A Savage Beauty

by Anne Mather

  But there was one person who she could tell, and that was Victor. He should know. And besides, she wanted to see his face when she confronted him with Miguel's accusation.

  * * *

  There seemed no point in going to bed. She knew her mind would not let her rest. Besides, she had things to do.

  She bathed and dressed in a blue woollen dress with a white collar and cuffs which together with her coronet of braids gave her a nunlike appearance, and then went downstairs in search of Mrs. Cook. She knew the housekeeper was up and about, and when she entered the lounge she found her there cleaning out the grate.

  ‘Are you wanting breakfast?’ Mrs. Cook was chillingly polite.

  ‘Nothing, thanks.’ Emma hesitated. ‘I'm going out for a while. If Mr. Harrison phones, will you ask him to come round about twelve?'

  ‘Very good, miss.'

  Emma sighed, but it was obvious that for the moment Mrs. Cook was unapproachable. With a shrug, she went out again, and after collecting her coat and her handbag left the house.

  She drove into the West End, and parked the Mini with difficulty. It was Saturday morning and although it was barely nine o'clock the streets were busy. She found the salon she was looking for in a side street off Oxford Circus. One of the girls at the agency had once mentioned it as being very select and very exclusive, and that was what she wanted.

  It was one of those establishments that cater for every detail of a woman's appearance, from hair-styling to foot manicures. Emma had never been in such a place before, and she felt terribly self-conscious as she approached the reception desk.

  But when she left the salon less than two hours later, she knew she looked a different person. She had allowed the assistant to choose what make-up she needed, but she had made some small contribution towards choosing a hair-style. She had had her hair cut so that now it was only a little longer than shoulder length, and the ends turned gently inward. Freed from confinement, the rich amber colour was not subdued, and it curved over her shoulders and under her chin with confiding silkiness. She would never have believed changing her hair-style could make such a sweeping change in her appearance, and even the plain blue puritan dress had lost its severity. The natural creamy quality of her skin had been accentuated by the clever use of cosmetics, and a pale green eye-shadow gave her eyes a faintly oriental slant. A sliver of excitement slid down her spine when she considered Miguel's reactions to what she had done, but she squashed it instantly. She had not done this for Miguel's benefit, she told herself fiercely, but to prove to Victor that she was not the mouse he thought she was.

  She was making her way back to where the Mini was parked when a slack suit in a boutique window caught her eye. It was made of a dark blue jersey cloth, the slacks flared, the jacket fitting.

  On impulse she entered the shop and when she came out half an hour later she was wearing the suit. Together with her new hair-style and make-up, she looked young and modern, and very attractive, and she was conscious that several pairs of male eyes turned in her direction as she walked along Oxford Street. It was an intoxicating experience for someone who had constantly avoided the limelight, and by the time she reached the Mini she was flushed and unaccountably exhilarated.

  She arrived back at the house just before noon to find Victor's saloon outside. Immediately, her new-found confidence fled, and a palpitating apprehension filled her being.

  Victor was in the lounge, drinking the coffee Mrs. Cook had provided for him, and looked up welcomingly when she opened the door. But then his mouth dropped open and he stared at her as though he had never seen her before. His cup clattered into its saucer and he rose to his feet, frowning.

  ‘Whatever have you been doing?’ he demanded roughly. ‘My God, Emma, what do you think you look like?'

  Emma glanced at her reflection in the wall mirror and was satisfied with what she saw. ‘I've had my hair cut,’ she announced calmly. ‘Do you like this suit? It's new.'

  ‘I can see it is.’ Victor was grim. ‘I don't know what all this is in aid of, Emma, but—'

  ‘Oh, stop blustering, Victor!’ she exclaimed. ‘All I've done is have my hair cut, after all.'

  ‘You look—different.'

  ‘You mean younger,’ remarked Emma dryly. ‘Can I have some coffee? I'm feeling rather in need of sustenance. I've been out since eight-thirty.'

  ‘So Mrs. Cook told me.’ Victor was still glowering. ‘Where have you been?'

  ‘To the hairdressers',’ replied Emma, pouring herself a cup of coffee. ‘Did you ring?'

  ‘Yes. About eleven. I didn't think you'd be awake before then.'

