‘Yes.’ Giving that permission. ‘What a memory!’
‘Ah well! What is easy on the eye is easy on the memory also. Don’t you find?’ he teased speculatively.
Matching his dry humour, she smiled up at him. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be referring to the fact that I remembered your name?’
‘Would I!’ Despite the dark gleam in his eye, it was fun talk, quite devoid of undercurrents.
‘I prefer to reserve judgement about that,’ she replied lightly.
Dorcas hadn’t realized the amount of tension she’d been living under until she felt it begin to lift off. This happy sparring was just what she needed, to be able to talk to someone and—yes—flirt with them just a little without first weighing up the consequences of her actions and having to measure her every word. It was like rain to a thirsting flower to be able to look, talk, feel unimpeded by the shackles of circumstance.
‘There’s some beer in the house,’ Tom said, jerking a square chin at the two-storey dwelling beyond the garage. ‘What do you say if I clean up and . . .’
‘I couldn’t break you off from your work,’ conscience made her protest, but not very convincingly and with hopeful eyes.
‘You wouldn’t be. I was just on the point of cleaning up anyway, to make a phone call. Of course, if you don’t have the time to spare . . . ?’
A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. ‘You don’t know how funny that is. I’ve so much time I don’t know what to do with it.’
Dorcas tried to maintain a smoothness of step as they walked towards the house, but she did not quite achieve this. Tom Bennett’s glance acknowledged that he had noticed her limp, although he did not comment on it.
‘Here we are—’ Pushing open the door and allowing her to precede him into a low-ceilinged, but pleasantly light room. Although furnished in the Spanish style, Tom Bennett didn’t follow the Spanish custom of shutting out the light, and sun motes played on the high-backed chair he directed her into.
‘Relax. I’ll just wash these.’ Displaying his hands. ‘Be back in a minute.’ With that he disappeared into a room beyond, which was presumably the kitchen.
The splash of water as he washed his hands was oddly soothing. Obviously he’d included his face and hair as well, because he returned with his face clean and shining and his hair standing up in spikes after a vigorous towel rubbing.
He finger-smoothed his hair. In the way of a not very tidy man with no woman to pick things up after him, he said: ‘I did have a comb somewhere.’ Still grinning ruefully, he enquired: ‘Can you hold out for that beer until I’ve made my phone call?’
‘Of course. Is it a personal call? I don’t mind going outside.’
But he was already moving towards the telephone which she had spotted on the writing desk in the corner. ‘No . . . no. It’s purely business.’
The writing desk resembled a box on legs. Its front flap was beautifully inlaid with Moorish motifs. Let down it provided a writing surface, and also revealed a complexity of drawers.
Tom Bennett opened three of these drawers before he found what he wanted, a scrap of not very clean paper bearing a telephone number.
‘It’s a client I have to phone to tell him his car is ready. A Señor Alfonso Roca. Perhaps you know him?’ As Tom spoke he was already dialling for the operator. Simultaneously as he gave the number he wanted, Dorcas nodded to affirm that she was acquainted with Señor Roca.
A short while later, Tom set the receiver down. ‘Señor Roca is sending his side-kick round to collect his car—Paco Garcia—perhaps you know him too? No?’ Answering the brief shake of Dorcas’s head. ‘He’s a handsome hombre. Ambitious but nice with it, if you know what I mean. Now . . . that beer. Unless you’d prefer coffee?’
Anticipating which he preferred, Dorcas said not quite truthfully: ‘Beer sounds delightful.’
It came ice-cold from the fridge, misting up the glass, with a bitter yet refreshing taste. Dorcas hadn’t known beer could taste so good.
Setting down his empty glass, Tom Bennett said casually: ‘I don’t remember that limp first time round, so I take it it’s a recent acquisition. Come to think of it, there was talk you’d hurt your leg pretty badly.’
‘It’s better now, or nearly so. I only limped because I’d walked a long way.’
‘As I heard it you came a cropper while assisting Enrique Ruiz’s daughter and granddaughter when the train ran into trouble.’
