Dark Fever

by Charlotte Lamb

  ‘Why are you so nervous?’ he murmured, and she watched his mouth move, her knees giving way.

  ‘I...’ Her voice died in her throat as she swallowed convulsively.

  ‘What’s wrong, Bianca?’ he asked softly, his mouth coming down closer, then closer still.

  ‘Oh,’ she said wildly. ‘Oh, no...’

  ‘No, what?’ Gil asked against her parted mouth, and she groaned.

  His tongue-tip slid along her lower lip and she moaned again. ‘I—I mustn’t,’ she stammered.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, his tongue moving right inside her mouth as he spoke, and she trembled, clutching him to stop herself falling to pieces because the pleasure of tasting his mouth was so intense it was like dying; a piercing excitement had begun inside her, a bewildering mix of pain and delight.

  ‘Gil...no...’

  ‘Shh...’ he murmured, his voice husky, and then he was kissing her hotly and she shut her eyes, let her body yield to the pressure of his hand against her back, drawing her closer. This was what she had wanted from the first instant she saw him, almost naked in the sunlight, his beautiful body glittering with drops of water, his skin golden and smooth, his body riveting. As she remembered how he had looked that first morning, desire ran through her like a flame and she shuddered in his arms, kissing him back, her mouth meeting the insistent pressure of his with equal hunger.

  She ran her hands up his chest, the warmth of his skin coming through his shirt and permeating her palms. The body under his shirt was firm and muscled; she felt her way upwards, slowly, touched his strong neck, felt the hot beat of his pulse under her fingertips. His blood ran there; she felt the race of excitement in his veins and an answering race in her own:

  He wants me, she thought, shivering, and God knows I want him. I have ever since I first saw him. She knew that this could have happened then, that very first moment; her desire had been a primitive impulse over which her mind had no control; she had felt it beat up inside her as she’d looked at him, and if anything it was stronger now, more powerful.

  The physical need of the past empty three years had grown into a force as devastating as a tidal wave. It was crashing now against the last frail restraints she had built up against it. She shuddered with the impact of that force.

  Gil groaned, slowly ran his hand down from her throat and caressed her full, warm breasts. A deep gasp of pleasure broke from her, and then the hand behind her slid up inside her T-shirt and undid her bra. A second later she felt his hands cupping her naked breasts. His lips slid from her mouth to her neck, where his teeth grazed her; he opened his mouth on her flesh and her head fell back; she couldn’t stop groaning, shaking; she was so hot, she was on fire.

  Suddenly he lifted her off the floor, half over his shoulder; he began walking with her. She was in a sensual trance, knowing what was going to happen and wanting it so much that she couldn’t make herself stop him. Why should she stop him? Why shouldn’t she take what she wanted, and to hell with the consequences?

  He carried her into the shadowy bedroom and threw back the bedcover; he pulled off her sandals, laid her on the cool linen sheet; she heard him tearing off his clothes, dropping them on the floor as he had her sandals.

  Hot and cold, flushed and shivering, Bianca tried to think, tried to make herself break out of her daze.

  If Rob could see me he’d be so disgusted, she thought with a sudden sick pang. Am I really going to go to bed with a man I hardly know? I haven’t even known him a week yet. Some women may go in for quick holiday romances, leaping into bed without a second thought, but I’m not like that. Rob would despise me if he knew.

  She sat up, white and sick, and tried to slide off the bed, but Gil was in her way, and he was naked now.

  She froze, heart beating hard and fast, breathless and shaking. She couldn’t take her eyes off him; her mouth went dry.

  He looked down at her; she felt his eyes piercing her, reading the hunger she couldn’t hide.

  ‘May I take your clothes off, or would you rather do it yourself?’ he whispered.

  She sat there, all eyes. She couldn’t get a word out and couldn’t move, only stare at him, a deep, burning ache inside her, between her thighs.

  He knelt on the bed and reached for her, and her nerves jumped.

  ‘No!’ she said, stiffening. ‘I can’t, Gil. Rob would hate me...’

