A Savage Beauty

by Anne Mather

  ‘Yes, Victor. Of course, Victor.’ Emma was provocatively demure.

  Victor hesitated, looked as though he would have liked to have said something more and thought the better of it, and then with a brief salute walked quickly away down the drive to his waiting car.

  Emma wrinkled her nose at his retreating back, and then pushed wide the door and entered the hall. As she closed the door, however, she noticed a thin thread of light showing beneath the lounge door, and immediately a prickle of apprehension slid along her spine. It could be Mrs. Cook, although she didn't normally stay up so late, or it could be Miguel…

  But before she had a chance to consider either of these theories, the lounge door was flung open and a strange man confronted her, a man like and yet unlike Miguel Salvaje.

  The amount of champagne Emma had consumed cushioned her against any immediate sense of fear or shock at the man's unexpected appearance, and Mrs. Cook appeared hoveringly behind him then, reassuringly wrapped in her warm woollen dressing gown.

  The man stood aside, and Mrs. Cook emerged to look uncomfortably at her employer's daughter. ‘How late you are!’ she said, glancing at the man by her side. ‘Er—Señor Castillo has been waiting to speak to you for some time.'

  Castillo!

  The name rang a bell, and vaguely Emma recalled Miguel's references to his manager. Castillo. Yes, that had been his name.

  She stiffened. ‘Yes?’ she said, with cold, questioning sobriety.

  The man gestured into the lounge. ‘Please to come and sit down, señorita,’ he suggested politely.

  Emma looked at him curiously. The similarities between Señor Castillo and Miguel Salvaje were mostly concerned with their colouring. This man was not so tall as Miguel, but perhaps a little broader, and he was clearly ten or fifteen years older.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed now, and looked at the housekeeper. ‘Will you stay with me, Mrs. Cook?'

  The man Castillo frowned. ‘What I have to say to you is of a confidential nature, señorita,’ he said. ‘As I understand the situation, this good woman is merely your housekeeper, si?'

  ‘Mrs. Cook is also my friend,’ stated Emma sharply. ‘Whatever you have to say—whatever Señor Salvaje has sent you to say—can be said in front of her.'

  Mrs. Cook moved uncomfortably. ‘Now, Miss Emma—’ she began.

  ‘Be so good as to leave us, señora,’ said Castillo bleakly. ‘Whatever Miss Seaton says, I insist upon speaking with her privately.'

  Emma seethed. ‘Might I remind you, señor, that this is my father's house, and as he is not here I am temporarily the householder. I am not used to being treated as though my feelings were of no account.'

  Castillo's mouth drew in. ‘I feel I should tell you, señorita, that what I have to say is not in your favour, and you may well regret this impulse to confide such matters to a housekeeper!'

  Emma's face burned, and Mrs. Cook patted her arm. ‘Look, miss,’ she murmured, ‘I'll just wait in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd like some coffee, hmm?'

  Emma moved restlessly. ‘Oh, Mrs. Cook,’ she exclaimed, but the housekeeper could tell she was weakening.

  ‘As I say,’ she said, ‘I'll be in the kitchen. If you want me—just call!'

  ‘All right.’ Without another word, Emma walked into the lounge and heard Castillo follow her and close the door. She turned to face him calmly enough, but inside her stomach was churning with sickening rapidity. ‘Well?’ she demanded coldly. ‘What secrets have you to impart?'

  ‘Impart? What is this?’ Castillo looked puzzled.

  Emma sighed irritably. ‘Oh, it means—to tell! Go on, for heaven's sake!'

  Castillo considered her for a moment, and then he said: ‘Have you seen this?'

  He drew a newspaper out of his pocket. It was the evening edition of the News and it was folded so that one particular section stood out against all the others. Emma took the paper indifferently enough, but as she read the brief article her hands began to tremble and the words danced meaninglessly before her eyes.

  The write-up concerned the Mexican pianist, Miguel Salvaje, who was presently in London to give a series of concerts and recitals. It described how the young pianist had been involved in a brawl after leaving the concert hall late the previous evening and that owing to his injuries the remainder of his tour had had to be cancelled.

  Emma looked up in horror. ‘Oh, God!’ she breathed, and her cheeks drained of all colour.

