The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  A sudden thought of Yvonne flashed into Laurel's mind, bringing a wry twist to her mouth. She sighed. 'No, seňor, I realise that. And if I'd known…'

  There was a world of bitterness left unspoken, but more clearly conveyed than perhaps she realised.

  He said smoothly, 'Then we shall consider the matter closed, seňorita.'

  But it wasn't as easy as that. By now Laurel wanted only to escape. She was remembering the sudden unexpected iciness of the water, no doubt the first indication of the dreaded vortex into which she had come so near to being drawn—but she would never have gone so far out but for this arrogant stranger's advent. She supposed she would have to thank him for bringing her out, give him the benefit of the doubt that he had indeed pursued her only to warn her… She looked up at him.

  'I—I know very little of your language—I didn't realise you were trying to warn me.'

  'I said the matter was closed.' He was looking at her with a curious intensity, and Laurel felt colour come into her pale cheeks.

  She said awkwardly, 'Well, thank you for—for saving my life.'

  He raised one hand in a silencing gesture. 'You are feeling better now?'

  She nodded. 'I—I have to get dressed… my clothes…' She clutched the robe tight, and once again met that curious intensity of his regard. He showed no sign of making a polite retreat, and she felt fresh waves of resentment. 'Do I have to spell it out?' she hissed between taut lips.

  'No, seňorita.' He got lithely to his feet, and looking up at him she knew she had made no mistake in estimation of his stature. Towering above her and looking down at her small huddled form, he wore a sardonic smile. 'Again, it is a little late for feminine… pudor, seňorita.'

  She did not recognise the word, but guessed instinctively that the English equivalent he sought was modesty and anger rose in her, making her scramble to her feet. 'It is certainly not too late as far as I am concerned, seňor—oh!'

  In her hasty attempt to rise, clutching the robe round her and endeavouring to turn her back on him at the same time, she experienced a wave of giddiness and almost fell. Instantly she was caught and steadied by two hard hands.

  She fought the trembling weakness, hating the moments of dependence on this man and the fact that despite it all her body tensed to the intimacy of his warm hard contact against herself through the single flimsy barrier between them.

  'I think you are not recovered—the time of shock has set in,' he said sharply. 'Sit down, seňorita, and tell me where you left your possessions. I will bring them to you.'

  She could do little but obey, and a few moments later he returned, carrying the basket and the little bundle of clothing. 'And now,' he told her, 'I am going to swim. Please enrobe yourself, and feel assured that my attention will not be directed towards yourself, seňorita.' He hesitated, looking down at her wan, drawn features, and that curious quirk touched his mouth again. 'Perhaps you will be better convinced if I say frankly that neither your present appearance nor your frame of mind is liable to inflame a man's desire—or even a temptation to play,' he paused, snapping impatient fingers for the expression he wanted then exclaiming triumphantly, 'peeping Tom!'

  Before she could react to this calculated show of insolence he turned and took three long strides into the sea.

  Laurel began to feel as though she had been badly winded. She watched the dark head and the feathering arms cleaving through deeper water, and then expelled a long breath of rage. How dared he! Of all the insufferable, arrogant, infuriating males she'd ever met this one took the palm!

  With savage movements she pulled on her clothes and tried to comb her hair into a semblance of tidiness. By the time she had finished her anger was spent and self-pity replaced it. No doubt she looked a mess, but if he'd been half drowned and forced to submit to the high-handed treatment of an arrogant brute like himself he wouldn't be looking or feeling exactly like the Hallelujah Chorus. And if he hadn't come barging in on her in the first place it would never have happened. She'd have finished her cooling dip, dressed and dried off in the sun and been away without any bother. Laurel put on her shoes, shook the robe free of sand and folded it up, and with a grimace of distaste scooped sand over the horrid traces of her misfortune. There, that was everything. With luck she would be gone before he returned.

  She looked across the gilt-dappled waves, and saw that he was still swimming a little farther along. Good, that saved any argument. Laurel picked up her basket and turned to make her way back the way she had come. The thought of the long, long walk was daunting, but to stay and rest here was even more so. She had covered only a dozen yards before the peremptory voice sounded.