  ‘I didn't go to bed.’ Emma turned, stirring her cup and saw Victor's face getting more and more frustrated.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked harshly.

  ‘Because after you had gone last night, I went out.'

  ‘You went out?’ Victor clenched his fists. ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Emma?'

  ‘How did you guess?’ Emma would never have believed she could be so much in command of the situation. Bending her head, she went on: ‘I went to see Miguel.'

  She heard Victor's swift intake of breath. ‘What did you say?'

  ‘You heard me, Victor. I said I went to see Miguel—'

  ‘I know what you said,’ Victor seethed. ‘Get to the point!'

  ‘You know, of course, that he has had to cancel his concert tour?’ She was watching him closely now.

  Victor hesitated. Obviously he was torn between appearing to have too much knowledge or too little. ‘I—er—I believe I did read something of the sort. What of it?'

  ‘Do you know why he has had to cancel his tour?'

  Victor moved restlessly. ‘Yes. There was some kind of a brawl outside the concert hall, wasn't there?'

  ‘That's right. Only it wasn't a brawl, Victor. Some youths deliberately beat him up.'

  Victor's lip curled. ‘So what? No doubt he deserved it, filthy foreigner!'

  Emma stared at him as if she had never seen him before. ‘You can't be serious!'

  Victor shrugged. ‘What do you expect? I can't feel sympathy for the fellow. Not after what happened the other night.'

  Emma put down her coffee cup. ‘That rankled, didn't it?'

  Victor's eyes narrowed. ‘What the hell do you mean by that? Of course it rankled, as you put it. If you ask me, he's got nothing more than he deserved!'

  Emma was trembling now, but she had to go on. ‘You mean you would condone that kind of brutality, given the right circumstances?'

  Victor ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘I didn't say that. You're just twisting my words to take some of the onus off yourself. You still haven't told me why you went to see him. Or am I supposed to let that go?'

  ‘Oh, no! I wouldn't have told you if I hadn't wanted you to know!'

  ‘Why, you—’ He bit off an epithet, and then seemed to realize that they were having their first real argument. ‘Look, Emma, let's start at the beginning, shall we? Why did you go to see Salvaje?'

  ‘Because he sent for me.'

  ‘He sent for you? What's that supposed to mean? Has the fellow got some hold over you, because, by God, if he has, I'll—'

  ‘You'll what, Victor? Arrange another—brawl? Get one or two of your business associates’ sons to pretend they're thugs.’ She hesitated. ‘Like Michael Hanson, for example?'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  VICTOR’S face turned purple, and became so mottled that Emma thought at first he was ill. But then he found his voice, and ground out angrily: ‘What the hell are you implying?'

  Emma sighed, unwilling to go on suddenly. The joy had gone out of it. It had become cruel and sordid. She had seen all she needed to see in Victor's face.

  ‘It's true, isn't it?’ she said quietly. ‘You did do that, didn't you?'

  Victor blustered, ‘I don't know what you're talking about. Just because the fellow treated me abominably, you think I'd take the trouble to arrange to have him beaten up—'
>
  Emma turned away. ‘Michael lost something,’ she said dully. ‘Something that identifies him.'

  There was silence for a moment, and then he went on again: ‘If this is some kind of joke, Emma, I think it's in very bad taste.'

  ‘So do I,’ said Emma, with a weary gesture. ‘Don't bother to go on, Victor. I know, I tell you, I know!'

  Victor was breathing noisily, striding restlessly about the room, muttering to himself. ‘Never heard of such a thing,’ he snapped. ‘Accusing me! If Hanson was involved, it's nothing to do with me!'

  Emma turned on him. ‘All right, all right. If you weren't involved you have nothing to fear, have you?'

  ‘What do you mean?'

  ‘I mean that when Miguel puts it into the hands of the police, your name won't be involved.'

  Victor halted, his expression grim. ‘You're telling me that Salvaje has evidence which convicts Michael?'

  ‘That's right.'

  ‘He told you this?'

  ‘Yes.'

  ‘That was why he sent for you?'

  ‘Yes.'

  ‘I see.’ Victor chewed at his lower lip savagely. ‘Bloody young fool!’ he muttered. ‘As if he hadn't the sense to leave all incriminating belongings at home!'

  ‘I presume you mean Michael?'

