Dark Fever

by Charlotte Lamb

  Gil stared down at her, his mouth a hard white line. ‘You were doing it again, weren’t you? Walking on your own, not staying with the rest of the group... you stupid woman, don’t you ever learn? What did I say to you? You should never have come on this trip. If you wanted to go to the Alhambra I’d have taken you.’

  His voice had risen; she felt a stir, saw the other people from the coach turn to stare curiously at them as they took their places around the prepared lunch tables.

  ‘Shh...’ she urged, glaring at him. ‘Everyone’s listening!’ Waiters had begun to bring out huge tureens, and they moved around the tables ladling soup into the bowl in front of each guest. ‘They’re serving lunch—I must go!’ She moved to walk away and he caught her arm; she looked angrily down at his long fingers encircling her flesh. ‘Let go of me!’

  He released her with an impatient little grunt. ‘Just tell me this—what made you think it was them? How could they know you were here, anyway?’

  She looked down, biting her lower lip, and thought aloud. ‘Yes, how did they know? We left so early in the morning—if they were only released today, how could they know where to find me? Unless...’ She looked up at Gil and his face was dark with anger.

  ‘Unless someone at the hotel told them! I was beginning to realise that myself. How else could they have known you had gone to Granada?’

  ‘I suppose they could have rung the hotel, asked for me, and been told where I was?’

  ‘That’s strictly against my rules,’ he bit out through his teeth, frowning. ‘We have a lot of famous people staying with us—no personal information is ever supposed to be given out. But I’ll check on that as soon as I get back. If that is what happened, it won’t happen again.’

  Bianca was sorry for any member of the staff who had given out the information. She wouldn’t like to have to face Gil in this mood. He was dressed so smoothly and formally, in that dark suit, with the pale grey tie and white shirt—but danger radiated out of him.

  The Spanish guide came over to them and gave Gil an obsequious smile. ‘Senor Marquez... you are going to eat with us? The soup is being served now. I have kept a place for you beside me, and for the senora, of course.’

  Gil gave him an abstracted glance, then nodded, as if suddenly realising what the man had said. ‘Oh, yes-yes, of course.’ He put his hand under Bianca’s elbow and guided her towards the table. ‘I expect you’re hungry,’ he said to her. ‘Sightseeing is tiring and it’s a long time since you had breakfast, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m starving,’ she admitted as he pulled back her chair to allow her to sit down. Everyone else at the table had already been served and had begun to drink their soup, a smooth tomato with strips of roasted red pepper floating on the surface.

  ‘This looks unusual,’ Bianca said, picking up her spoon.

  ‘Cremasevillana,’ the guide told her, sitting down on one side of her while Gil took the chair on the other. ‘A traditional dish from Seville.’

  The waiter leaned over her shoulder. ‘Pan?’

  She looked up, startled. ‘Sorry?’ Then she saw the wicker basket of bread he offered her and took a piece, smiling. ‘Oh, yes, thank you.’

  ‘Time you learnt some Spanish,’ Gil said, taking some of the domed, golden bread. ‘Vino?’ He picked up a carafe of red wine, offering it to her, but she shook her head.

  ‘Just water, thank you.’

  ‘Agua,’ he said clearly. ‘Say it— agua.’

  ‘Agua,’ she said with a touch of resentment because the people around them were listening and smiling. ‘I knew agua was water; I just find it hard to use my little bit of Spanish when anyone is listening.’

  ‘We appreciate if it you do,’ he said drily. ‘Try your soup.’

  She bristled at his commanding tone, but took a spoonful of the soup, noting a touch of onion or garlic in the flavour; it was very good, and so was the bread, but then she was so hungry, she would have enjoyed almost anything she ate.

  ‘Delicious,’ she said, and Gil smiled at her, suddenly relaxing, his grey eyes very light in that darkly tanned face. She felt her heart skip a beat and looked hurriedly down again, taking more soup.

