The Velvet Touch

by Margery Hilton

  'Relax,' he murmured silkily, 'and do not try to convince me you are unable to dance. It is very easy, in the old-fashioned way, like they dance in the old movies. How do you call it?—cheek-to-cheek?'

  Laurel could not think of anything more desirable —or dangerous—at that moment. 'I—I don't think they dance that way now,' she said rather wildly.

  'And I do not think there is any set rule about it,' he said in the same smooth tones. His arm seemed to tighten more about her waist. 'Now try to look as though you do not hate me, seňorita.'

  'I—I wasn't aware that I looked like—that way,' she said on a note of hysteria.

  'No? Your eyes have held a passable imitation of it today, seňorita.' He paused, his own eyes unfathomable. 'I should prefer to hear your own contradiction of that impression.'

  'Of course I don't hate you,' she said in a choked whisper.

  'I am thankful to hear it. Perhaps you will tell me now why you have been avoiding me all day.'

  'But I haven't.'

  'No?' He swayed her expertly, his steps faultless, and despite her determination to remain cool and unyielding at all cost Laurel felt her traitor body melting to the lean hard pressure of masculine contours moulding her own.

  And the music wasn't exactly helping her resolution. Well-loved romantic Latin themes; South of the Border … Andalucia… and the haunting, sensuous strains of Spanish Eyes in a languorous tempo that could take dancing over the border into lovemaking before the unwary dancer realised what was happening…

  'Then I must conclude that perhaps you were sulking,' he said softly against her temple.

  Laurel's heart was thudding so hard she was positive he could both hear and feel it. 'I think you were mistaken, seňor.' She turned her head from that disturbing contact, to stare stubbornly across his shoulder. 'There has not been much opportunity today to talk to you.'

  'That is not the answer I seek.'

  She thought she detected amusement in his tone, and a tremor ran through her. Suddenly she could not endure any more of this torment. How dared he start to flirt and amuse himself at her expense as though his anger of last night had never happened? She missed a beat, stumbled, and broke free of his hold. 'Very well,' she cried, 'I will give you your answer! Yes, I was angry all day. Did you expect anything else after the way you spoke to me last night? As though I were one of your peons who had committed some misdemeanour that displeased Your Highness! And now you seem to expect me to fall into your arms and behave like a deferential guest as if nothing had happened. Well, I won't! Find someone else to dance with, seňor!'

  Shaken by her own outburst, she turned blindly away from the dancers and stumbled into the dimness of a path beneath the trees. Almost immediately there was the embarrassment of a pair of lovers and she turned away, seeking her bearings, the identity of the couple not registering until a muttered, extremely unladylike profanity reached her ears and she remembered the glimpse of crimson voile and luminous white within the black shadows. Yvonne! And she was with—!

  Laurel whirled round, just in time to see Yvonne's guilty disengagement from Renaldo's arms. For a moment she forgot everything but anger. Much of her present unhappy predicament stemmed from Yvonne's indiscretion with the young philanderer of the guest house, and now Yvonne was… But as Laurel voiced a sharp cry she felt her shoulders seized from behind and she was pulled round to face the Conde. She had a blurred impression of Renaldo and Yvonne removing themselves rapidly from the scene before her captor's impatient features blotted out everything else.

  'Dios mio! Let them go!' he exclaimed, almost shaking her to silence her agitated protests. 'I am beginning to weary of troublesome young niňas and their even more troublesome amantes. And so should you, seňorita. Why do you always run from me before anything can be resolved?'

  'Is there anything worth resolving?' she asked bitterly.

  Suddenly she was close to tears, and when he snapped: 'What answer is that?' she turned her head away and made a despairing attempt to master her emotions. 'It means that I am weary, seňor. But not quite in the way you are.'

  'And what is that supposed to convey?'

  'That I'm tired of being forced to switch on and off,' she cried. 'One moment to the formality of distant acquaintances and the next to your anger and accusations. And then—and then—'

  'And then?' he prompted, his mouth thinning.

  Her chin lifted defiantly and she stared directly at him. 'Being expected to behave as though none of it happened when you feel like playing Don Juan!'