‘Did you?’ she said with warding off coolness.
Nothing daunted, he continued smoothly: ‘And as a result of this you are now staying with the extremely wealthy and infinitely grateful Señores Ruiz. Well, that figures.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her slow and distinct speech served to accentuate her anger.
‘You’ve no cause to get prickly,’ he said, sliding her a glance of reproof tempered with understanding. ‘I wasn’t inferring anything of a—well—devious nature, if that’s what you’re getting upset about. I meant it figured because the Ruizs have the reputation of being jolly nice people who are noted for their hospitality.’
‘It seems that I have misunderstood you and I am sorry,’ said a suitably contrite Dorcas.
‘I should think so! As I see it, you were on hand to lend assistance to a couple of chicks the old señor happens to be mighty fond of, and so what more obvious than wanting to reward—’
‘But that’s just what I don’t want,’ Dorcas cut in hastily. ‘I don’t want rewarding.’ To her horror, the culmination of her frustration found release in a large tear that squeezed past the trap of her hastily closed eyelids and slid helplessly down her cheek. ‘I’m sorry for making such a spectacle of myself,’ she gulped, ‘but Michael’s full of this talk about my receiving just reward and suitable compensation and I can’t . . .’ hiccup . . . ‘stop him either. And it makes me feel so mercenary. I can’t seem to get through to anybody that when I moved to help Feli and her baby, I wasn’t activated by the hope of a reward.’
Tom was down on his haunches beside her, his face level with hers. ‘Of course you weren’t, honey. When you moved you didn’t think, this is going to bring financial gain. You moved without thought, by instinct, to save a life—two lives—and I’m with Michael all the way in thinking you should derive some benefit. Who is this Michael, by the way?’
‘My brother. He was touring France when I . . . when it happened. Señor Ruiz had him located through the authorities and now he’s also a guest at the villa.’
‘Humph! I’m glad. Glad you’ve got somebody to safeguard your interests because obviously you. . . you . . .’
Afterwards, Dorcas could never be sure which of them moved first. Her head found contact with his shoulder. She reasoned it out later that she lifted her chin to look at him just as he was bending to kiss the top of her head and by directing her mouth a fraction to the right—so she must accept the larger proportion of the blame—their lips met.
The seeking lightness of the enquiry in her lips was overwhelmed by the hunger in his. He kissed her as if to appease months of restraint. His mouth was on fire, but it could not ignite the smallest flame of feeling in her.
She knew—and she felt none too good about this—that she had deliberately invited—enticed!—his kiss, hoping it would blot out thoughts of Carlos. But . . . to feel nothing! To be kissed by this tall, fair giant, this blue-eyed beefcake, and feel nothing! Nothing that is, but a cold sickness of fear and apprehension inside; and the hollowed-out knowledge that nobody was ever going to eclipse Carlos.
It would have been so much easier all the way round if she could have transferred her affections. Carlos had shown superior wisdom when he said, ‘I have sufficient sense to distrust the easy solution.’ Well, she had proved she lacked sense, and her inept bungling must make reparation. She owed Tom an apology.
‘I’m sorry.’
Those were the words she intended to say, but she did not speak them. Neither had they come from Tom’s lips, which were still
in the bemused trance of that kiss.
‘There was no sign of you in the garage,’ the voice continued, ‘so I decided to try the house. The door was open. I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude on such a private moment. Señorita, my amigo Tom, what can I say but that I am devastated.’
Tom was the first to gain his wits. ‘It’s I who owe you an apology, don Paco. I knew you were coming. I should have been waiting in the forecourt with the keys of Señor Roca’s car.’
‘Amigo, I well understand.’ Paco Garcia’s eyes—brown depths of mischief—rested on Dorcas in such amused indulgence that she did not know where to look.
The colour swept into her cheeks and out again as she steeled herself for the inevitable introduction.
Seeing her embarrassment, Tom decided against this formality. ‘The car keys are in the garage office, if you care to accompany me,’ he said easily, and just as effortlessly conducted the charming, roguish faced don Paco out of the door.
