The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  Yvonne started to sing softly, a snatch of her favourite hit of the moment, then, just as they reached the last few stairs, she broke off to ask abruptly, 'Where did you get to last night? I wanted to borrow your setting lotion, and I couldn't find you anywhere,' she added accusingly, taking the last two stairs in one bound. 'I wondered what on earth had happened to you.'

  'And why should anything have happened to Seňorita Daneway?'

  The Conde stood in the doorway of the sala, his stance relaxed but his tone subtly challenging. 'Did you fear some harm had befallen her?' he asked.

  Yvonne laughed. 'You never know! She might have been abducted by the phantom of Destino—except that those sort of things don't happen to Laurie!'

  Laurel scarcely heard the flippant retort. She was conscious of his gaze moving up to her, and although his dark eyes seemed to study her flushed face she knew he was taking in every line of her as she stood stock-still on the third stair. Under that encompassing scrutiny with no undertones of the warmth she remembered she began to feel uncertain and not a little perturbed. How long had he been standing there? And how much of Yvonne's careless chatter had he overheard ?

  He held out one hand in a commanding gesture. 'Come, seňoritas—desayuno awaits.'

  Laurel thought she detected a note of impatience, of boredom, almost, beneath the surface Latin courtesy, and suddenly it was as though the enchantment spun the previous evening was a nebulous dream after all. He had reverted again to the cool, arrogant grandee whose mood and reactions she could never predict.

  The air of uncertainty seemed to hang over the castillo in general that morning. After breakfast the Conde made formal apologies to his two guests, regret-ting that he must neglect them and entreating them to request anything they wished of José or the other servants. The Condesa kept to her own suite, having her meals served there, and let it be known that she was feeling indisposed that morning. There was much evidence of preparations by the servants for the advent of Carlota, more noise and a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing along the corridors upstairs, and more raised voices from the kitchen quarters. A considerable commotion, in fact, as Yvonne remarked when she and Laurel made their way down to the beach.

  'I only hope she's not one of these imperious types, wanting her own way all the time,' Yvonne said darkly. 'If she thinks she can order me about she's got another think coming.'

  Laurel smiled wryly. 'That's really why we're here,' she reminded the suspicious Yvonne.

  'You mean that's why you are here,' retorted Yvonne. 'It's got nothing to do with me. You're the one who's got to keep her in order while His Nibs is away.'

  Laurel had not forgotten, and as the afternoon wore on, nearing the time of the steamer's arrival, she felt the return of all her doubts. What if Carlota proved as difficult and headstrong as all accounts of her seemed to indicate? How was she going to deal with her, vested with only the frail authority of a stranger? It was all very well for the Conde to talk of providing companionship and assuming that the presence of two young guests would ensure that Carlota behaved herself as befitted a hostess in her cousin's absence. But once he was gone, what then? What if Carlota decided to remove herself on the next boat? How would Laurel stop her? For there was no one else, except a frail old lady whose advancing years deserved peace and quiet.

  Shortly after five the Conde departed, presumably to meet the incoming steamer and his cousin. From the window of her room Laurel saw the tall figure stride out to his car, and even from this distance she could discern the hard set of his features and the air of purposefulness that hung about him, as though he were prepared for trouble and had every intention of dealing with it summarily. From the room behind her there was a chinking sound of glass on glass as Yvonne pottered among the cosmetics on the dressing table and knocked over a bottle of nail lacquer.

  'Laurie, can I try this mascara tonight—mine seems to have gone thick?'

  'If you like.'

  The preoccupied note in her tone brought Yvonne to the window, in time to see the car move away. Yvonne's mouth pouted. 'He might have taken us down to meet her.'

  Laurel sighed at the voicing of her own disappointment at this omission, but she gave no hint of it as she murmured, 'Why should he? After all, he may not want strangers present at a family meeting.'

  'Yes, but we're guests, aren't we? Supposed to be here for her benefit.' Yvonne turned from the window, her glance going to the crisp white dress whose hanger was hooked over the top of the wardrobe door. 'Are you changing?'

  'I think we'd better.' Laurel began to divest herself of her blouse and skirt. 'I'm beginning to feel somewhat less than fresh.'