  'Don Juan!'

  His teeth glinted like white fire through the violent exclamation and his fingers bit into her shoulders with the strength of forged steel. Laurel braced herself for the storm which must surely be the reaction to her rash outburst, and the moment of appalling silence seemed to stretch to eternity. Then unbelievably the tension of coiled steel relaxed on her soft flesh and she felt the soft, sibilant whisper of his breath escape warm against her cheek.

  'Por Dios! Is that how you see me?'

  He was shaking his head, and Laurel felt the old traitorous weakness pervading her limbs. It was all she could do to remain in control of her balance and not sag limply against him. She said unevenly, 'I—I think I have had provocation, seňor.'

  'And I have not, of course.' The sardonic note in his voice made her drop her gaze. She looked down stubbornly, wishing she had the strength to break away and end this cat-and-mouse game which she hadn't a hope of winning. Then his hand moved swiftly to her throat and one lean finger curved under her chin, forcing it up till she could not evade his gaze. 'No, seňorita, I fear that not even my enemies would make such an accusation—unless wanting to kiss you and hold you in my arms until those shadows of hurt cease to darken your eyes qualifies me for the role of our legendary rake.'

  Laurel trembled and sought wildly for words that would not come. He was imperceptibly drawing her closer and she knew she was powerless to resist. In a moment she would be reaching up with her own arms… 'I—I am not hurt, seňor,' she said in a strangled little voice. 'I—I just want to—to—'

  'Yes…?' His finger-tips had found the secret curve under her hairline at the nape of her neck and his thumb played gently with the lobe of her ear. 'There is something you wish, Seňorita Laurel?'

  'I—I must find where Yvonne's got to,' she said wildly, 'in case—'

  'In case the worst has happened! Stay your fear— by now Renaldo will be as far as possible from your charge, doubtless wooing some other foolish little seňorita.'

  'But how can you tell?'

  'Because he will not forget my displeasure in a hurry.' A vein of steel hardened the masterful voice. 'I can assure you that he will not risk incurring my wrath for a long time to come.'

  The shadows failed to conceal the grim expression that flitted across his features and Laurel shivered as she remembered that encounter with Renaldo. She whispered, 'I hope not.'

  'A memory troubles you?'

  'Only for a moment.'

  'Forget it,' he urged, soft yet insistent. 'This is the one night of our year when there must be no unhappy memories. Laurie, look at me.'

  His voice was as warm and caressing as velvet, and a heady excitement coursed through her like wine in her veins. She could no more resist the whispered diminutive of her name on his lips than she could break free of the spell in which he was weaving her captive.

  'I want to see that look of unhappiness that you have worn all day banished. I want to…'

  The rest of his desire was transmuted in the descent of his mouth on hers, and there was nothing except the flare of the most exquisite ecstasy she had ever experienced. Her hands found their own way to cradle his dark head while his arms gathered her ever tighter and his hard body seared her from breast to hip, as though it would fuse with her in the heat of desire. He swayed her, trailing the fire of his mouth down the quivering whiteness of her throat, then returning to her mouth until she was drowning in time and space and he was ta
king her with him into passion's eternity.

  When he raised his head she was aware only of being bereft. The voice that spoke from the shadows came from another world and she scarcely heard it and the note of shock betrayed by its owner. In a daze she heard Rodrigo respond and then urge her forward.

  'It is time for champagne and our special display… Come, Laurie querida…'

  Querida… darling! Laurel walked by his side, her toes scarcely touching the ground, and oblivious to the angry darting glances of Carlota, who had come in search of the Conde to bid him return to the Castillo, where the Condesa and the principal guests awaited his presence.

  Champagne magnums nestled in snowy ice within softly gleaming silver buckets, and crystal glasses stood waiting in sparkling clusters on white-clothed tables on the terrace. The first popping cork seemed as though it were a signal and a second later a brilliant star shot heavenwards to burst and drench down over the gardens in a shower of golden rain: a display of fireworks had begun.