  ‘So, what did you think of the Alhambra?’ Gil asked in a conversational tone.

  ‘It was a dream! I loved the colours of the mosaics on the walls, all those courtyards and fountains. I would have liked it even more if I’d been there alone, I expect— it was so crowded and we were moved on all the time from room to room—it was hard to feel the atmosphere.’

  ‘Tourism kills the thing it comes to see,’ agreed Gil, leaning back in his chair, his soup finished. ‘But everyone deserves to see something like the Alhambra—you can learn so much from a place where people have lived long ago; it teaches a very healthy respect for the culture of those Moors who lived in this part of Spain. They were brilliant architects and builders, poets in the way they created such beauty from mere brick and stone. They weren’t even allowed, by their religion, to reproduce the human form; they had to rely on colour and geometric shape.’

  ‘I know very little about the history of Spain,’ she said as the waiter appeared and took their plates away.

  ‘I’ll find you a book to read.’

  She opened her mouth to remind him that she couldn’t read Spanish, but he gave her a wry smile, his eyes mocking.

  ‘In English,’ he promised, and she thought, I’m going to take Spanish lessons when I get home! Next time I come to Spain I’ll make sure I can speak to people here in their own language.

  The soup was followed by a chicken casserole, the golden meat sprinkled with almonds. Served with saffron-flavoured rice, this too had a strong taste of garlic, and of herbs too, although she couldn’t identify which had been used.

  ‘What’s this called?’ she asked Gil, who told her.

  ‘Polio en pepitoria.’

  ‘Polio is chicken?’

  He nodded, amused. ‘You’re beginning to pick up a few scraps of Spanish, you see?’

  She gave him a dry look and he laughed.

  Ice-cream followed the chicken, whipped white clouds of it, sprinkled with chopped nuts and cherries.

  ‘Helado,’ Gil translated for her.

  ‘Helado,’ she repeated, and the waiter grinned down at her.

  While they were drinking their coffee, Gil murmured to her in a voice low enough not to be overheard by the others, ‘You’re coming back with me, not going on the coach.’

  Flushed, she shook her head. ‘I’ll go with the others!’

  Coolly, he insisted, ‘We need to talk about what happened; I think the police should be informed at once.’

  She looked at him uneasily. ‘But I’ve no proof that the men on that motorbike were the same two who attacked me!’

  ‘The bike drove straight at you, you said!’

  She nodded. ‘It did. I’m quite certain about that— they stared at me first, from a distance, then the bike began to move and came very fast. If I hadn’t moved, they would have hit me.’

  ‘But they swerved away when you ran back to the rest of your group?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She remembered it, shivering. ‘I really thought they were going to plough into me. At the time I was certain it was the same two—although I thought they were still in custody. I just felt it was them and that they were going to attack me. But I didn’t see their faces this time either. I have no evidence at all that it was the same two men, and anyway, nothing happened. What on earth is the point of going to the police?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘OK, if you don’t want to talk to the police you don’t have to—but I’ll ring them to find out what time they released the two boys. If they couldn’t have got to Granada in time we’ll know it wasn’t them. But just in case it was them you have got to be doubly careful in future. You must not go out of the hotel grounds, even on coach trips. If you want to sightsee or shop, I’ll take you, or make sure you’re with someone I trust. Freddie and Karl, for instance—Karl
would take good care of you. But if you were with a big group it would be far too easy for someone to attack you and get away.’

  ‘I don’t want to see the police again,’ she confessed, sighing. Her life back in England had always been so quiet and tranquil; she wasn’t used to coping with situations like this; she had felt on edge almost since she got here and it seemed to get worse every day. ‘Anyway, what could they do?’ she said. ‘Nothing happened. I wasn’t attacked, I just thought I was going to be, and I could simply have over-reacted; there could have been no threat to me at all.’

  He nodded. ‘You could have done, but I somehow don’t think so. I don’t see you as the over-imaginative type.’