  Victor considered her for a long moment and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘All right, all right,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I was involved. But it wasn't supposed to happen the way it did.'

  ‘What's that supposed to mean?’ Emma felt a sense of distaste just looking at him.

  Victor hunched his shoulders. ‘Well, it wasn't meant to turn out so—seriously. Good God, Emma, I'm not some petty criminal arranging a mugging! It was all pretty ridiculous really. I was in the club a couple of nights ago with Hanson, Miles Hanson, and Bob Verity, and I'd had a few drinks—you know how it is. Well, I suppose I just let out the fact that this man Salvaje had been bothering you…'

  ‘Oh, God!’ Emma stared at him contemptuously.

  ‘Well, it was true, wasn't it?’ Victor looked momentarily truculent. Then he went on: ‘Anyway, they agreed with me. These foreigners shouldn't be allowed to come over here bothering our women!’ His voice gathered strength, as though by re-telling what had happened he was finding excuses for his guilt. ‘Of course, when they said he deserved to be taught a lesson I agreed with them, but it didn't quite turn out like that.'

  ‘No.’ Emma bent her head. ‘I suppose you just hoped to discredit him, to make it appear he indulged in brawls!'

  ‘That's right.’ Victor sounded eager. ‘That's right. How was I to know the fellow would retaliate? He brought it all upon himself. They'd never have stood on his fingers—'

  ‘Oh, stop it, stop it!’ Emma was horrified. ‘Do you think because you didn't intend them to get so rough that you're exonerated from what happened? My God, Victor, you may have destroyed that man's career!'

  ‘Oh, rubbish!’ Victor mumbled sheepishly. ‘Fingers mend—'

  ‘Yes, but in the meantime, what then? He can't practise, his muscles will stiffen. They may never be so flexible again.'

  ‘You're dramatizing the whole thing!’ Victor declared hotly. ‘Well, let him go to the police, that's what I say. We'll see who has friends around here.'

  ‘Victor, stop it!’ Emma had heard enough. Fumblingly, she drew off her diamond engagement ring. ‘Here! Take this! We're finished!'

  Victor was obviously astounded. ‘Now look here, Emma—'

  ‘No, you look here!’ she interrupted sharply. ‘I thought I knew you—I thought I knew everything about you. But I don't. All right, Miguel shouldn't have hit you the other evening, but if he hadn't you were quite prepared to use any methods to throw him out of the house.'

  ‘And why not?'

  Emma shook her head. ‘All right, maybe I'm to blame. After all, if I hadn't got involved with him, none of this would have happened.'

  ‘I wondered when you'd realize that!’ snorted Victor resentfully. ‘Making a fool of yourself! I suppose that's why you've changed your hair-style—bought those ridiculous teenage clothes—'

  ‘They're not teenage clothes. And I bought them because I wanted to prove something to myself. As for making a fool of myself, I don't see how.'

  Victor sneered, ‘Don't you? You don't suppose I'm in any doubt as to why you've broken our engagement, do you? You think that if you're free, Salvaje might become interested in you. Well, I shouldn't count on it! From what I hear, you're not the only pebble on his beach—'

  Emma's face burned. ‘I'd like you to go, Victor.'

  ‘And if I don't want to?'

  Emma looked round helplessly. She could hardly see Mrs. Cook rushing to her aid in the circumstances.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘We have nothing more to say to one another.'

  ‘I disagree.’ Victor was breathing heavily, rivulets of perspiration running down his forehead. ‘Emma, be sensible—'

  Suddenly the door bell rang. And as on that other occasion when Miguel had arrived so unexpectedly, Emma and Victor stood motionless, waiting for Mrs. Cook to answer the door.

  ‘If that's Salvaje, I'll break his bloody neck!’ muttered Victor furiously, but the veins that stood out on his thick neck bore witness to his extreme state of tension.

  The lounge door opened and Mrs. Cook appeared. ‘It's Señor Castillo, miss,’ she said expressionlessly.

  Emma drew a shaky breath. ‘Oh! Well, show him in, Mrs. Cook, will you?'

  Victor frowned angrily. ‘Castillo!’ he muttered. ‘Who the devil's he?'

  Emma ignored him and went forward as Juan Castillo entered the room, dark, and broad, and somehow familiar in his navy overcoat and dark suit. The Mexican's gaze flickered over Victor speculatively, and then he gave his attention to Emma, his eyes mirroring his admiration.