  His eyes flashed like lightning in the darkness of the room. ‘He’s dead. You aren’t. How much longer are you going to wait? What are you expecting—permission from the grave?’

  She winced. ‘Don’t!’

  He said more gently, ‘Three years is long enough, Bianca. You’re alive; you have a right to a full and meaningful life, a right to love and be loved, not exist in some half-life, like a nun in a convent. Rob couldn’t blame you for that—or was he petty and mean-minded?’

  ‘Rob was generous, a kind man, warm-hearted and loving!’

  ‘Then why would he want you to be unhappy for the rest of your life?’ Gil asked, and then he reached for her again and drew her T-shirt over her head.

  He undressed her slowly and she no longer protested or tried to stop him. She felt his pleasure as he took her clothes off, was weak with her own pleasure at having his hands gently touch her, each movement as much an act of love as the act itself could be, a sensual ritual, her clothes discarded item by item until she was as naked as he was.

  It was three years since a man had seen her totally naked, and she felt very self-conscious, exposed and defenceless.

  He sat down on the bed beside her and looked at her— the room was full of a breathing, thick silence, and her eyes darkened under his stare.

  Was this how she had been looking at him? Had he felt the way she felt now?

  He leaned his face against her bare breasts, groaning, his lips pressed against her flesh.

  ‘I want you so much I feel sick.’

  She quivered in response, sighing at the intimacy of having his mouth move there, over the satiny, cool skin. She reached for his hair, stroked it, then her eyes closed, and she rested her face on the top of his head.

  ‘I’ve never felt this way before,’ Gil whispered. ‘The first time I saw you, standing on your balcony looking down at me, my stomach seemed to drop out of me.’

  A little gasp broke out of her. ‘That’s how I felt.’ It was a relief to say it aloud, to admit how she had felt that first day.

  ‘I’ve got to have you,’ he said in a thickened voice. ‘Bianca, let me make love to you—I’ve been thinking about nothing else since we first met; it’s driving me out of my mind.’

  He lifted his head and she saw his eyes, volcanic with desire; his face was tense, jaw clenched.

  What did he see? she wondered, staring back at him and feeling the same urgent, driving need she saw in him.

  She didn’t know which of them moved first, but suddenly they were kissing with such passion that she almost fainted. Trembling, she fell backwards on the bed, and he came with her, on top of her, his body moving between her opening thighs as if they had done this a thousand times before. The weight of him was so familiar, so right; she put her arms around him and held him close, her legs going round him too, enfolding him.

  Suddenly she remembered the morning of her fortieth birthday, her dream just before waking up, the dream where Rob had turned into a faceless stranger while they were making love.

  Here it was again, but this time she was wide awake, it was no dream, and the stranger had a face.

  Was that what she had been telling herself in her dream? That however much she mourned Rob the truth was that she was alive, and she still needed love—she was a woman with unfulfilled needs and had to stop living in the past? The man without a face had been a symbol more than a real man; the fact that he was a stranger had been the important thing about him—her unconscious had been telling her that she had to find someone else; she needed the fulfilment of sex as much as she needed air and food and sunshine.

>   She had not wanted to admit that, was still nervous of admitting it now—but it was true, wasn’t it? This desire burning deep inside her for a man she hardly knew was not mere lust, it was a need for love, a very basic human need.

  ‘What’s wrong? Don’t turn off me again,’ Gil muttered, his face burrowing between her breasts. ‘Don’t think about him, damn you! Don’t you know how jealous that makes me? Every time you say his name I feel as if you’ve stabbed me.’

  She lay still, horrified. ‘Gil!’ The admission shocked her; it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be jealous of her dead husband. She bit her lip. She had been so busy thinking about her own feelings, her own problems, that she hadn’t once tried to look at the situation through Gil’s eyes.

  He lifted his head again to look at her, a faintly sulky look on his face. ‘What do you expect? You keep telling me how much you loved him and how much you miss him. I understand—I try to, anyway. But I want you to love me. I certainly don’t want you thinking about him when you’re with me.’

  Anguished, she said, ‘Rob was part of my life, part of me, for twenty years, Gil. How can I forget him altogether? I feel guilty anyway because I’m here, with you, in bed.’