  She wasn’t so sure that was a compliment. What did he mean by that?

  ‘I think your instincts are pretty sound,’ he went on, and again she wondered exactly what he meant—was there a mocking undertone to that, or was she being too sensitive? He smiled drily at her. ‘But, if it bothers you, OK, we won’t tell the police about it... yet—we’ll wait and see if they turn up again, but from now on you must be on your guard, keep your eyes open everywhere you go.’ He looked down into her eyes insistently, and she noticed the faint little flecks of gold around the black pupil, like rays around a dark sun, so striking against the pale, pale colour of the iris.

  Her voice husky, she murmured, ‘Yes, don’t worry, I certainly will.’

  He was endlessly watchable, she thought. She couldn’t stop looking at him: that golden skin, smooth and deeply tanned, with few lines on his face, only faint ones around his mouth and eyes, etched by smiling; the powerful structure of the bones beneath that skin; the thick, midnight-black hair; the wide, warm mouth, which had such charm when he smiled; the stubborn jawline.

  The dark suit gave him a formal, conventional look, but Gil Marquez was neither formal nor conventional. The power he exuded was very different, a warm and physical power based on the body under those clothes, and with that a devastating self-assurance; no woman could ignore it, certainly not Bianca. Every nerve-end in her body was aware of him; he made her blood move faster, her breathing quicken, perspiration spring out on her hot skin.

  He drove her back to Marbella shortly after that. He was driving a different car today, she noticed, settling into the front passenger seat of a sleek white sports car. The upholstery was black leather, deep and luxurious; the woodwork was golden, highly polished. Bianca knew nothing about cars, and she had no idea what make this one was, but she could see that it must have cost a fortune; Tom would love it; her son was crazy about cars, particularly special cars like this one.

  She felt the curious stares of the other passengers, climbing up into their coach a few feet away, as she and Gil drove off. No doubt they wondered why she had left the tour party—but while the women stared at Gil the men were all envying his car, studying the, lines of it and the speed with which it took off through Granada.

  ‘Have you sold your other car?’ she asked him, and he started, then shook his head, laughing.

  ‘That’s my business car; I use it for work—it’s solid and conventional and gives me the right image. Image is everything in my business; the hotel has to breathe an air of luxury and at the same time be totally safe for our wealthy clients—so the car I drive when I’m at work has to be expensive but very safety-conscious, energy-conserving, solidly built, reassuring. When I’m not working I can do as I please, though, and this car is my private fantasy, my dream car. I expect some people would say it was my ego-booster, and maybe it is. I don’t spend too much time analysing my unconscious. I have always wanted a fast sports car so as soon as I could afford one I bought this. It costs an arm and a leg to run, eats up petrol, and it seems to spend a lot of time in the garage being tuned up, but I love driving it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised—my son would love it too,’ she said, smiling. ‘He’s crazy about cars.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  He gave her a sideways glance, his mouth twisting. ‘A difficult age for boys—that’s when they start arguing over everything they’re told to do and being bloody-minded—is he at the problem stage?’

  She made a little face. ‘Not exactly; he can be annoying at times...untidy, reluctant to do anything—you know what teenagers are like—but he’s a good boy at heart; he doesn’t give me any real trouble.’

  He shot her an amused look. ‘Mothers always think their sons are wonderful, don’t they?’

  ‘Did yours?’

  He smiled without looking at her this time, his eyes on the road. ‘She had waited so long to get me, having girl after girl, she would have thought I was wonderful if I’d had two heads!’

  ‘Is she still alive?’ she asked, remembering that he had told her his father was dead.

  ‘Yes—she’s nearly eighty now, of course, but still very active. She lives in Madrid with my eldest sister, Gisela. My mother’s a doting grandmother and Gisela has four children for her to spoil. She comes here to stay for a few weeks every year, for a holiday by the sea—usually in January, because Madrid is very cold in winter and Mama hates cold weather. She visits my other sisters, too; we’re scattered all over Spain—Eva is in Barcelona and Rosa lives near Alicante, so my mother goes on to Rosa from here every year. That’s where she is right now. She will be going back to Madrid in a fortnight.’

