do to get rid of her?
‘Has he got a woman tucked away somewhere? I mean, he hasn’t dated anyone since he joined us, he says he isn’t married, and I can’t believe he’s gay, so is there someone in the background?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t care, and will you please shut up about Bruno Falcucci, get off my desk and let me get on with my work?’ Martine frequently wished she had never heard the man’s name, let alone met him. He had been here nearly four months and she sometimes felt as if the whole place revolved around him. It certainly did as far as the female staff were concerned. They couldn’t stop talking about him; half of them were in love with him and the others were simply fascinated.
Except Martine, of course. If anything, she disliked him more now than she had the first day she’d met him.
She had watched grimly while he became a director and immediately began to dominate board meetings, making himself the centre of power on the board, a voice to be reckoned with, pushing Charles further and further out of the picture.
It was what she had feared from the beginning, but Charles would not listen even now. He had smiled gently when she pointed out that Bruno had taken over some of his own clients, some of the most lucrative, at that.
‘At my suggestion, my dear girl!’ he had insisted. ‘I’m trying to shed some of my workload. You told me I was working too hard, remember!’
‘I didn’t tell you to hand some of your best clients over to Bruno Falcucci! And you never told me that was what you were planning!’
He had given her a wry, apologetic look. ‘I knew you’d get agitated and lecture me on your favourite subject!’
Eyes startled, she’d asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Bruno,’ Charles had said, laughing softly as she flushed dark red. ‘Now, don’t deny it—you’re paranoid where he’s concerned. You think he has horns and a forked tail!’
‘Yes,’ she had said then, soberly. ‘I don’t trust him, and I only hope you aren’t making a serious mistake, letting him get into such a position of power at the bank.’
Her uneasiness had not lifted a few weeks after this discussion with Charles, on the cool autumn morning when Annie sat on her desk and would not stop talking about Bruno Falcucci.
‘Shoo,’ she told Annie, pushing her off her desk, and Annie turned a laughing face to her.
‘Oh, come on, I bet you’re secretly crazy about Bruno too—you just won’t admit it!’
‘I’d rather date Dracula!’ Martine snapped just as her office door opened.
She and Annie both looked round, both froze in confusion. Bruno stood in the doorway, his dark eyes hooded and unreadable, his powerful body briefly at rest, which she already knew was rare for him since he was perpetually in motion, a man with burning energy always racing against the clock, or himself, or the world, she wasn’t sure which.
‘What’s Dracula got that I haven’t?’ he drawled, and Annie began to giggle, half in relief because he didn’t seem angry, half with embarrassment because she didn’t know how much of the earlier conversation he had overheard.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ Martine said, and Bruno looked into her eyes, his mouth twisting.
‘Could I?’
Annie’s eyes grew enormous, fascinated. She looked from one to the other and waited to hear more.
‘No,’ Martine said through her teeth.
Bruno held the door open. ‘Weren’t you just going, Annie?’ he asked in a bland voice. She hesitated, wanting to stay and eavesdrop, but Bruno’s eyes were hypnotic. Reluctantly she swayed her way across the room towards him. Martine watched Bruno watch Annie. There was a distinct gleam in the dark eyes. Annie was a pocket-sized blonde Venus—high breasts, tiny waist, rounded hips—and she knew how to move to make men stare. Bruno was staring now.
Annie paused to smile up at him; Martine couldn’t see her face but she saw the way Bruno smiled down at her.
‘Dracula hasn’t got anything you haven’t got,’ Annie said, and giggled.
‘Then why aren’t you scared?’ Bruno asked and bent towards her, lip curling to show his teeth, pretending to be about to sink his fangs into her throat.
Annie shrieked in delight and fled.
Bruno straightened and looked across the room. Martine coldly met his laughing gaze and the laughter stopped; his face tightened and turned cold. He walked towards her, letting the door slam behind him.
Her nerve-ends quivered in alarm at something in his stare. He stopped beside her desk, and for an instant of panic she was afraid he was going to touch her, kiss her.
She went crimson, then white, shrinking back from him.
He watched her inexorably.
‘One of these days I’m going to tell you why you can’t stand the sight of me,’ he said softly. ‘And then you’ll really hate me.’
‘I already do!’
It came out before she could stop it, and she bit her lip in shock. She hadn’t meant to be so up-front about her real feelings; she was horrified that she should have lost control like that. In her work she often came up against men she loathed and despised, but she knew better than to let her view of them show!
‘I’m sorry,’ she said edgily, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I lost my temper, please forget I said that.’