  'Well, I'm not bothering, not until dinner tonight. If you want to get dressed up and stick around on your best behaviour you can.' Yvonne shoved her thumbs into the top of her jeans and sauntered to the door. 'I'm going out again.'

  'For goodness' sake, don't be long.'

  'Depends where I go.'

  The door swung shut and Laurel bit her lip. She knew from her brief weeks of experience of Yvonne's moods that when the younger girl was piqued she would not listen to reason. But surely courtesy would triumph over this display of wilful independence. Laurel hoped so as she changed into the slim cool lines of the tailored shirtwaister and slipped her feet into dainty strapped white sandals. For she and Yvonne were guests within a limited sense of the word; strange, and for Laurel at least, somewhat painful circumstances had led to their presence at the castillo. In truth, they had had little choice in the matter, and Laurel was not likely to forget this, even if Yvonne preferred to forget it.

  Laurel drew her hair back into its accustomed french pleat and studied her reflection for a moment before she picked up her bag. Last night seemed far away now; almost like a dream. Perhaps it had been…

  The great hall was deserted when she went downstairs. The late sun streamed in vivid gold rays across the polished amber and rose parquet floor, and touched the glowing colours of a huge bowl of scarlet and saffron blossoms which stood on a side table. There were flowers everywhere, on the broad window ledges, on two other side tables, and on a tall pedestal at the foot of the stairs, and everything gleamed from a concerted attack by hand, duster and wax polish, the slightly astringent scent of which still lingered in the air.

  After a brief wander outside into the courtyard, then to the side terrace, and a glance over the sloping lawns that surrounded the rest of the castillo which showed no sign of Yvonne in the vicinity, Laurel returned indoors. In the small sala she settled down with a book to read and wait. But she found it extremely difficult to concentrate on Carlyle's Critical Essays, even though the Condesa's extremely comprehensive grasp of his works had shamed her during a discussion the previous day and she had wryly accepted the somewhat triumphant offer of the loan of the old lady's beautiful leather-bound edition of his works. Laurel could recall only the acid observation regarding the intelligence of the population of England once attributed to the literary Mr Carlyle; as an invitation to explore him further it paled rapidly against the lure of the living moment. The print on the page seemed determined to reform itself into a dream picture never intended by the author, one which no doubt Mr Carlyle would have disapproved intensely in a chaste young maiden per-using his admirable prose. At last Laurel closed the tome and sighed; it was impossible to fight the memories of the previous night, even though the doubts of sanity were trying to instil their chill note of warning.

  So the Conde had kissed her in the moonlight. Why was she getting so steamed up about a kiss? Looking so dreamy-eyed that Yvonne had instantly become curious. She'd be crazy to read anything special into those heart-taking kisses. Just because he had taken her breath away by being tender, persuasive, beguiling; evoking a depth of sweet smouldering desire she had never realised she possessed. But analysed in cold daylight what did it mean? It was just the physical thing, wasn't it? The age-old transient magic that flared like wildfire when the man-woman chemistry began to work. But that di
dn't mean she loved him, not so totally and utterly that her entire life would hold only half of its complete potential if it were not spent with him. She hadn't known him long enough to love him; to the contrary, he had inspired antagonism in her, an antipathy fully reciprocated. That first meeting… those fierce kisses of anger the night she had dared to argue…

  Laurel stood up and paced across the sala, as though the exertion might disperse the agitation trembling through her body. She had to be sensible, not moon and dream and spin romantic fantasies about a man of the dangerous calibre of the Master of Destino. She had thought herself in love with Phil, hadn't she? And she could think of Phil without a single atom of feeling. If Phil were to walk into the room at this very moment she would scarcely want to spare him a glance. Hadn't she always known that with Phil it had been only physical attraction and the sop to feminine pride that he should want her. He had tried so often to arouse her, to make her want him the same way he wanted her, and a cold little sense of reluctance had always made her able to resist.

