Why hadn't Liz told her about this extraordinary gift of his, this ability to whisk you away into another world, another life? Zoë drank her champagne, picked at her plate occasionally, and sat there entranced by this master of the spoken word. Whatever "line" Raoul was in (and he had not so much as alluded to his business interests during the entire evening), it was obvious to Zoë the man had missed his vocation. He should have been a writer, perhaps of children's stories, perhaps of fables. In another era, another age, he would have been a minstrel or a roving storyteller, his services much prized.
He was captivating, of that there was no doubt. He spoke with a quiet, determined authority, each word weighted with a vaguely sensed gravity, so it seemed, implicitly, to contain a greater truth, a greater validity than the words of other people. Zoë had become aware about halfway during the meal that this highly polished performance was not merely there to impress her for its own sake, or even as an exercise in ego-assertion. No, it was quite clear that he was attempting to seduce her. And it was even clearer, both to her and to him, that it was working. By the time Raoul had finished his last mouthful of steak, Zoë knew that their liaison, as Raoul had phrased it, had already altered in both content and context, and that two individuals who had, just a short while ago, been complete strangers, were soon to be more than merely close acquaintances.
They did not order dessert, and while the liqueurs were consumed with swiftness and pleasure, the coffee was still steaming in the cups, several minutes after they had left the restaurant.
Chapter 8
They did not talk as they ascended to the sixth floor. They continued in silence until they were both standing outside Zoë's room, and even as she was fumbling with the door key, no words were spoken. None were necessary, not even the invitation, which was assumed. No lights were turned on, no drinks offered, no courtesies exchanged.
He closed the door behind them, and reached out gently, placing his smooth, strong hands around her waist, turning her as he did so that she swivelled into his enfolding arms. They kissed, once, twice. Zoë let her handbag fall to the floor, lifted her arms and placed them around his neck. He was taller than she, and Zoë could feel the familiar singing of muscles that had not been stretched in a while. He maintained his hold on her, pulling her close, an energetic, active embrace. His lips were softer than she had imagined, and the gentle brush of his moustache tickled slightly. His breath was pleasing, a sultry mix of champagne and spice, set off against the dying remnants of his cologne, which too had a heady, musky scent.
She leant into him, no longer taking responsibility for her own weight and posture. She felt light, easy; the champagne had worked its special magic, and bowing to its influence she had become malleable like a piece of clay. The first thrills of expectation started to course through her as she felt herself becoming pliant beneath his touch, bending to his will. She felt herself to be in skilled hands; if she were clay, then he was sculptor. She had no wish to impose her own prerogatives on the unfolding dance.
The embrace loosened; she straightened momentarily as her dress was lifted up over her head. She shook off her shoes, pulled him away from the door, pushed his jacket off his shoulders. She clasped her hands around his neck and pulled him towards her, but he was stronger and swifter, and before she could plant her lips on his, he had swept his arm up under her, lifting her up in a smooth arc, transporting her through the dreamy, weightless space of the room, and laid her on the bed.
He stood over her a moment, loosening his tie, releasing his cuff links, but never once taking his eyes from her. Those eyes, deep and penetrating, expressed more than words, revealed greater passions than even the most erotic verse could describe. She pulled off her slip as he removed his shirt. She noted how graceful he was, how he undressed in a discrete, almost balletic way; none of the striptease posturing of her male model encounters, or the brash, inelegant manoeuvrings of other, more prosaic lovers.
Before she knew it he was beside her on the bed, naked and unashamed. With the authority and dexterity of a virtuoso he removed the last items of her clothing; it was like being undressed by unseen forces, so swift and deft were his movements.
Again he focused his full attention on her, until she became the centre of their collective world. She wanted to return the gaze, but it was too intense, too purposeful, and the alcohol she had consumed had taken away her ability to concentrate her efforts in that way. Instead, she took it all in, drank it in as if it were a rejuvenating draught; his gaze, his intention, his will. The rest of the room seemed to disappear, as if it were no longer necessary, its very existence redundant. In the end she surrendered to the fervour of his intent, allowing herself to be consumed by it.
