The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'Well, I think it's fun exploring a strange island. I'm enjoying it. And you must admit that the scenery is beautiful.'

  'Nobody's stopping you enjoying it.' Yvonne waved her hand. 'I'm not,' she added pointedly.

  At that moment Rosita, the little maid, came across the garden. She was carrying a small basket.

  'Your picnic lunch, seňoritas.' She handed the basket to Laurel and went on her way towards the kitchen garden, which lay to the rear of the long, low white villa.

  Laurel stood indecisively, watching the slim, black-clad form of the Spanish girl pass through the high, scrolled iron gate in the wall. Through its lacelike pattern she glimpsed another figure, that of Renaldo, the Latin-dark young waiter whose velvet eyes and melting smile enchanted the elderly female guests each day in the dining room, if not the male diners. Colonel Carlton had been heard to refer to him as another of those confounded dagoes, while Mr Binkley was equally disapproving and unable to understand why, in a guest house run by British proprietors, they couldn't employ British staff who understood plain English. Laurel's lips curved wryly at the fleeting thought then parted in a smile as there was a slight flurry of activity beyond the tall gate. The small feminine squeal and giggle was undoubtedly from Rosita, as was the protest which followed, to be abruptly silenced for a few moments before Rosita emerged, tossing her dark hair across her shoulder as she marched back into the house. The gate clanged, and Laurel came back to her own problem.

  'What about your lunch—I told them we'd both be out all day?' She gestured to the basket. 'It's in here.'

  'So what?' Yvonne yawned. 'I shan't starve, don't worry.'

  'No, I don't suppose you will.' Laurel's mouth tightened. 'I suppose I'd better find Mrs Allen and explain.'

  'I'll do that.' Yvonne gave an unexpectedly winsome smile. 'I've got a tongue in my head, you know. She won't mind if I talk to her nicely.'

  'You're hopeless!' Laurel decided to give it up. 'Don't forget to apologise—and don't go swimming straight after food, do you hear?'

  'I promise.' Yvonne pretended to cross her heart. 'Now hadn't you better get a move on? It's going to be too hot to move before you get anywhere.'

  After a moment or so of hesitation Laurel tucked her map into the basket and donned her sunglasses. She was experiencing prickles of unease regarding Yvonne for which she could find no logical reason. After all, what harm could befall Yvonne, short of drowning herself or falling off the cliff or something equally unlikely? And what could she do about the matter, short of forcibly tipping the rebellious Yvonne out of the swing and insisting on obedience? A course of action unlikely to have much success, Laurel told herself as she turned away at last and let herself out of the side door in the high wall.

  She set off up the narrow path that wound its tortuous way up the hillside. The previous afternoon she had noticed a second path forking from it about halfway to the summit, and today she intended to explore it and add its contours to the rough map she was trying to make of the island. Perhaps it would lead to the far end of the island, hidden beyond the second ridge of hills which crossed Destino. Perhaps it would lead her to that great sun-washed shape of the castillo that dominated the island.

  What was it like? And its daunting grandee owner?

  But she wasn't here to speculate—or gatecrash. Her folder was already filling with notes, and she was beginning to think that Mr Searle could be on to a winner.

  Admittedly there was a debit of material amusements, as Yvonne had disgustedly noticed, but for a rugged, outdoor holiday Destino had much to commend it. Hot sun, with sea winds to temper the heat. Safe bathing from a glorious beach within minutes of the guest house, and on the sheltered side, away from the great Atlantic breakers that could make sea bathing impossible on the exposed western coast. There were groves and ravines to ramble through inland, hills to climb to see fantastic views, and a picturesque village where the women sat by their doorways working at exquisitely stitched embroidery. The local wine was cheap and good, there was an abundance of fruit, the seafood was superb, and the fresh sweet air held its own heady bouquet. But it still remained for Laurel to discover the practical facts about water supplies and if there were suitable sites likely to be available for building. For she had seen little sign so far of premises that promised more wide-scale accommodation. Perhaps on the far side of the island…

  The path wound its way round the gentle curve of the hill, eventually coming out above the terraced slopes and lush dark groves that stretched into the distance to where the second line of hills rose to the skyline. These would be the citrus groves, which, along with the rich dark Destino wine that held such an unsuspected bite and potency, provided the island with its principal exports. The vineyards lay on the far side of those second hills, rather too distant to reach on foot from Laurel's starting point at the guest house, but she intended to try to reach them today, which was why she had set out prepared with a picnic lunch as it would be very late by the time she got back at night.