  He was emerging from the water at a point a little way ahead. Within moments he had barred her path.

  'Where are you going, seňorita?'

  'Back to the guest house, of course.'

  'The Aliens' pension? Do you think that is wise, seňorita? It is all of ten kilometros distant.'

  'So what?' She faced him wearily. 'What do you suggest? That I camp on the beach? Trespassing?'

  'I would suggest nothing of the sort. We are within ten minutes' walk of my home. There you may shower and refresh yourself. Come, seňorita, this way.'

  He stood there, tall and dominant, glints of impatience narrowing his dark eyes, aim Laurel took a step back, shaking her head.

  'No, thank you, seňor,' she said coldly. 'I appreciate your offer, but no.'

  'Why not?' He looked amazed, as though no one had ever contradicted him quite so flatly and the experience was not to his liking at all.

  'Because I don't want to,' she said quietly, turning away. 'Goodbye, seňor.'

  'Un minuto!'

  Suddenly her wrist was seized and she was swung round to face blazing eyes.

  'You foolish seňorita! Why are you afraid of me?'

  'Let go of me! I'm not afraid of you!'

  'Then why do you abuse my offer of hospitality?'

  Laurel tore herself free. 'I think that should be fairly obvious, seňor! First you almost cause me to drown, then you accuse me of trespassing—and then you try to make fun of me! Do you wonder I abuse your hospitality?'

  For a moment he looked as though he might strike her, then control tightened his lean jaw muscles and set his mouth into a long taut line. 'You do not know what you say, seňorita. I shall ignore your ill-founded accusations and suggest that you are in no fit state to make the journey back to your pension.'

  'Fit or not, I'm going to make it. Nothing would induce me to stay here a moment longer,' Laurel blazed at him. 'Can't you take no for an answer? Can't you understand that all I want is to get away from this place and forget the most—the most embarrassing experience I've ever had? No, seňor, I do not want your hospitality, nor do I ever want to see you again!'

  She turned then, tears of anger and weakness smarting her eyes, and began to run. Twice she stumbled, but each time fear of him and further humiliation kept her hurrying desperately to where the steep rough track led up to the path through the groves. Only when she reached the lengthening shadows of the trees did she allow herself to pause and glance over her shoulder.

  He was still there.

  But in that moment as she turned he also moved, slinging the blue robe carelessly across his broad shoulder and striding away towards the opposite end of the bay. His shadow lay long on the sand, sharp black against the deepening golden tones of the waning afternoon, and something made Laurel put a hand to her thumping heart.

  Although no chill breeze had sprung up to temper the heat she was shivering and her skin had turned clammy with perspiration. The arrogant stranger was out of sight now, but for some reason Laurel could not forget that long black shadow on the sand. It was almost as disturbing as its owner.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Laurel was exhausted by the time she got back to the guest house. Her unnerving experience of that afternoon had taken its toll, and despite her having stopped three times to rest during the return journey her l
egs trembled as she entered the gate, telling her they would not have carried her much farther.

  It was dark too, and she had been thankful to see the warm golden radiance of the lovely old Spanish wrought iron lanterns beckoning her back to rest and security. There was no sign of Yvonne, and the lamp-lit terrace was deserted as Laurel went wearily along it to return her basket. All she wanted was to ease her aching limbs into a warm bath and then seek her bed, which she fully intended to do immediately after the evening meal. Fortunately Mr and Mrs Allen kept to more traditional English mealtimes and dinner was at eight in the evenings—rather earlier than was the custom in Spanish society. She left the basket outside the door that led to the kitchen quarters, and was crossing the wide hall towards the stairs when someone called: 'Miss Daneway!'

  It was Mrs Allen, wife of the proprietor.

  Reluctantly Laurel stopped, but Mrs Allen did not come towards her. Instead the older woman inclined her head towards her private sitting room. 'If you can spare a few moments,' she said in a low voice, 'I would like a few words with you. Miss Daneway.'