  Laurel stared out of the window, for a moment far away back in her flat. Perhaps that was the only reason she had kept Phil's interest for so many months. As long as she was unattainable, and he refused to admit defeat… So wasn't this situation exactly the same? The scented night, the moonlight, and a sudden masculine whim had made the Conde decide to amuse himself with the troublesome girl from England who dared to answer him back. And she had fallen for it. Laurel closed her eyes, aware of the wild agitation beating through her veins. Supposing he had chosen to play on her emotions the way Phil had once done. Supposing he had gone on kissing her, kindling that wild wanton need he had touched in her… Could she have resisted…?

  Laurel shivered. She was afraid of the answer, and the power she now knew he held over her. She had come to Destino believing her heart hurt by one man, and within the space of days she was in danger of losing it completely to a stranger. In danger? Hadn't she lost it already?

  Impatient with herself, she ran impulsively to the door, intending to return to her room and reassure herself that the storm within her showed no trace in the outward grooming she had donned a short time ago. But as she set foot on the first stair she heard voices raised angrily and a rush of light footsteps on the parquet. They stopped abruptly, and Laurel turned her head. The Conde was standing by the outer door, and halfway across the hall stood a young girl, staring at Laurel with tempestuous anger simmering in her dark eyes.

  Carlota—for it could be no other—was small and slender and dark, with the vivid colouring, olive skin and vibrant flowing black hair of her race, and the imperious bearing characteristic of her breeding, but there the traditional picture ended. Carlota's hair hung in an untidy tangle about her oval face, her slender form was clad in the uniform of youth, well shrunk and faded denim jeans, a tattered camouflage jacket slung carelessly about her shoulders, and beneath it a skin-fitting cheesecloth shirt with buttons dragging agape to reveal all too clearly how little she wore beneath.

  'Miss Daneway…' the Conde's voice came like splinters of ice through the atmosphere, 'will you leave us, please, for a moment?'

  'Of course.' Laurel felt embarrassment, but as she moved to obey Carlota darted forward.

  'No!' The Spanish girl looked defiantly at her cousin. 'Why do you wish Miss Daneway to leave us, Rodrigo? You did not tell me she was a servant!'

  He took a step forward, his mouth tightening with visibly controlled anger. 'I think you know very well. Do not prevaricate, Carlota.'

  'Si!' she spat. 'I do know! You are ashamed of me! You bring me here to this fortress, away from my friends, to punish me. You are angry about my clothes. And you insult me by bringing an English girl here to be my companion while you are away enjoying yourself. A gaoler, you mean! Very well. I wish to look at her. I wish to see this paragon of English virtue!'

  Carlota spun round, her dark eyes flashing and small fists tight with fury, to stare insolently at Laurel with undisguised resentment. Laurel recovered from her shock at this unwarranted attack and her own mouth tightened. Undaunted by the sudden move the Conde made towards her, she said quietly: 'I am neither gaoler nor servant, seňorita, nor have I ever claimed to be the other. But I will certainly leave you now— until the Seňor Conde can correct these odd impressions only he can have given you.'

  She shot a defiant look at him, and in the moments of silence that followed her words she brushed past him and walked quickly across the hall, looking neither to left nor right, and let herself out by the garden door.

  When she reached the terrace she was quivering with pent-up anger. She had been prepared to find Carlota something of a handful, a rebellious teenager, striving, like Yvonne, to break free of parental discipline and the old conventional restrictions whose ghosts were not yet entirely laid, but she had not expected to meet such outright dislike so openly expressed. Plainly the young Spanish girl was possessed of a strong will and a temper that more than matched, but surely… Laurel's mind closed on the temptation to define Carlota's manners as she tried to calm her natural feeling of hurt. Where the devil had Yvonne taken herself off to? She was not exactly an ideal ally, but her presence might at least have evoked a little more restraint in Carlota.

  Laurel reached the fountain and paused, her face troubled. She held out her hand and let the golden rain pour its coolness through her fingers. The rich, deepening sun cast a warm glow on the ancient stone and heightened the vivid hues of the blossoms, but Laurel was scarcely conscious of her surroundings. Carlota's scornful words still stung. A paragon of English virtue!