If he told Charles she knew the reaction she would get. Charles would be appalled. He was aware she didn’t trust his cousin but he expected her to have a little self-control and to keep her private opinions to herself. And, in fact, so did she. She was angry with herself for losing her cool.
‘I never forget anything,’ Bruno murmured, and she believed him. She had already discovered what a fantastic memory he had; he seemed to know everything about every public company and many in private hands. The tiniest detail was retained in his mind and could be conjured up out of nowhere when he needed it. They used state-of-the-art computers to do work Bruno could do in his head and seemed to find child’s play.
‘That’s up to you,’ she said, trying to hide her faint dismay. No doubt one day she would pay for having lost her temper. She suspected him to be a man who took his revenge for past wounds. That was why it worried her that Charles seemed to trust him so implicitly. She was afraid that one day Bruno Falcucci would make Charles pay for the way the Redmond family had treated Bruno’s mother.
She swallowed, looked at the screen in front of her and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the latest Japanese figures?’
‘More or less as I predicted,’ he shrugged.
‘Yes, right again, as usual!’ Martine said with saccharine sweetness.
He laughed. She couldn’t even make him angry. It was infuriating. She wished he would go away, he was ruining her morning.
‘I am rather busy,’ she told him coldly. ‘So unless you wanted to tell me something important...?’
‘Charles just rang me from his home,’ he said. ‘About the Rome conference...’
‘Yes?’ She was flying to Rome with Charles the following day for an international banking conference, and was rather looking forward to the trip. It was ages since she had been anywhere interesting, and it would mean getting away from the office and Bruno Falcucci for a little while.
‘His doctor has advised him to stay in bed for a week, so he won’t be able to go,’ Bruno coolly said.
‘What’s wrong? Is he ill?’ Martine anxiously asked but Bruno shook his head.
‘Just tired, I gather. A touch of flu, too, maybe. Nothing serious, but his doctor thinks he needs complete rest. He asked me to explain to you, and say how sorry he is to miss the Rome trip.’
‘Of course; I understand, though,’ Martine said, deeply disappointed, her face falling. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, he has looked quite exhausted the last few days. He really needs a long holiday, but a week in bed would be a good start. Well, I’d better cancel everything, but I don’t think we’ll be able to reclaim the price of the air tickets. The hotel can be cancelled without a problem, of course.’
She put out a hand to the phone but Bruno caught hold of her wrist, his fingers cool and light, yet making her aware of their potential strength.
‘No, don’t cancel anything. The trip is still on, it’s just that I’ll be taking Charles’s place.’
Martine stiffened. ‘You?’
His mouth curled. ‘Sorry, I know I’m no substitute for Charles in your eyes, but you’ll have to put up with my company for a few days, I’m afraid. Charles wants the bank represented. He was making a speech on the pros and cons of monetarist policy and he wants me to read it to the conference.’
Martine knew all about that speech; Charles had discussed it with her at great length. She could have delivered that speech for him, if he’d asked her, but Charles hadn’t even considered that, she realised, her mouth taut.
Bruno considered her expression, his brows crooked. ‘Charles has a rather old-fashioned view of women’s place in banking, doesn’t he?’
‘Which you share?’ she bitterly suggested.
‘You do enjoy thinking the worst of me, don’t you? No, as it happens, I don’t, but Charles was obviously ill and I couldn’t very well argue with him. Have you got all his documentation, by the way? Tickets, etcetera?’
She nodded and began to get up. Bruno moved back just enough to let her pass; she picked up the scent of his aftershave and decided she didn’t like it.
She found the folder containing all the travel documents for Charles, and handed it to Bruno.
‘The name on the tickets will have to be changed. I’ll do that.’
‘Don’t worry, my secretary will deal with it,’ he said, turning to walk out. ‘See you tomorrow, on the plane.’
She glared after him, half inclined not to turn up. Only her loyalty to Charles made her decide to go. Someone had to keep an eye on Bruno Falcucci.
They met at Heathrow, in fact, in a chaotic, overcrowded terminal building. All planes were delayed by fog in the London area. Bruno and Martine bought piles of newspapers and magazines, drank lots of bitter black coffee, tried to ignore screaming babies, restless children, the whine of the Tannoy, the discomfort of the seats they sat on.
At last the fog lifted and planes began to take off. They were two hours late in leaving for Rome, in the end.
The chauffeur-driven car they had ordered was not waiting to meet them when they arrived. They had to take a taxi, there were long queues and a black, relentless rain was falling. Rome sulked under sagging clouds and grey skies. Looking up, Martine felt very depressed.