  Castillo hastily pushed her into a chair and going over to the cabinet poured some brandy into a glass. ‘Here!’ he said, taking the paper from her nerveless fingers. ‘Drink this!'

  Emma complied, sipping the fiery liquid hastily, willing the nausea that was enveloping her to go away. She lay back against the soft upholstery, her face pale and drawn. ‘Miguel,’ she whispered. ‘How—how is he? Is he—badly injured?'

  Castillo stood before her, legs apart, hands folded behind his back. ‘To anyone else, his injuries would be considered minimal,’ he replied. ‘To Salvaje, they are gigantic.'

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emma stared at him.

  ‘He has some facial bruising, a couple of suspected cracked ribs, and several cuts and bruises about his body.'

  Emma leant forward. ‘Is that all?'

  ‘No. They also broke three of his fingers.'

  ‘Oh, no!’ Emma felt a choking sensation in her throat. ‘Oh, how terrible!'

  ‘Yes, isn't it?’ remarked Castillo pleasantly. ‘But rest assured, the culprits will be found and arrested.'

  ‘How—how can you be sure of that?'

  ‘Because—well, because I am sure.’ Castillo seated himself in the chair opposite her. ‘Now, will you come to see Miguel?'

  Emma shrank back. ‘Me?'

  ‘Yes, you. He wants to see you.'

  Emma finished the brandy and almost choked on it. ‘Why—why does he want to see me?'

  ‘I thought for a moment just now that you were concerned about him.'

  ‘I was—I am!’ Emma bent her head miserably. ‘Oh, yes, I am.'

  ‘Then come! My car is not far away.'

  ‘Now?’ Emma was astounded.

  ‘But of course. Miguel is still in some pain. He does not sleep much.'

  ‘Of course.’ Emma shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘But—but how did it happen? I mean—who would want to fight with Miguel?'

  Castillo frowned. ‘That is not for me to say.'

  Emma got up out of her chair, looking down at the long navy crepe dress she was wearing. ‘I can't go like this.'

  ‘No.’ Castillo inclined his head in assent. ‘You will change, si?'

  Emma nodded, and with a helpless shrug went out of the room.

  Immediately upon hearing the door open and close, Mrs. Cook appeared from the kitchen. ‘What's going on?’ she whispered.

  Emma sighed. ‘Miguel's been injured. I—I've got to go and see him.'

  ‘At this hour of the night?’ Mrs. Cook looked horrified.

  ‘I know it's late, Mrs. Cook, but I have to go.'

  ‘You're getting involved with that man again, just as everything was settling back to normal,’ Mrs. Cook accused her impatiently. ‘And what's Mr. Harrison going to say if he finds out about this?'

  Emma gestured futilely. ‘I don't know. But quite honestly, Mrs. Cook, I don't particularly care—not right now.'

  Mrs. Cook shook her head. ‘It's not like you to behave like this, Miss Emma. What have you been drinking this evening?'

  Emma half smiled. ‘Champagne. Do you think that's why I've agreed to go? I can assure you I'm perfectly sober now.'

  ‘And when will you be back?'

  ‘I don't know. Don't wait up, Mrs. Cook.'

  Castillo was driving Miguel's Jensen. Sitting beside him as they threaded their way through the quiet streets to the exclusive hotel overlooking Hyde Park where Miguel was staying, Emma couldn't help wishing she had had the time to drink another brandy to bolster her failing confidence. Why did Miguel want to se
e her after the last time they had parted? What could he possibly have to say to her?

  She looked down at her clothes without pleasure. She had hastily pulled on the grey tweed skirt and white blouse she had worn for work that afternoon, and she was aware they gave her a matronly appearance. Still, she thought unhappily, the sheepskin jacket concealed a multitude of sins and no one was likely to ask her to take her coat off, were they?

  The night staff at the hotel regarded her curiously as she entered with Castillo, but obviously he was known and they passed without comment. A lift transported them what seemed a tremendous way up the building and they emerged on to a pile-carpeted corridor with vases of exquisite blooms set at intervals between the white panelled doors.

  Castillo led the way towards a door at the far end of the corridor and Emma followed him nervously, treading softly for fear of disturbing anyone. Everywhere was silent, and well it might be, she thought, at three-thirty in the morning!