  'Yes, of course.' Making an effort to hide her weariness, Laurel went into the small, simply furnished room that faced the rear of the villa. The thought flashed into her mind that something had happened to Yvonne during her own absence—and alarm came into her eyes. 'Is something wrong?' she asked urgently.

  Mrs Allen shook her head instantly, but there was a faintly disquieting look about her that did nothing to banish Laurel's alarm.

  'Please sit down.' Mrs Allen indicated a chair and then sat down herself. 'I hope you won't be offended by what I'm going to say—as a rule I never interfere in the affairs of our guests, but I'm rather worried.'

  'But why?' Laurel's hands tightened on the arms of the chair. A wild fear rose that somehow word of her experience had already percolated to the guest house —oh, why hadn't she kept her mouth shut about where she was staying?—and a complaint had been made. 'What happened—what have I done?' she whispered.

  'Oh, it isn't you, my dear!' Mrs Allen smiled. 'If all our guests were as little bother as yourself we'd be on velvet. Unfortunately, they're not. No, it's Miss Searle, I'm afraid.'

  Yvonne! Inwardly Laurel groaned. What had her spoiled young charge done now?

  'I know she's very young, and she's obviously used to getting her own way,' Mrs Allen went on with a note of apology in her tone, 'but for her own sake one of us must warn her.'

  'About what?'

  'About making a silly little idiot of herself over one of my waiters.' Mrs Allen's lips tightened. 'Were you aware of this—this flirtation in which she's getting involved with Renaldo?'

  'Oh no!' Dismay clouded Laurel's face. 'I had no idea—we've only been here three days. Today is the first time I've left her on her own.'

  'Well, she didn't waste the opportunity,' said Mrs Allen, grimly. 'I caught them in the garden—oh, just innocent skylarking, don't worry about that—but I believe they'd spent the afternoon on the beach.' Mrs Allen's expression softened. 'You see, my dear, trouble starts so easily. Renaldo is young and attractive, and knows it, but young Spanish girls of good family just don't flaunt themselves in the way our girls do. Oh, dear,' she sighed, 'I'm not putting this very clearly, am I? You see, the island has never become a popular tourist spot—the Patron would never allow it to go that way—and consequently life still tends to go on much the same as it has done for centuries, especially with being so far from mainland Spain.'

  Laurel looked slightly puzzled and wished Mrs Allen would get on with it; she felt so desperately tired.

  Mrs Allen, mistaking the puzzled look, smiled. 'Oh, yes, Destino is a Spanish possession, has been for about four hundred years, but the true ruler of Destino is the Conde—you must have noticed the castillo up on the headland—and he permits change of only the more ethical social progress. We have a small but very up-to-date hospital, a new school, and no one is allowed to know poverty, but otherwise…'

  Mrs Allen's shrug was expressive, and Laurel made a weary murmur of acknowledgement.

  'So that's why I must ask you to speak to Miss Searle. Try to explain to her that what to the average English teenager is merely fun and flirtation is wanton behaviour in the opinion of the locals. To them a girl is cheapening herself if she encourages a man to flirt with her. Of course the young men think it's wonderful, naturally, especially those like Renaldo and his brother who have worked seasons on the Costa Brava, and came home boasting about their conquests and the presents women showered on them. It's pathetic, really, when women are as lonely as that, but we don't want anything like that happening here—the dust has hardly settled after the Lang business.'

  Laurel suppressed a sigh. Plainly her hostess was wound up for the evening now. More from politeness than curiosity she asked, 'What was that?'

  'A family we had staying here a while ago. They had a daughter, a pretty child, terribly repressed and cosseted, probably with her being an only child who was born to them when they were almost into middle age. She'd never met anyone like Renaldo in her sheltered existence and she went crazy over him. You see,' Mrs Allen lowered her voice confidingly, 'Mrs Lang had been ill and Mr Lang brought them here so that she could recuperate. He stayed for a week to see them settled in, then went back to his business, planning to return in the spring to take them home again, when the worst of the English winter would be over. But by then it was too late for poor Sara!'

  'But why?' At last Laurel was jerked back to attention by a dark note of meaning in Mrs Allen's tone. 'What happened?'