In a way, she knew why she’d done it. Carlos was the first. She had no past experiences to draw on, no way of testing her feelings.
Dorcas waited listlessly for Tom to come back, the apology and explanation—if she could explain this away—still to be made.
She told herself it was normal to feel uneasy when faced with so unenviable a task, and that don Paco would quickly forget something of so little importance. As Alfonso’s right-hand man, don Paco would be acquainted with Carlos. Don Paco was a man of the world; he wouldn’t gossip about something as trivial as a kiss. Would he?
* * *
‘Sorry about that,’ said Tom on his return. But Dorcas saw, with deepening consternation, that he didn’t look sorry at all. On the contrary, he looked smug, as if life had given him a much-wanted lift.
Dorcas flung about in her mind for the words to bring him down to earth, but in such a way as not to deflate his ego. The stark words were readily available, it was the tactful ones that were proving difficult to collect.
But when Tom took hold of her hand and made to draw her in his arms again, with every appearance of continuing from where he had left off, her instinctive cringing back was more cruel than the most blunt, unglossed by kindness truth her tongue could have conveyed.
He started back, as if the hand raised to stem the cry of dismay on her lips had come down hard on his cheek. He had a slapped down look that made Dorcas ache inside.
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. I shouldn’t have led you on.’
‘Presumably you had your reasons,’ he said with commendable restraint.
‘Yes. I was . . . sort of testing my feelings. I hoped you could make me forget someone else. And please don’t take it personally that you didn’t.’
In concentrating on his expression, Dorcas had forgotten to guard her own. When she remembered, it was too late. She wondered how sick she looked when the sympathy she should have given him was bestowed upon her.
‘I’m sorry the experiment was such a success,’ he said in the kindest, most sincere voice she had ever heard.
‘What do you mean? A success? Shouldn’t that be failure?’ Her guilt gave way to perplexity.
‘Whatever you care to call it, it obviously proved a depth of feeling it would have been more convenient not to own.’
His sympathetic perception—hardly a male characteristic and rarely found to this point of understanding in females—left her gasping.
When he said: ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ she could only nod in dumb agreement as the silly, weak tears threatened to press under her eyelids again.
‘Will you believe that I’m not really a crying sort of person? It’s just that you seem to understand so well.’
His mouth wavered on the edge of a bleak smile. ‘By what conceit do you think you have the prerogative to give your heart foolishly!’
‘Tom,’ she said with feeling. ‘You too? That makes it even worse. I feel awful for using you.’
His expression searched hers. He seemed to be swallowing on a decision. ‘All right, I can’t let you go on thinking you are the only one who is put to shame. I see I’ll have to own up. While you were using me, you served a very useful purpose.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well,’ he began stumblingly, ‘it’s a pretty brutal admission to make, but the tru—’ He bit that sharply off and made practical use of the ‘th’ trembling on his tongue. ‘That is to say, I was practising on you. I haven’t been keeping my hand in and . . . well . . . when Jane arrives I don’t want her to think that she’s come all the way from England to marry an oaf who’s forgotten how to kiss a girl.’
‘Jane . . . from England . . . to marry . . . ? Oh, Tom, I’m so pleased. You don’t know what a relief this is. When?’
‘When?’ he repeated blankly, his face going through a series of expressions with one common factor: guilt.
She told him laughingly: ‘You don’t need to look so agitated. I forgive you for kissing me to keep in practise. Men have committed greater crimes than that without turning a hair. When is your girl arriving?’
‘Er . . . tomorrow.’ His eyes skidded to the envelope propped against the fruit bowl on the side table. ‘Jane is due to arrive tomorrow,’ he said with greater conviction, ‘barring delays, of course. If it isn’t the ground staff threatening industrial action, it’s the air hostesses complaining about snagging their tights.’
Dorcas decided he was adopting this light, comic approach to contain his excitement. ‘How long is it since you last met?’