  They entered the sumptuously appointed lounge of a suite of rooms, and as Castillo switched on the lamps, Emma looked about her with interest. A soft apricot carpet flowed into every corner, while the comfortable chairs and couches were upholstered in lime green damask. The walls were hung with damask also, hinting at the deeper bronze silk of the curtains. It was a magnificent apartment but dominated by the piano that stood below tall windows, shadowed now by the lighting.

  The sight of the instrument brought Emma to the realization that the man she had come to see was not present. ‘Where—where is Miguel?'

  Castillo lifted her coat from her resisting shoulders. ‘One moment, and then I will take you to him.'

  Emma made an abortive effort to retain the coat and then gave in. ‘But where is he?'

  ‘Here!'

  The low voice startled her and she swung round to find Miguel entering the room through one of the inner doors. Dressed only in a purple silk dressing robe, his darkly tanned face paler than she had ever seen it, there was something unbearably attractive and familiar about him, and she had to steel herself not to go to him and throw herself upon his mercy. There were several ugly contusions on his face, and a jagged cut on his cheek that looked painful. But her eyes were drawn to his injured hand, hidden in the pocket of his robe.

  Castillo clicked his tongue irritably, going towards the other man and shaking his head reprovingly. ‘Miguel! You should not be out of bed! You need to rest. You know that the doctor—'

  ‘Eso basta!’ Miguel's lips twisted. ‘I do not wish to argue with you, Juan. Do you not think Miss Seaton would find an interview in my bedroom too much, even for her?'

  Juan Castillo heaved a sigh. ‘What Miss Seaton feels is unimportant compared to your health, Miguel. I beg of you—'

  Miguel ignored him, looking across the room at Emma. ‘Please,’ he said politely. ‘You will sit down?'

  Emma took a few steps towards a low armchair and Juan managed to persuade Miguel to sit down on the couch. Indeed, judging by his pallor Emma thought it unlikely that Miguel had much choice in the matter. She was shocked and unnerved by his appearance and she wished desperately that there was something she could do.

  ‘You will leave us, Juan,’ instructed Miguel, with determination.

  Juan hesitated, obviously torn between the desire to do what Miguel asked and an equally strong desire to assure himself that nothing untoward would happen in his absence.

  ‘Juan!'

  There was imperative steel in Miguel's voice now, and with a reluctant sigh the manager left the room.

  ‘Now.’ Miguel's dark gaze flickered over Emma. ‘Come and sit here.’ He indicated the end of the couch.

  Emma did as he asked without argument. Miguel was lying on the couch, but it was long enough for there to be plenty of room for her to sit at his feet. This close his bruises were stark and agonizing, and Emma felt the urge to lean forward and put her lips to every inch of his face. Something of what she felt must have shown in her eyes, for Miguel's jaw hardened and he said contemptuously: ‘Do not look at me like that. Remember your fiancé! There is to be no more pretence between us!'

  Emma was chilled by his words. Folding her hands in her lap, she said quietly: ‘Castillo told me about—about your injuries. How did it happen?'

  Miguel shrugged. ‘It was all over very quickly. We were leaving the theatre after the concert. Juan had gone to get the car, and I was momentarily alone.’ He frowned. ‘There were three youths, I think. I am not absolutely certain.'

  Emma stared at him. ‘You mean—they were waiting for you?'

  ‘Of course.'

  ‘But I thought—I mean—the papers said it was a—brawl!'

  ‘I suppose it was—although the odds were decidedly uneven.'

  ‘But they implied—oh, you know what I'm trying to say.'

  ‘Yes, I know.'

  ‘But—but why should anyone want to lie in wait for you? To attack you?'

  ‘You don't know?'

  Emma stared at him. ‘Me? How should I know?'

  Miguel ran his uninjured hand down the cut on his cheek. ‘Were you out when Castillo came to fetch you? He was a very long time.'

  She flushed. ‘Yes. Victor and I—that is—we'd been to an anniversary party.'

  ‘An anniversary party!’ Miguel considered her hot face dispassionately. ‘And how is your inestimable fiancé? Recovered from the nasty shock I gave him the other evening?'

  ‘I expect so.’ Emma moved uncomfortably. ‘I don't see what this has to do with your injuries.’ She sighed. ‘I just wish there was something I could do…'

  ‘There is.’ Miguel smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. ‘That is why I wanted to see you.'