  ‘Buenos dias, señorita.'

  Emma smiled nervously. ‘H-hello. Er—this is—Mr. Harrison; Victor, this is Señor Salvaje's manager, Señor Castillo.'

  The two men nodded at one another. Victor made no attempt to shake hands and the Mexican's lips curled faintly. Emma felt awkward. What was she supposed to do now?

  However, Juan seemed to have no such inhibitions. ‘Miguel sent me,’ he explained, focusing his attention on Emma. ‘He thought there might be some questions you would like to ask that I could answer.'

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see.’ Emma glanced helplessly at Victor. Then she indicated an armchair and looking at Juan said: ‘Won't you sit down?'

  Juan unfastened his overcoat, but he didn't sit down and Emma sighed. ‘Er— Mr. Harrison was just leaving,’ she ventured at last.

  ‘Oh, was he?’ Juan raised his dark eyebrows questioningly. Then he stepped backward and opened the door again. ‘Permit me!'

  Victor's jaw tightened and for an instant Emma thought he was about to say something more, but then common sense seemed to assert itself and instead he looked at Emma, weighing the ring she had returned to him in his hand. ‘We'll talk later,’ he said insistently.

  Emma held up her head. ‘I don't think so, Victor.'

  Victor hesitated, thrust the ring into his jacket pocket, and then walked out of the room. When Emma would have followed to see him out, Juan closed the door between them, and she halted uncertainly.

  ‘You have made your decision, señorita?'

  Emma looked at him, and shrugged slowly. ‘I—oh, yes, I suppose so.'

  Juan nodded. ‘Is good,’ he said, with satisfaction, and took off his overcoat.

  Emma gathered her composure. ‘Can I offer you a drink?'

  ‘Coffee, perhaps,’ replied Juan. ‘I do not drink anything but tequila, and I somehow do not think you have any of that, have you?'

  Emma shook her head. ‘I—er—I'll just ask Mrs. Cook to make some coffee.'

  Juan inclined his head politely, and with another shrug she gathered together the cups she and Victor had used on to the tray and carried them out. Mrs. Cook was still uncommunicative, but E
mma merely requested the coffee and left her. She had no intention of indulging in another argument with the housekeeper right now.

  Juan was an easy companion. He drank his coffee and talked casually about the contrasts between his country and hers, making her laugh as he described his first encounter with the colder climate of North America. Then, as she relaxed with him, he said: ‘You want to know about Miguel, si?'

  Emma flushed. ‘You make it sound so—so inquisitive.'

  ‘But no.’ Juan shook his head. ‘In my country where marriages can still be arranged by parents when their children are but babes in arms, it is common for arrangements to be discussed by representatives of both parties. However, in your case, your father is away, is he not?'

  Her father!

  Emma shifted restlessly. What would he really say to all this? When he discovered she had broken her engagement with Victor? She could almost hear the dissension in his voice. He had always liked Victor, they had a lot in common, but that didn't mean she had to marry him, she told herself desperately. But what would he think of Miguel? a small voice answered. A musician; a moody alien individual; a South American!

  Juan was watching her expressive face, and with perception he said: ‘You do not think your father will approve if you go ahead with this, do you?'

  ‘You—you know—about—about—'

  ‘I know Miguel has asked you to marry him, yes.'

  ‘Do—do you approve?’ Emma leant towards him.

  Juan considered her thoughtfully. ‘I don't know. I don't know you well enough to be able to answer that.'

  ‘And I don't know Miguel either!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘That is why I am here,’ observed Juan quietly.

  ‘All right, tell me about him. How old is he? Where does he live? Does he have any family?'

  Juan drew a cheroot out of his pocket and asked whether she objected. Emma shook her head and after lighting it, he said: ‘Bien, I will try to explain. Miguel lives with his father at Lacustre Largo—that is the name of his father's house, you understand.’ Emma nodded and he went on: ‘It is a beautiful place, a beautiful part of the country!’ He pressed his thumb and forefinger together with obvious pride. ‘So! His father is a rich man, a very rich man, with much land and much resources.’ He considered the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘Always, Don Carlos is keen that Miguel should become a concert pianist! He was always—how do you say it—er—'