His hands were upon her, all over her, and his lips caressed her, sensitising her in a way she had not previously known. She felt each response become heightened as, with greater and greater skill, he coaxed the animal out of her. She felt her temperature rise swiftly, until it was as if her blood was boiling, evaporating, and with it all her inhibitions, all her facades, disappearing into the ether. Her sense of self, wisp-like now, began to float away, her ego faded, until all that was left of her was a potent distillation of instinct and carnality.
It was then, ego-less and free, that she opened herself completely to him, and he, sensing her willingness, her vulnerability, pushed himself still further, taking her to ever greater heights.
He stripped away her final inhibitions, leaving her more naked than she had ever been before, and so sensitive was she that her whole being seemed to be teetering on a knife-edge between the extremes of joy and pain. She felt energised, vibrant; her whole body seemed to resonate like a tuning fork, and when she reached her peak, the pleasure flooded through her, over her, until she was drowning in it, engulfed in it, indistinguishable from it.
He fell away from her then, exhausted and silent, and she lay there stunned. Every nerve end tingled. If she had not spoken previously because it had been unnecessary, then she remained silent now because it was impossible to do otherwise. She lay there with her eyes closed, her breathing heavy and laboured, still absorbed in the sensations that had overwhelmed her.
Consequently, she did not notice when he got up from the bed. With the sound of her own blood throbbing in her temples from the exertions, she did not hear him dress either.
So it was with some surprise when she heard the door open, and turned to see him, fully dressed, caught in a shaft of light from the corridor outside, making a last minute adjustment to his tie.
'Goodnight,' he said calmly. 'I hope you sleep well.'
And before she had had a chance to utter even an exclamation of shock, surprise or dismay, the door had closed firmly behind him.
Chapter 9
Her first move the following morning was to the shower. Beneath the divine luxury of endless gallons of steaming hot water pulsing on to her slightly bruised body, Zoë tried to wash away the final image of the previous night.
She had been so shocked, so upset by the casual way in which Raoul had left, that if she had been even a little more sober she would have knocked his door down and demanded an explanation. As it was, even ten minutes after he had left, her body was still humming gently from the effects of his caresses, and her head had already started to throb from the effects of the champagne. Instead, she had resigned herself to sleep, with the intention of confronting him about it when she woke up.
However, as she stood in the shower, with the hot water streaming over her face and down her back, she started to see that, in truth, she had no right to start demanding explanations or apologies of any kind. There had been no agreements, no conditions. They had had a lovely evening together, they were evidently attracted to each other, and so they had slept together. There was no implied contract on either side to spend the night and... after all, who was she to talk? She often sent men packing after the event.
So why had she been so upset at the way he just upped and left?
A loud knock disturbed her reveries. Zoë yelled out, 'Come in!' and she heard the sound of her door being opened. A woman's voice called out in that familiar, clipped German way: 'Your breakfast, Madam,' and then she heard the door close.
Zoë finished showering, slipped into a luxurious, fluffy bathrobe and returned to the bedroom, where she found the most wonderful breakfast trolley, laid out with enough food to feed a family. There were three silver pots of tea, coffee and hot chocolate, a basket of toast, crispbreads, rolls and croissants, several small pots of jam and honey, a selection of cheeses, a small bowl of freshly cut fruit, and beneath a silver cover an omelette garnished with parsley and tomato slices.
Beyond the trolley, on her dressing table, was a huge vase of beautiful red roses, and on the floor beside the table, a suitcase. She walked over to the flowers and found a note attached which read: "My apologies, I regret I shall be unable to join you for breakfast - some last minute business, alas. Buen provecho." He had signed the note R.G., and then added a postscript: "The suitcase is part of my matching set - I trust it will be big enough."
Zoë lifted the case onto the bed and opened it. It was a beautifully constructed leather case, very solid, and very expensive-looking. It was certainly big enough; there would be no trouble putting the contents of her own case and her cloth bag into it. In fact, if she folded the canvas bag, it would fit inside too. That pleased her; she hated the idea of having to abandon such an old and trusted friend. There'd even be some space left over. And hadn't Raoul mentioned something about shopping in Barcelona?
She suddenly felt excited again. She returned to the flowers, snapped one of the heads off and placed it behind her ear.
She then sat down and ate the largest breakfast she had ever had in her life.