‘Three very heavy years,’ he said, proving her surmise right. He suddenly began to talk quite naturally. ‘It was a classroom romance that grew as we did. She went to work in a local bank, and I served my time in a garage, accruing knowledge and saving as hard as I could. By the time I’d saved enough to open up my own place, on a modest scale mind, just a few pumps, it was no longer a practical proposition. The Arabs wanted more out of the deal, the government was putting the screw on. If that wasn’t enough to put me off, the giants of the industry were swallowing all the little men up. Instead of dropping my ambition, it began to take on a new perspective. I’d always dreamed of breaking away to a new country. Why not now? The more I thought about it, the more I liked it. I talked it over with Jane and between us we decided on Spain. Let’s face it, we hadn’t the money to start up in a more expensive country. The preparations we had to make—everything—just flowed. It was so easy it was unbelievable. I remember thinking it was too easy. Nothing in this world ever goes quite so smoothly to plan as things were going for us. But I was wrong in looking for a small hitch. When it came it was a big one that nearly put paid to the whole idea. At the eleventh hour, Jane’s mother took ill. Jane made me see that she had to stay and see her mother back in good health, and then she set about persuading me to come out by myself. At first I didn’t want to, but then I saw that perhaps this was the best way. I could find out the lay of the land, get established, make a home for her.’ His voice seemed to trail down, finishing on a note of dejection. Perhaps he didn’t think he’d done as well as he ought to have done.
‘Well you have,’ Dorcas said robustly. ‘You’ve got an established garage and a home that any girl would be proud to come to.’
‘Do you think so? You’re not just saying that to be polite? You really mean it?’
‘Of course I do,’ she said, touched by his eager reaction to her words of praise.
‘Not knowing much about these things,’ he explained, ‘whenever I went to buy anything for the home, I tried to look at it through Jane’s eyes. You can’t know what a relief it is—’ His eyes went blank, as if he’d just remembered something.
‘And you’ll see that you have,’ said Dorcas, ‘when Jane looks round and tells you it is exactly how she pictured it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes of course.’ But he was speaking in that funny, false voice again.
‘Tom? Is anything the matter?’
‘What could be the matter?’ he countered. ‘C
ome to that, now that all is explained and you have been expiated of guilt, why aren’t you looking more chirpy?’
‘There is something,’ she admitted. ‘It’s not the fact that we kissed that’s troubling me. It’s that we were seen. Do you think Señor Garcia will tell?’
‘Tell who?’
‘Well, he could tell Jane.’
‘That is very unlikely,’ Tom retorted drily.
‘You’re right,’ Dorcas said blissfully. ‘He would hardly gossip about that to your fiancée. But—’ frowning again ‘—He might gossip to someone else. If it were to reach Señora Ruiz’s ears, she wouldn’t think much of her house guest, would she?’
‘You do mean Señora Ruiz?’ Tom said speculatively. ‘I seem to remember the señora has a rather handsome son.’
Dorcas’s blush not only answered that, but supplied the possible identity of the man she’d kissed him to forget.
‘Good grief!’ he said. As he wasn’t such an egomaniac as to believe he could make anybody forget Carlos Ruiz, he found himself swallowing back his own wry smile. ‘You didn’t ask much of me! In a way, though, I suppose you’ve paid me a tremendous compliment.’ On this benign thought he said kindly: ‘Don’t worry, I know just the word to say to don Paco to ensure he doesn’t tell . . . Señora Ruiz.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The pause, the emphasis Tom gave to Señora Ruiz’s name was very revealing. Tom had guessed it was Carlos she didn’t want to know, because it was Carlos she loved. She wasn’t so much bothered that Tom knew, but she was shocked that she was so transparent that even a stranger could read her. And yet Tom didn’t seem like a stranger.
His eyes moved to her from their preoccupation with the letter propped against the fruit bowl, and it occurred to her that he should be more excited at the prospect of his fiancée’s arrival next day. In his shoes, she would be hitting the ceiling. It just served to prove that Tom had a better clamp on his emotions than she had. This thought carried with it more than a slight trace of envy. It would be nice to have the cover of glass, of the shatter-proof variety, without its see-through qualities.
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