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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?
But 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 (#ueb85257e-d8e2-5d93-975c-098e8cb9d0f9)
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?'
Emma's hands trembled and she thrust them on to her lap so that he should not see them, but she could not prevent the colour from leaving her cheeks. ‘Wh – what did you say?’ she asked weakly.
‘Miguel Salvaje. You like his playing, don't you?'
Emma tried to gather her scattered composure. ‘I – I – yes, I suppose so. Why – why?'
Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I've got these.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out two tickets. ‘They're complimentary. You know the sort of thing they distribute to firms. Well, these came into my hands, and I thought we might go. But as they're for this evening, I thought I had better give you warning.'
Emma swallowed convulsively. The very last thing she wanted was to attend one of Miguel's concerts. She didn't want to see him again, to feel that awful, irritable, unsettled feeling he generated inside her.
‘Oh, I don't know, Victor,’ she temporized awkwardly. ‘I – we're awfully busy here at the agency. I don't know if I'll be able to get away in time…'
Victor frowned, and then swung round to face Fenella Harding. ‘Hey, Fenella,’ he said. ‘There's no reason why Emma should work late this evening, is there?'
Fenella looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’ Her delicately plucked brows drew together. ‘Did you say there was, Emma?'
Emma shook her head. ‘Not exactly.'
Victor turned back to her. ‘Don't you want to go or something? I thought you liked Salvaje! You have his records.'
‘I know I do.’ Emma felt desperate. What could she say? How could she convince him she didn't want to go without arousing his suspicions? Victor could be a very possessive man. ‘It's just such short notice, Victor.'
‘Oh, come on. It's not a première I'm taking you to. It's a concert. Go home, get changed, and I'll pick you up about seven. We'll have a drink beforehand and supper afterwards, right?'
‘All right.’ Emma nodded and shrugging again Victor slid off the desk.
‘Must go. Got an appointment in half an hour. See you later, then, my dear.'
‘Yes.'
Emma watched him go through the door, tall and immaculate in his city clothes. Then she looked down mutinously at her typewriter. She had not wanted to go to the concert, but that didn't matter to Victor. So far as he was concerned, any opposition she might raise to his plans was purely negligible.
She was ready when Victor arrived that evening, dressed in a plain gown of purple wool that did not enhance her colouring. But it was a dress Victor had brought back from Italy after a business trip and she knew he expected her to wear it whenever she could. The black cape she wore with it was more becoming, but as her hair was confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, she still managed to look staid and matronly. Was this to be her role in life? she had asked herself as her fingers trembled fastening the zip of her dress. Constantly aware of the age gap between herself and Victor and his obvious attempts to close it in this way?
The Festival Hall was almost full when they arrived and as Emma had not examined the tickets Victor had been given she was unaware that their seats would be in the front row until they were shown into them. Her heart pounded heavily. Surely Miguel could not fail to see her from this distance if he chose to look. She sighed. Why should Victor have been given such exceptionally good tickets? Surely they would have had no difficulty in selling these seats when almost all the hall was full. She moved uncomfortably. Had Victor in fact bought these tickets especially because he knew she liked the music and only pretended they were complimentary? She glanced at her fiancé uncertainly. If he had done so, then she should feel grateful and not resentful at all.
The orchestra leader came in to a loud burst of applause and after several minutes interval the conductor appeared. Emma waited tensely for the soloist. There was a grand piano waiting for him, a beautiful instrument, sleek and highly polished. Like the performer, thought Emma, with a rising sense of hysteria.
And then Miguel Salvaje came out and weakness flooded her being. Tall, lean; his immaculate evening clothes complemented his dark alien attractiveness, and Emma sank down in her seat, praying he would not notice her.
He seated himself at the piano, the applause died, and Miguel began the introduction to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto. There was absolute silence in the hall, and Emma found her initial nervousness dispersing under the pure delight of the music. It was obvious that Miguel was interested only in the instrument under his hands, and his mastery cast a spell over the audience so that when it was over there was a moment's spellbound silence before the applause broke out. Emma found herself applauding just as enthusiastically, and only when he rose from the piano stool to take his bow and his gaze flickered over the front row did she realize Miguel had known she was there all the time. There was no element of surprise in the depths of his dark eyes, but they moved away before she could register any acknowledgment of that brief appraisal.
However, afterwards she had reason to doubt the truth of her earlier beliefs. At no time during the remainder of the evening did his eyes turn in her direction, and she began to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. But she had not been mistaken, she told herself angrily. He had seen her, but whether he had actually been aware of her presence beforehand, she was less positive.
Victor enjoyed the concert without any of Emma's misgivings. Unaware of his fiancée's mental agitation, he could not understand the unusual pallor of her cheeks as they left the auditorium, and suggested that instead of having supper out they should go back to his service apartment and eat there.
But Emma felt that food of any kind would choke her. Forcing a polite smile, she said: ‘I don't think that's a very good idea, Victor. Perhaps if you took me home, Mrs. Cook could make us some sandwiches…'
Victor hesitated, his square face showing his perplexity. Exhaling his breath noisily, he eventually nodded. ‘Oh, very well, then. But I only had a sandwich before the concert, and I'm quite peckish.'
Emma tucked her skirts about her as she got into Victor's luxurious limousine. ‘I'm sure we can find something,’ she observed comfortingly, and Victor nodded without enthusiasm.
In fact, Mrs. Cook was out when they arrived back at the house. Emma realized the housekeeper would not have expected them back so early, and hiding her weariness she made Victor comfortable in the lounge with a drink and then went herself into the kitchen to prepare the food.