  'She was pregnant.'

  Laurel exclaimed aloud. 'And you mean it… happened here?'

  Mrs Allen nodded. 'Yes. And Renaldo was responsible. He admitted it—said she'd tempted him. Poor Sara Lang! She scarcely knew the meaning of the word. Oh, he offered to marry her, prompted by authority, but Mr Lang said he wasn't going to have his only daughter pitched into a shotgun wedding at her age. She was only sixteen. And I doubt if the truth would have come out when it did if we hadn't happened to have a retired nurse staying here at the time. She didn't take long to realise why Sara was so white and scared and sick in the mornings. I'll never forget that day when she said straight out: "That girl's pregnant." And of course the balloon went up. Mr Lang had just arrived the day before, so pleased because his wife looked so well, and then a shock like that… Anyway, he hustled them back home—I suppose he wanted to see if an abortion was possible—and the Conde was furious. I've often wondered what happened to Sara…'

  At last Mrs Allen dried up, and Laurel felt a sick pang of unease. No wonder the woman was concerned about Yvonne, if the silly girl had started fooling around with the island's Casanova—except that the real Casanova had been reputed to take care that his amours did not suffer from his carelessness, Laurel reflected a trifle hysterically. Heavens, and Yvonne's father had sent her here to get her away from danger!

  She stood up. 'Thank you for warning me, Mrs Allen. I'll certainly speak to Yvonne.' Not that Yvonne would take much notice, she thought resignedly.

  'Have you had a nice day?' Mrs Allen asked, with a bright changing-the-subject smile.

  Laurel made the obvious and totally untruthful response, and escaped at last. She'd had her bath, there wouldn't be time now, she thought with a flash of resentment. A quick shower before she changed for dinner would be all she'd have time for. With a sigh, she went in search of Yvonne, determined to get the unpleasant business done with. Although Yvonne was probably a different proposition altogether from the unfortunate Sara Lang. Yvonne was fully aware of the more basic facts of life, if not the subtler ones.

  But Yvonne was not to be found. Laurel searched the gardens and then gave it up, somewhat reassured by a glimpse of Renaldo in the dining room as she passed the open door. She would talk to Yvonne tonight.

  But she was somewhat surprised by Yvonne's pale face when they met in the dining room. The younger girl did not come in until almost all the guests were at the tables, and she was
decidedly subdued. To Laurel's enquiry, however, she merely shrugged, offering no explanation, and proceeded to toy with curried chicken and rice. She did not eat much, and left half of her iced lime cream, then refused coffee. Laurel watched her sink a despondent chin into one hand, then leaned forward.

  'Yvonne, what's the matter? You've hardly eaten anything.'

  'I don't want any more.'

  'But why not? Is something wrong?'

  Yvonne sat up petulantly, giving an impatient sigh. 'I feel sick. If you must know, I've started the curse and I've a lousy headache. Now leave me alone. I'm going to bed.'

  She stood up, almost overturning her coffee cup, and flounced out of the room. Several heads turned to watch her exit, the Colonel's wife stiff with disapproval, and one or two glanced back to Laurel with something like sympathy in their expressions.

  Laurel finished her coffee and did not linger afterwards or join the other guests on the terrace, which seemed to be a customary place of adjournment after the evening meal, where some of the guests partook of their coffee and others had drinks. She went straight up to the big, airy bedroom she and Yvonne shared, entering quietly, with the intention of offering aspirins or whatever comfort she could to Yvonne.

  The room was in darkness, except for the little lamp at the side of Yvonne's bed, and the slight figure of Yvonne herself was curled up beneath the coverlet. Laurel went to the bedside.

  'Is there anything I can get you?' she said softly.

  There was no response. Yvonne's face was buried in the pillow, and her dark hair was spread in a tumbled cloud on the snowy linen. She was sound asleep.

  Laurel straightened. Better not wake her; a sound sleep would probably see her right by the morning. It was still early, not yet ten o'clock, and Laurel wavered; it seemed ridiculously early to turn in, but she was very tired, even though her shower and the food had restored her to a certain extent.