  The echoes evoked an instant picture of a prim, colourless Victorian miss, rigid in outlook, staid in manner and smugly correct to the point of nausea. Laurel did not pause to consider that her definition might have been considered grossly unfair by many a radical Victorian miss who seethed under the yoke of very real restrictions, she was conscious only that her anger had veered from Carlota to another direction. What had the Conde said to his young cousin? Was that how he saw—?

  'You are angry, seňorita?'

  The crisp, enquiring voice made Laurel's head jerk round. He was standing quite close to her, his features darkly shadowed against the sun, so that she could only guess at the true expression in his eyes. She looked away from that dark, enigmatic silhouette. 'Have I not cause?' she parried dryly.

  'Do you always return question to question?'

  'Yes—if it's the obvious answer.'

  'You are angry.'

  This time it was clearly a statement, and she stayed silent, her head averted obstinately from the tall figure and her gaze set unblinkingly on the rainbow glistens in the spray.

  'I am afraid my cousin was unpardonably rude a few moments ago.' His tones were smooth, unemotionally suave. 'May I offer my deepest apologies on her behalf?'

  'Thank you.'

  There was a silence. Laurel knew that her response could have sounded ungracious, but the smart of anger had turned to hurt and she had an absurd fear that if she looked at him and read amusement in his expression she would dissolve into tears. Oh, she was crazy! Why was she standing here like a foolish child in the sulks? She said in a choked little voice, 'Forget it, Seňor Conde…' and turned away. But instantly his hand closed on her arm, very firmly.

  'Laurel…'

  'Well?'

  'Surely you are not upset by the thoughtless discourtesy of a wayward child?'

  'I would not term Carlota exactly a child,' Laurel retorted stiffly.

  'Perhaps not. But I should have thought that your experience of your own charge would have prepared you for the temperamental caprices of an adolescent girl who has, perhaps, been a little too indulged for her own good.'

  He paused for a moment, and she took a deep breath, increasingly aware of that lean firm hand curved round her forearm and his masculine presence so disturbingly close. Then he moved, drawing her insistently to face him and raising his other hand to cup the curve of her cheek. Inexorably he turned her he
ad.

  'Come, look at me, seňorita,' he wheedled in soft, bantering tones from which amusement was not far distant. 'Surely it is not my fault!'

  'But I think it is!' She jerked her head away from that disturbing caress. 'What did you say to her to give her such a—such a scornful impression of me?'

  His brows drew together and his dark eyes looked down searchingly into her flushed face. 'But I do not understand.'

  'Don't you?'

  'No, my indignant little seňorita, I do not.' The shake of his dark head expressed puzzlement. 'I said nothing derogatory whatsoever to cause my cousin to form an opinion of you unfavourable in any way.'

  'Well, you succeeded in spite of whatever it was,' she said bitterly.

  'So it seems.' The familiar sparks of devilry glinted in his eyes. 'You found Carlota's description unflattering?'

  Laurel's mouth tightened. 'I find it ridiculous, seňor. I can only surmise that for some reason best known to yourself you were endeavouring to set me up as an example. Well, you certainly failed.' She tugged out of his grasp. 'Now please let me go and —oh!'

  With a completely unexpected movement he had seized her round her waist, and the world tilted wildly as he lifted her high into the air and then sat her firmly on the broad stone rim of the fountain bowl. His laughing, mocking features were now only a little above her eye level and he merely shook his head as she cried out with indignation and shock.

  'No, I will not put you down! I have only this moment put you there. Now let us resolve this strange little misunderstanding. Rest assured, seňorita, that particular choice of words was not mine. I can only suggest that Carlota's grasp of English is not quite as accomplished as we have always believed. I wonder,' his teeth glinted in a brief smile, 'if inadvertently I did err in my attempts to convey your true character. Shall we define…?'

  Laurel struggled. His hands were still clamped tightly around her waist and her knees could not escape the hard thighs braced against them. The falling spray of the fountain behind her sounded unnaturally loud and she could only think wildly of what the Condesa might think if she should chance to look from her window or walk out on her terrace and see the undignified little scene. 'Please… let me—!' Another cry escaped her as he suddenly let go and she lost her balance, almost tumbling back into the fountain bowl.