  By eleven she judged she had covered almost half of the distance, although the rugged green slopes looked as far distant as ever. She perched on a sun-warmed outcrop of rock, allowing herself ten minutes' rest and the refreshment of an apple before she moved on. It was almost one o'clock, and the sun reaching its hottest, by the time she found herself at the end of the path. It met another, leading up into the hills on her right, and on her left led down towards a small sandy bay sheltered by rocky cliffs. Without pausing to ponder any decision she turned thankfully downhill towards the sea.

  The beach was deserted. Laurel found a suitable hollow and settled herself comfortably. She opened her lunch basket and spread out her repast on the cloth Mrs Allen had thoughtfully included. It was incredibly quiet, and Laurel began to get the feeling that she was the only being alive. Somehow it was difficult to believe that anyone lived within miles of this wild, remote little cove on whose clean, sea-washed sands only her own footprints showed. No transistors, no beach balls flying, no voices of excited children or the scampering paws of dogs. This was away from it all with a vengeance. Perfect for lovers!

  The sun made her drowsy, and she lay back for a while, closing her eyes against the glare but not sleeping, conscience telling her she must not linger too long; she had a job to do. When at last she sat up she found she had lain there in a bemused calm for well over an hour. She found that she was also very hot, very sticky, and her limbs evinced not the slightest inclination to obey the command of duty that said get up and go. Sighing, she stowed away the remains of her lunch, closed the basket, and stared at the sea. It had never looked more inviting.

  She took off her sensible canvas shoes which, while they were more suitable than sandals, had still not saved her feet from feeling the effects of all the walking she had done, and ran down to the edge of the sea. It was bliss! She played tag with the ripples for a while, then returned to where her things lay. If only she had brought swim things!

  She sighed again, brushing sand from her toes, then the outrageous temptation came. Dared she? Just a brief dip, just to freshen herself?

  She looked round, temptation and inhibition battling in her. There was no one in sight and she could see every nook of this rocky little cove enclosed within high slopes which ended in two low headlands stretching out into the sea. The path leading down to it was empty and there wasn't a sign of a house for miles— except for that great Castillo up there, and it was always there! No, this was obviously a lonely, unfrequented part of the island. She looked up at the Castillo—did they sit around with binoculars?—and then at those gorgeous cascading ripples, and yielded. Anyway, it was siesta time! Who would be awake to see her at the high noon of the day?

  In moments she had slipped free of her denim pants and cotton shirt, tucked her briefs and bra into a tight little bundle with them, and fled into the cover of the waves.

  It was heavenly!

  She swam leisurely along, parallel with the beach, revelling in the silken swish
of the water against her body and telling herself she would stay in for only a few minutes, just long enough to cool and refresh herself…

  But the sun was hot, the sky a rich heavenly blue, and this was the first time Laurel had ever swum in the nude; she had never dreamed how pleasurable and exhilarating an experience it could be. She forgot time, forgot everything except this newfound joyous freedom, and frolicked in the water as she had not done since childhood. Once she had been able to turn a somersault… could she still…? And a dozen strokes underwater…? Somewhat to her surprise she could, and she came up spluttering and laughing with sheer happiness.

  Tired at last, she floated, and remembering, looked towards the shore, suddenly anxious. But her basket and the little bundle of clothing lay exactly as she had left them, and there was no one to be seen. Too late she realised she had no towel, but she pushed away the rueful thought; there were some paper towels in her bag that would mop up the rivulets, and a cotton bandana she could wring out her hair with. She would soon dry off in this heat! She turned over to begin her swim ashore, and almost fainted with shock. She was no longer alone.