  Laurel watched entranced as roman candles flared and Catherine wheels spun dizzily, and dazzling rockets whizzed up into the black velvet sky, paling the moon and taking her own heart in a gasp of joyous flight. The Conde stood at her side, one arm around her slender waist, and the pressure of his hand sent shivers like electric sparks throbbing through her body. She had never dreamed such happiness could exist…

  When at last it was over she sighed, wishing that it could have gone on for ever. She sensed rather than saw the Condesa move away and the guests drift down into the garden to rejoin the dancing which was to recommence. The lamps glowed again like fireflies amid the trees and laughter echoed about the castillo walls. Children ran among the couples and shrieked with excitement; it was long after midnight, but no one cared.

  'Come, we will dance…' The Conde waited, and to Laurel there was the promise of heaven in his dark, intent eyes.

  She laughed, and turned to put down her crystal glass, and found Carlota standing there, a strangely frightening expression on her vivid oval face. Laurel felt a shiver down her spine, as though someone had walked across her future grave, but Carlota flung her a brilliant smile.

  'You will have found all this most interesting, Laurel, have you not? A very special attraction for your spring package deal. Tell me, do you write the material for the brochure?'

  'What?' Laurel's mouth parted. She could only stare at the Spanish girl while the beginning of horror chilled her heart. 'What do you mean, Carlota?'

  'Oh, come, you know very well what I mean! Why do you pretend? It is no secret, is it?'

  Carlota turned wide, apparently innocent eyes from Laurel to the Conde, then back to Laurel. She gave a little shake of her head, as though puzzled. 'Why do you draw maps of our island and make many notes about different things concerning us? It is true, is it not, that Yvonne's father is a London travel arranger and you work as his secretary?'

  Laurel felt herself sway. From a long way away she heard the Conde give a sharp exclamation, and then Carlota cried: 'But of course it is true, Rodrigo. You mean you did not know! That they wish to come here, no doubt to build their holiday camps and their bingoes, and ice cream parlours. They will come in their thousands and tramp all over Destino. But why don't you ask her? She can't deny it! It is her job.'

  'Is this true?'

  Laurel recoiled from the outraged man who stared down into her white face as though he could scarcely believe the disclosures echoing around him. Yvonne's name rushed into Laurel's mind—oh, surely she hadn't forgotten her own frantic pleas for secrecy and told Carlota? Then sick comprehension came with the memory of the folder of notes left in the hall the previous afternoon and forgotten in the events which followed. She said desperately: 'No—let me explain —it isn't quite like that. I never intended—'

  'Tell me the truth!' he stormed. 'Do you work for this man? This—'

  'His name is Gordon Searle,' Carlota interrupted triumphantly, 'and his business is called Planet Panorama. It is on his notepaper which Miss Daneway so carelessly left lying around for all to see. That is why I am surprised you know nothing of this, Rodrigo,' the Spanish girl added with wide-eyed innocence.

  'Do you?' he demanded, as though Carlota had not spoken.

  'Yes, but…' Laurel swallowed hard, trying to subdue the sick misery threatening to choke her. 'I—'

  'That is all I need to hear.' His eyes burned with fury and his jawline set like carved teak. 'You have deceived me and abused my hospitality. You—'

  'Please…' Laurel put a desperate hand on his arm, 'please listen, seňor. I—'

  'I do not wish to listen.' He shook her hand away as though it were something distasteful and repugnant. 'I do not wish to hear any more lies from your lips.' He stood very stiffly erect and his mouth thinned to a cruel line. Only the whiteness at his nostrils and the corners of his mouth betrayed the anger he was mastering. 'You will no doubt be wishing to return to England very soon, seňorita. I am afraid my answer must be as it was to a previous, similar enquiry. I will never permit package tourism or any tourist development on Destino. Buenas noches, seňorita.'

  With the stiff acknowledgement he turned and strode into the castillo.

  Suddenly Laurel was alone in the shadows. The music, the colour, the noise and the gaiety of fiesta was all around her, unreal, disjointed, the fragments of a world that had shattered like a delicate, precious shell.