  ‘I know you do. You keep saying so.’ He was getting angry, his face fierce. ‘Just put him out of your head, Bianca. I want you all to myself; I’m not sharing you. I’m not making love to you while you think of him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t! I... That’s a terrible thing to say!’ She pushed at his shoulders, getting angry herself. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea; I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a mistake. I think you should go.’

  He stared down at her, his eyes glittering in the shadows. His voice deepened, became dark and husky. ‘I could make you want me; I could make you forget him.’

  ‘Not in this mood,’ she threw back at him. ‘You’re too angry. I wouldn’t enjoy making love to you when you’re like this. I’m sorry if it makes you jealous to know I loved my husband, but I’m not going to pretend I never think of him any more. I can’t erase him from my life. He’s still part of it, in my children, in my memories. I wouldn’t ask you to forget you ever met your wife.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ he said curtly. ‘It isn’t the same! You loved your husband. Mady was a mistake—she took me in completely, but once the illusion wore off and I saw the truth I walked away without a backward glance. I certainly would never think of her when I was with you. The two of you couldn’t be less alike.’

  Then he swung off the bed and began to pull on his clothes. Bianca sat on the edge of the bed and did the same; she had just pushed her feet into her sandals when Gil strode out of the bedroom and into the living-room to throw open the shutters. The late afternoon sun flooded in, and she winced at the illumination of the scene: the dishevelled bed, the indentation in the pillows where their heads had lain.

  While she was out the maids had been in and cleaned the whole apartment; if it weren’t for the disorder of the bed, you would hardly have known anyone was using the place, except that her clothes hung in the wardrobes and were folded in a chest of drawers, her nightdress was draped across the end of the bed, as the maid always left it, and there was a little pile of books and English women’s magazines on the bedside table.

  Gil walked back towards her, his face taut and pale. ‘Let me know if you ever decide to rejoin the land of the living!’ he muttered.

  She bent her head and stared at the white rug beside the bed, not bothering to answer.

  After a tense little silence he picked up the top book on her bedside table, the latest detective story by one of Bianca’s favourite writers.

  ‘Have you read this?’

  ‘Not yet, I only began it yesterday, but so far it’s very good.’

  ‘I read it last week—it’s terrific; I couldn’t put it down.’ His long fingers flicked through the pages, then he closed the book and looked at the titles of the other books, which were all novels. ‘Do you read much?’

  A bubble of hysteria formed in her throat. The exchange was so stilted, a polite conversation between two strangers—but then that was what they were, wasn’t it? Strangers...who had somehow got into this very intimate, personal situation far too fast, and now did not know what to say to each other.

  ‘I don’t get much time for reading,’ she said in the same stiff, unreal voice. ‘Except in bed, late at night, when I’m usually too tired to read for long.’

  His grey eyes flicked at her, glittering. ‘Sleeping alone isn’t good for you. A book is no substitute for a man.’

  Her face turned scarlet. She gave him a furious look, stood up, and walked out of the bedroom, towards the door of her apartment. Gil followed her coolly. She opened the door and stood back to let him pass her.

  ‘Goodbye, Senor Marquez!’

  He gave her a look that made her ears boom with hypertension, but he said nothing, just walked out. Bianca slammed the door after him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bianca needed some air, she was so hot, and it would be nice to feel cool water on her overheated skin. After hurriedly changing into a black and white striped swimsuit, she went out to the swimming-pool below her balcony, where she had first seen Gil, and lowered herself gratefully into the water. Most of the hotel guests were down at the beach, she realised, hearing loud voices, laughter and music from that direction. There was nobody else in the pool; she had it to herself.

  She swam a few lengths energetically, then slowed down. The sun was low on the horizon, the air full of the sound of bird-calls and the flapping of wings as they flew between the trees. The garden of the hotel was almost tropical, full of palms and wide-leaved trees swathed in creepers, some of them vivid with blue, red and purple flowers. Bianca floated on her back, staring up at the deepening blue of the sky—she would have to go in soon but she was reluctant to move yet; she felt physically content, euphoric after her exercise.