  Someone was swimming towards her, cleaving the water with long, effortless strokes that lessened the distance to half in the few seconds it took for her to comprehend the awful truth.

  It was a man!

  Laurel's mouth opened, inadvertently admitting quite an amount of the Atlantic, and she went under. Panic welling, she came up gasping and turned to escape in the only direction left, out to sea.

  'Seňora!—Seňorita!'

  The deep sharp voice rang across the blue. Laurel quickened her stroke. Where on earth had he sprung from? Why had he had to materialise now? Or had he observed her earlier on? With the result that she was now about to collect a young Latin hotblood who had decided she was fair game… Laurel snatched another glance back and her worst suspicion was realised: he was following her!

  'Pare! Seňorita—tenga cuidado!'

  Stop! Not likely! How could she? Laurel ploughed on wildly, praying her pursuer would weary and give up, but a fresh torrent of Spanish rang across the water. He must have lungs and stamina of steel! He was very near now, and through blurs of wetness she glimpsed powerful arms cutting the blue. Laurel ceased her frantic strokes, summoning breath to cry out a desperate appeal:

  'Go away—please!'

  'Por Dios! Una inglesa—I might have known!'

  The fierce response ricocheted across the swirling ripples and Laurel ducked frantically, forcing her tired limbs back to action. It was years since she'd swum at this clip. Was the man crazy? She must have come miles out. How was she going to make it back? And the water was so cold now, rougher.

  She strove not to surrender to panic, feverishly wondering which was the lesser fate; to perish from sheer exhaustion in a sea no longer so benign and blue, or be caught swimming nude by a mad, determined Latin bent on—what was he bent on, anyway? Laurel's brain went blank and everything fled before the sheer pain that seized her leg and seemed to radiate through her entire body. She spun helplessly, not knowing what had happened, then with a choked cry she went under, caught in the nightmare that strikes without warning. Cramp!

  She came to the surface, her arms flailing and consciousness seeking only one objective, something to grab. Nothing else mattered now except the instinct of survival. Her ears felt blocked and roaring, her head bursting, and the sharp voice sounded a long way off. Hands grasped at her, pushing her away, and she felt herself go under again. The brute was going to leave her to drown, and it was all his fault…

  'Do not struggle!' the voice cried. 'I do not want to hit you!'

  'Help me!' she gasped. 'I can't—'

  He seemed to be going away. Faintly she heard the exclamation: 'You will drown both of us!' before the turbulent waters closed over her head, shutting out everything except the roaring bursting pressure in her head. Blackness swamped in, she was going down, choking, and then suddenly she was trying to gasp in blessed air. A bar was hard under her chin and sun blinded into her eyes, making a glistening blur of the sky. The bar was the wrist of the stranger, and he was drawing her backwards through the heaving waves. A great limpness pervaded her and all the fight went out of her spirit. She closed her eyes weakly, some basic instinct warning her to make no further struggle or the consequences might be fatal…

  Her erstwhile pursuer towed her unresisting body back towards the safety of the shore, one lean strong hand hooked under her throat, keeping her mouth above the invading surge of the sea, and the other aiding the propulsion of his powerful leg strokes beneath her. When at last firm sand rose into shallows he found his feet and scooped Laurel effortlessly into his arms, to carry her a little way along the beach and then lay her face down on a dark blue towelling robe. He bent over her, his breathing only slightly quickened from his exertions, and placed his hands down on her back to apply pressure. But at their touch she gave a violent shudder.

  Dreadful realisation was already breaking through her daze, and she tried to curl up, trying to hide herself, even as coughing and retching overtook her with its grim reaction to her dangerous experience.

  He sat back on his heels, his dark face tautening with anger, and snapped: 'You would prefer to recover unaided, it seems.'

  Between the horrible spasms she choked, 'Go away— you—'

  'It is rather late for that, you foolish niňa.' With a scornful gesture he pulled free a wide fold of the robe and dropped it across her nakedness. 'But then only a woman would try to argue when her lungs are awash with sea water.'