By the time they got to their hotel, which sat near the top of the Spanish Steps, she was barely able to stand, and very fed up. She collected her key and went straight to her room, which turned out to be charming: beautifully furnished and with a magnificent view over the huddled roofs, towers and cupolas of the city.
The rain was still teeming down, lashing along streets, trickling down windows, spilling from the gargoyles on churches, splashing in gutters, forming rivers down the Spanish Steps.
Martine leaned on the window for a while, gazing out. There was a magnificent desolation about the scene spread out below her, and her eyes wandered from building to building, absorbing the atmosphere. Even in the rain Rome was noisy, bustling, over-full of people and vehicles. She heard the blare of horns, police whistles, people shouting to each other, people quarrelling loudly, the clatter of feet on old pavements.
Sitting there with the window open made her shiver after a while. She stood up, closed the window and went into her modern bathroom to take a long, warm, fragrant bath, pouring deliciously scented bath oils into the water before she climbed gratefully into it.
Bruno had suggested that they meet for dinner at eight o’clock in the bar. The first gathering of the conference was at nine o’clock the following day, and was scheduled to take place at another hotel, the Excelsior, which was a popular conference centre with efficient modern facilities, next door to the United States embassy and close to the via Veneto. Most of the delegates were also staying at the Excelsior, but Charles had wanted to have a peaceful bolthole to make for when conference politics grew too hectic. It often helped to be able to escape for a while. The lobbying began at breakfast and went on until well into the night, and if you could get away you had a better chance of preserving your sanity, Charles said.
After her bath, Martine went to sleep on her bed, wrapped in her thick white bathrobe, a quilt over her. Her dreams were as chaotic as the traffic in the Rome streets; she twisted and sighed in her sleep, her body restless, overheated.
She woke up with a start when someone knocked sharply on the door. For a second she was totally disorientated. While she had slept, night had fallen; the room was dark, only the flash of a neon light somewhere nearby in the city to show her the furniture, the high oblong of the window.
She lay on the bed, staring blankly; then somebody knocked on the door again, louder, peremptorily.
Stumbling off the bed, she went to the door and opened it on the chain, blinking in the light from the corridor.
It was Bruno, in evening dress, looking the way he had the night she first saw him—ultra-civilised, menacingly primitive. It was a very disturbing mix, added to which, just the sight of his smooth-skinned, closely shaven face and sleek black hair, his gleaming jet eyes, his powerful body, sent a strange quiver of weakness through her. Ever since she had met him she had been both alarmed by and hostile to him, working on instincts buried inside her, too deep for her to be quite sure what it was about the man that set all her alarm bells jangling.
‘Aren’t you dressed yet? We said eight o’clock,’ Bruno reminded her, his gleaming eyes roaming slowly over her dishevelled, damp coils of auburn hair, her flushed face, the short white robe which left her long legs bare and revealed the deep cleft between her breasts.
She instinctively put up a hand to pull her robe lapels together to hide her breasts, and saw Bruno’s mouth twist in wry comprehension.
‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she stammered. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink in the bar, and I’ll only be ten minutes, I promise!’
She shut the door quickly, afraid he would notice she was trembling. Switching on the light, she leaned on the elaborately carved oak bed for a moment, to steady her nerves. What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe she had picked up some bug? The same one Charles had got? She wouldn’t be surprised. That was how she felt—ill, feverish, weak-legged, shivery.
She didn’t want to get dressed, do her hair, have dinner alone with Bruno Falcucci; she didn’t feel strong enough.
But how could she get out of it? They were here representing the bank, standing in for Charles; she couldn’t simply duck out of her responsibilities, she would be letting Charles down. She must pull herself together.
Her hands cold and shaking, she began to get ready. She had picked out her dress before she had her bath: a dark green velvet, figure-hugging, with a deep scoop neckline along which ran a Greek key pattern in gold thread, a tight waist and very short skirt which left her long legs bare. It was formal and elegant, but once she had put it on Martine had second thoughts.
She stared at herself in the mirror, biting her lip. She had forgotten just how tight the dress was, and how short the skirt! It made her feel half-naked. Charles had always liked the dress, that was why she had packed it, but wearing it for Charles was one thing—wearing it when she was going to spend an evening alone with Bruno Falcucci was something else. The very thought of it made her hair stand up on the back of her neck.
She looked at her watch, and groaned. There was no time to change, either. If only she hadn’t fallen asleep on the bed! She still had to do her hair and her face. She picked up her brush and began to work hurriedly.
When she walked into the hotel bar she saw Bruno watching her from a table on the other side of the room and an atavistic shudder ran through her.