  Voices near by startled her. Lifting her head, she looked around. Freddie was walking past with her husband and children, after hours on the beach, from the look of them, all wearing swimsuits, carrying towels and books, sunglasses pushed up into their hair, their faces sun-flushed, their bodies sandy. After saying hello, Karl and the children ran on to their apartment to have showers while Freddie paused to chat to Bianca, who had swum to the end of the pool and was treading water, her wet hair plastered to her head.

  ‘It’s been a lovely day here,’ Freddie told her. ‘We were on the beach most of the day! How did you enjoy Granada? Isn’t the Alhambra sensational?’

  ‘Fabulous,’ agreed Bianca, wondering how Freddie knew where she had been. Had Gil told her? Did Freddie know that Gil had followed her to Granada? Bianca didn’t like to ask; she didn’t want to discuss Gil with his sister-in-law; she didn’t want to admit a personal interest in him. Instead, she talked about the Alhambra—the palace and the amazing Generalife, the gardens surrounding it, their shady walks, the wonderful fountains of roses, the clove scent of carnations scenting the air, the dazzling colours and perfumes assaulting the senses.

  ‘I love it too,’ agreed Freddie. ‘But it’s always so crowded with people. I’d love to go there when it was shut to the public...but then, I suppose, I am the public, so it would be shut to me too!’

  Bianca laughed. ‘That’s just what I thought, and Gil said that tourism kills the thing it loves, which is so true! The more of us that travel, the more impossible it gets to enjoy the places we go to see! But all the same, while I’m here, I would like to see any other interesting places there are around here—can you recommend any?’

  ‘You ought to go to Ronda—it’s one of the oldest cities in Spain, not too far to drive from here; I’m sure there are coaches that go there. It’s up in the hills, the most amazing place—it’s cut in half by a huge gorge with a bridge over it; you can lean over and look down about fifty feet, all these great jagged rocks and trees and creepers growing out of them. It gives me vertigo. Half the town is modern Spanish, w
ith long, straight streets, and on the other side of the gorge there’s the old Moorish town, which is all alleys and windy little streets, with a palace they call Casa del Rey Moro... the palace of the Moorish king... and there’s a cathedral that used to be the mosque. Bullfighting was started in Ronda by some famous bullfighter called Pedro Romera, right back in the eighteenth century; they’re very proud of that there. At one time the hills around the town—the Serrania de Ronda—were full of some pretty bloodthirsty bandits. I think these days most of them are working in restaurants and hotels, judging by the prices of drinks around the bar down on the beach!’

  ‘It’s the same in tourist spots all over the world these days, isn’t it?’ said Bianca.

  ‘I suppose so. It cost me a fortune to have dinner in London a few months back! Talking of dinner, Karl and I wondered if you would have dinner with us in the hotel dining-room tomorrow? And don’t worry...the children are going to eat in the apartment.’

  ‘Oh—oh, thank you, that’s very kind,’ stammered Bianca, wondering if Gil was going to make up a foursome with them, afraid of seeing him again. It would be too embarrassing, remembering what had happened in her apartment earlier. She wouldn’t be able to look at him!

  But she didn’t want to hurt Freddie’s feelings, either, which left her in an impasse. What was she to do? She liked Freddie very much and Karl seemed pleasant. She would enjoy dinner with them in other circumstances-it was just a pity they were related to Gil Marquez.

  ‘So you’ll come?’ pressed Freddie, watching her curiously.

  How could she refuse? She could hardly plead another engagement.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said huskily, very flushed; she looked at Freddie and away, restlessly, her heart beating far too fast. ‘What time?’

  ‘About eight? You remember how late the Spanish eat? Can you meet us in the piano bar for drinks at eight?’

  Bianca nodded. ‘Eight in the piano bar. OK.’

  Freddie turned away then stopped and looked back over her shoulder. ‘Oh...I forgot to say...they’re having a band in after dinner, for dancing; they do that several times a week and it’s fun—I love to dance, don’t you? So wear something you can dance in.’