  Laurel could not answer. She just wanted to die.

  The next few minutes were the most distressing she had ever endured in all her life. Nature's method of trying to counteract the effects of being half drowned was basic and very physical, and even Laurel's painful awareness of the grim, silent presence nearby could not stop her from being very sick. When at last she felt-she could draw breath freely through a rasped throat and aching air passages she was too weak to do anything but huddle miserably into the blue robe and knuckle the tears out of sore, streaming eyes.

  'So you begin to recover, seňorita.'

  The chill tones held a note of barely restrained anger, but Laurel was beyond response other than the faintest movement of her head. Her hair clung in matted streaks round her face and dripped runnels of water down her neck and shoulders, and her entire being ached. She felt awful, and she wished with all her heart that she was anywhere else in the world but this lonely beach with its other, impossible occupant.

  But it seemed he was not satisfied with her silence.

  'Perhaps you feel recovered enough to explain your folly,' he suggested icily.

  'Folly! Mine?' Laurel turned her head at last, stung into defence. 'But it was your fault! You started it! You—'

  Her voice faltered and ebbed away as she encountered the sheer arrogant power of her adversary, face to face for the first time.

  This was no slightly built Latin with melting eyes and warm mouth, who would woo a woman with velvet words and sinuous charm. This man had the proud head of a grandee, the arrogant, dominating eyes of a conquistador, the broad, corded steel torso of an athlete, the visage of a classical god, and the kind of magnetism beside which a lesser man would pale into insignificance. He was kneeling now, his brief scarlet swim trunks a splash of vivid colour that deepened the rich, dark gold tan of his body, but his height would undoubtedly be in the six foot region when he stood erect.

  'Well,' he said, apparently wearying of her scrutiny, 'you were about to accuse me… of what, seňorita!'

  'I was all right until you came, following me, refusing to let me swim in peace and—'

  'Following you!' His dark eyes flashed. 'Why did you refuse to heed my warnings? We might both have drowned through your stupid, juvenile folly!'

  Laurel stared at him as though he had taken leave of his senses. 'What warnings? How dare you accuse me, when all the time you were—were—'

  'I
was trying to prevent a trespasser from encountering the danger she seemed ignorant of, or oblivious to, but to which I am beginning to wish I had consigned her,' he interposed grimly. His mouth tightened as he stared at her unbelieving expression. 'Oh, yes, seňorita, you were trespassing, and you were in very real danger.'

  Laurel was beginning to feel very cold and shaky. But her spirit was returning and she said stubbornly, 'I met no danger until you arrived, seňor.'

  His dark brows went up. 'No? Perhaps you will remain silent until I convince you?' Without waiting for further argument he continued in the same icy tone: 'The ensenada looks idyllic, does it not? The sea calm and blue and inviting, the beach smooth and golden. Certainly one may bathe and swim here in perfect safety—provided one does not venture near el vortice.'

  El vortice… Vortex? Laurel started, and the stranger's mouth betrayed a cynical curve of amusement.

  'I think perhaps you understand a trifle more of my language than you would admit. The translation you seek is indeed the whirlpool, and the word itself should be sufficient to strike fear into your heart, seňorita.'

  'There is a whirlpool out there?' she faltered.

  He nodded. 'Near the base of the headland.'

  She felt ice creep through her veins and she moved her head unbelievingly. 'I didn't know. I—'

  'Yet you chose to ignore and defy my warnings, seňorita.'

  She licked dry lips. 'I didn't realise. I—I thought—'

  She stopped, unable to voice the truth, and again that scornful curve etched his mouth.

  'You thought perhaps I pursued you for more blatant purpose, did you not?'

  'What else was I to think?'

  He inclined his head, and mocking lights entered his dark eyes. 'I assure you, seňorita, I did not realise the reason for your strange folly—until it was almost too late. By then I had no alternative but to do what was necessary.' He paused. 'I have heard of the English girl's determination to flout all convention, but I did not expect to find one, desnuda, within my own boundaries. I must request that in future you show a token respect while a guest of this island, seňorita. This is not the Riviera.'