  ‘You sound like a very close family.’

  ‘We are. Family is very important to us.’ He glanced at her again. ‘It’s important to you too, isn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What are your children’s names?’

  ‘My son’s Thomas—we call him Tom; I must tell him about your car when I get home—he’ll be fascinated. What sort of car is this?’

  ‘A Ferrari.’

  ‘Goodness,’ she breathed, eyes widening. ‘I’m impressed—so will Tom be! Ferraris are racing cars, aren’t they?’

  ‘They race a version of this one,’ he agreed. ‘Who’s looking after your son while you’re away?’

  ‘Tom doesn’t need any looking after; I’ve brought him up to look after himself. He can wash and iron his own clothes, cook, tidy his room—he’s very self-sufficient. But his older sister is there too; she’s nineteen.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Vicky—short for Victoria.’

  ‘Does she look like you?’

  Bianca’s mouth curved into a tender, reminiscent smile. ‘No, she takes after her father—she has his colouring; Rob was fair, and Vicky has blonde hair and hazel eyes, like his. She’s like him in character, too. Rob was very level-tempered, a large, fair man with a calm personality.’ Talking about Rob reminded her of their happy years together; she missed him so much... She gave a deep sigh.

  Another car shot past them and Gil had to brake without warning to avoid crashing into the back of it. He muttered what sounded like furious swear words in Spanish and sounded his horn furiously, glaring after the other car.

  After that he didn’t say anything at all, staring straight ahead with a dark frown on his face until they reached the hotel. He parked outside the main entrance, and insisted on walking her to her suite.

  A security man was walking past; he saluted Gil who nodded to him and spoke to him in Spanish. The man, dark and swarthy, in his thirties, heavily built and wearing a dark uniform, gave Bianca a quick, searching look, then looked back at Gil and nodded, answering him in Spanish. Clearly they were talking about her, and Bianca wished she spoke their language.

  She walked into the building and up the stairs to her apartment. Just before she got there Gil caught up with her. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked him.

  ‘I was telling him to be especially watchful around your apartment.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Now don’t start getting agitated about that; it was just a sensible precaution.’

  Her nerves had tightened up again. ‘I thought nobody could get in here!’

  ‘Our security is very tight. There’s a man
on the gates, and the perimeter walls are electrified. The grounds are patrolled day and night. If anyone did get through our net how would he know where to find you, anyway? He would have to wander around, or hang about, looking for you, and that would make him very conspicuous. So you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Oh, don’t I?’ she grimaced, getting out her key to unlock the front door. ‘I’m beginning to think I should go back home. This isn’t going to be much of a holiday, holed up in my apartment as if I were the criminal instead of the guy who attacked me!’

  ‘I’ll make sure you see something of our region,’ Gil promised, following her into the apartment. The shutters were closed over the windows and the room was dark and shadowy.

  She knocked into a chair on her way to the window, and stopped dead. Gil almost cannoned into her. Her pulses went into overdrive.

  ‘I—I’ll p-put the light on,’ she stammered, moving to search for the light switch, but she had been here such a short time that she couldn’t remember where it was situated. Agitated, she fumbled along the wall, tripped over something that she realised a second too late was Gil’s foot, and stumbled stupidly into him, her face hitting his chest. Suddenly breathless, she was too taken aback to move away for a minute. She could hear a strange, distant thumping and thought it was her heart until it came closer and she realised it was Gil’s heart beating right below her cheek.

  His hand curled round her throat, under her chin, pushing her head backwards. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the dark; she looked up at him dazedly, seeing his face as a pale oval glimmering above her. It came closer; she could see the brightness of his grey eyes, the black circle of his pupil in the centre. In the dark, it was like looking at a bird of prey, a hunting hawk.