  Emma frowned. ‘What can I do?'

  ‘You can take a message to your fiancé for me.'

  Emma was perplexed. ‘A—message? To Victor?'

  ‘That is correct.'

  ‘But what—what message?'

  ‘Just tell him that I know the identity of one of the youths, will you?'

  Emma saw the light of cruelty in his eyes and shivered. ‘But why should Victor be interested in the identity of these men?'

  ‘Can't you guess?'

  Emma rose abruptly to her feet. ‘You can't seriously be saying that Victor had anything to do with your injuries!’ She stared at him incredulously, a sense of hysteria rising inside her. ‘Oh, really, how—how ridiculous!'

  ‘Is it?’ Miguel seemed perfectly calm.

  ‘Of course it is. Victor doesn't have any dealings with—with thugs?'

  ‘Did I say they were thugs?'

  ‘No—no, but obviously that's what they were.'

  Miguel shrugged indifferently. ‘I might have known you would not believe me. Nevertheless, I should be grateful if you would deliver the message.'

  ‘Deliver it yourself!’ Emma turned away, breathing fast. She felt hurt and sickened by his words. She didn't know quite what she had expected when she came here, but certainly nothing like this. Trembling a little, she said: ‘Will you ask Juan to get my coat? I—I want to go home.'

  She did not hear Miguel move, but a few seconds later she felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck and realized he was standing just behind her. ‘Why do you find it so hard to believe?’ he asked softly. ‘I've no doubt given the same circumstances I might have done the same thing.'

  ‘I—Victor's not like that!’ exclaimed Emma desperately.

  ‘All men are—like that!’ he essayed quietly.

  Emma's knees were shaking so much she felt sure they must be visible. ‘And—and if I give him your message. What—what do you intend to do about it?'

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?'

  ‘I don't know. Go to the police, I suppose.’ She made an involuntary gesture. ‘There'll be damages, won't there? As you broke three fingers—'

  ‘I did not break three fingers,’ he snapped harshly. ‘No, Emma, that was not how it happened at all. My fingers were broken deliberately.'

&n
bsp; ‘Oh, no!’ Horrified, Emma spun round to face him, a hand pressed to her lips.

  ‘But yes.’ Miguel's lips twisted bitterly. ‘Would you like to hear how it was done?'

  ‘No!’ Emma felt physically sick. ‘I—oh, please—where's the bathroom?'

  Miguel's brows drew together uncomprehendingly, but with a silent gesture he indicated a door to their right. Giving no explanation, Emma sped across the room and dashed into the white and gold luxury of the bathroom, reaching the basin just in time.

  When it was all over, she lay against the cool tiled wall weakly. Oh, God, she thought despairingly. That this should be happening to her. She, who had always imagined herself such a calm and well-organized person. All of a sudden the smooth, unruffled cultivation of her life had given way to wild, uncharted wastes, and the agony of it was that in spite of everything it was Miguel Salvaje who filled her mind and senses to the exclusion of everything else…

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN at last she summoned up enough courage to return to the lounge, she found Juan Castillo bending over a tray of coffee which he had just placed on a low table in the centre of the floor. He straightened at her entrance, but there was no sign of Miguel.

  Emma looked round, conscious of a feeling of dishevelment, and put up a nervous hand to her hair. ‘Er—where has—he—gone?’ she inquired, her voice roughened by what had just occurred.

  Juan regarded her intently. ‘You are feeling better, señorita?'

  ‘I suppose so.’ Emma was vague.

  ‘I have persuaded Señor Salvaje to go back to bed,’ went on Juan. ‘Will you have some coffee before you leave?'

  ‘I couldn't swallow a thing.’ Emma shuddered. ‘Could I—that is—would it be possible for me to see—Miguel again?'

  Juan frowned. ‘Again, señorita?’ He spread his hands expressively. ‘I understood your conversation was over.'

  Emma twisted her hands together. ‘I would like to see him again,’ she insisted.

  Juan sighed. ‘I see.’ He looked undecided. ‘It's very late, señorita.'

  ‘That didn't trouble you earlier when you brought me here,’ exclaimed Emma rather heatedly.