  Her shell… her world…

  CHAPTER TEN

  That last day at Castillo Valderosa was the most miserable in Laurel's whole existence, and one that seemed determined to etch itself on her memory for ever. Even when it was all over and she had been back in the old familiar routine for nearly three weeks nothing would banish the memories and the sick leaden feeling stayed heavy round her heart.

  If only there had been a way to put things right. All through those last dragging hours she had alternated between dread of coming face to face with the Conde and an agony of longing to see him, to hear his voice again, while she wished with all her heart that somehow, magically, it had never happened.

  But it had happened, and she had left Destino without seeing him again. He had spent that last day touring the estate and had taken Carlota with him. Oh, he had left a message, saying that the English guests were not to hesitate to avail themselves of the castillo telephone should they wish to place a call to London to advise their families of their pending arrival, and should they require anything they were to request it of José, who would drive them down to the quay and assist them with their luggage.

  Only the Condesa had wished them 'Feliz viaje' when Laurel went somewhat timorously to say goodbye and thank her for her kindness. The Condesa had looked sad, and the expression of disappointment in her old eyes had almost reduced Laurel to tears. The only comfort had come from Yvonne, who had tried hard to cheer Laurel during the flight home. Once again the younger girl had surprised her with a warmth of affectionate sympathy. After the disastrous finale to the romeria Laurel had fully expected blunt censure from Yvonne regarding her carelessness in leaving the damning folder where it could fall into Carlota's hands. But Yvonne had flung impulsive young arms about her, begging her not to be upset and swearing furiously about a certain bitch with black hair who couldn't keep her talons out of other people's personal belongings. She had gone on passionately in this strain until Carlota's ears must surely have burst into flames—if there were any truth in the old adage.

  When they got home Gordon Searle had met them at the airport, and Yvonne had rushed straight into the tale of misfortune, not giving Laurel a chance to speak, and furnished a somewhat highly coloured version of the unsuccessful mission that had made her father's mouth twitch.

  'You did very well to get yourselves actually into the Castillo,' he commented when he could get a word in edgeways. 'How did you manage it?'

  'Our fatal charm—what did you think?' his daughter told him pertly. Then she caught Laurel's strained glance and lowered her voice. 'Actuall
y, Daddy, poor Laurie had a frightful shock one night just after we arrived and it was the Conde himself who rescued her.' Yvonne hurried on with a highly dramatised account of the 'shock', which, however, was very craftily censored to omit any mention of her own part in the affair.

  Gordon Searle's expression grew concerned. 'Is this true, my dear?' he asked. 'Yvonne isn't exaggerating?'

  'I don't!' squealed Yvonne, and Laurel sighed. 'More or less,' she admitted, knowing she could do little but leave things as they stood if she were not to risk getting Yvonne into her parents' black books. 'Oh, Mr Searle, I'm so sorry!' she burst out. 'I've made a complete mess of everything and—'

  'Nonsense! You couldn't help it.' He patted her shoulder consolingly. 'Not to worry—you can't win 'em all, you know.' He had carried them off to a splendid meal, after picking up Mrs Searle, who was now fully recovered and looking fit and well, and had launched into details of new plans for a holiday development in one of the as yet untouched Caribbean islands. As far as he was concerned Destino was written off as a non-starter and no regrets wasted on the matter.

  But none of it should have happened that way. Laurel stared into space, her eyes troubled. Oh, why had she been so stupid? She should have told the Conde the truth that very first evening at the castillo. All of the trouble would have been averted. And she should never have fallen in love with that arrogant, wonderful, irresistible grandee…

  'Cheer up! You look as—' Mr Searle stopped by her desk and checked his bantering tone as he saw the glisten of tears she could not hide in time. 'Honey, what's the matter?'

  She shook her head wordlessly, and tried to regain composure. But her boss frowned. 'You're not still taking that Destino business to heart, are you?'

  Again she gave the hopeless little motion of her head, but he was too shrewd to be fooled.

  'I think you are—you've been depressed ever since you came back, and I think I know you well enough by now to judge,' he said flatly. 'Please try not to worry. I'd feel happier if you'd forget all about it, Laurel.'