***
About an hour later she had not only made short work of the breakfast but had also dressed and packed. The chauffeur came to collect her bags, informing her that Herr Garcia would be awaiting her in the lobby shortly thereafter. Zoë made some last-minute adjustments to her hair, straightened her clothes, checked that she had not left her passport behind, and then went down to meet Raoul.
He was sitting in one of the huge leather armchairs reading a newspaper, and did not see her at first. Zoë stood beside him for a moment before speaking.
'Good morning.'
Raoul looked up and smiled. He folded the paper, got to his feet, and took her hand and kissed it, just as he had the previous day when they had first met.
'It is a good morning,' he said, a trifle pompously thought Zoë, although she realised that this might be par for the course. After all it was not every day that a man who had well and truly ravaged her on the bed sheets greeted her the following morning with a kiss on the hand. 'I hope you slept well. I am sorry about breakfast...'
'No, please,' interrupted Zoë. 'Breakfast was wonderful; and thank you for the flowers. They were lovely.'
'It was the least I could do. I promise you, it shall not happen again. There is nothing more lonely than being - what is your expression - "stood up" - at breakfast time.' He smiled then, and there was genuine regret in his eyes, as if he had missed out on something important, something valuable. 'Anyway, if you are ready?' He held out his arm, and Zoë took it, as she had done twice previously, realising at that same moment that what had initially felt like a strange, rather theatrical movement had already become second nature to her.
And she hardly even noticed the dozen or so pairs of eyes that followed them as they strolled to the front entrance of the hotel and the limousine that awaited them.
***
It was a short and pleasant flight to Barcelona. Once again Zoë revelled in the luxury of travelling first class; much more of this, she thought, and I'll never be able to go back to travelling economy! But she knew she would never be treated to this sort of extravagance again, although as far as she could tell, it was absolutely the norm for Raoul.
She was beginning to get some idea of what it was like to be that wealthy. Every item of clothing he wore was perfect, exclusive. He rode around in only the smartest of chauffeur-driven vehicles, stayed in the best suites, ordered the finest wines. The only slightly odd thing about all this was that he seemed to carry a good deal of cash around with him, which she thought unusual. Most moneyed people paid for everything on credit cards. But perhaps that's what marked out the rich from the very rich; the very rich had to use cash, no doubt for tax reasons.
Whatever, she had surreptitiously noticed the huge tip that Raoul had given the chauffeur in Frankfurt, and unless she was very much mistaken, it was more than she usually earned in a week. After that, she thought, she would have absolutely no guilty feelings about how much this was all costing Raoul. And if he wanted to spend his money on her, then who was she to argue?
***
By the time the plane landed she was feeling energized, ready for anything. Raoul had told her about some of the places they would see in Barcelona, and it was clear from the way he spoke that he loved the city and its people. Zoë could hardly wait to see it all.
Thankfully the flight had been half-empty so they did not have to wait long for their bags. In fact, by the time she had searched the luggage hall for a trolley and returned to the carousel with it, the bags were already being off-loaded. Raoul stacked their bags carefully on the trolley. He seemed not to trust airlines or airport staff when it came to bags, and on the plane had related several stories concerning previous trips abroad when his luggage had been either lost or ruined. He had made a point of ensuring that Zoë filled out her luggage labels correctly with her full name and home address. Zoë had thought this unnecessarily pedantic, but had not objected.
As they passed through Customs, Raoul again started in on a story about how brutish airport staff could be, and how he did not like Customs officials as they had no regard for people's belongings. One particularly offensive character had handled his clothes very roughly once, especially his silk shirts. The man evidently had a hang-up about wealth, and had taken out his ire on the contents of Raoul's case. Raoul had been furious, and had threatened to seek compensation after one of his shirts was "nearly ripped". Zoë didn't know exactly what "nearly ripped" meant, but she didn't want to ask and ruin the narrative flow.
She also thought it less than politic of Raoul to be telling such a story as they were heading through Customs. She felt certain that, should one of the officers overhear, then Raoul would be a candidate once again for a thorough going over. In the event, there were just a handful of officers on duty, and while one or two people were taken aside to have their bags checked, Raoul and Zoë passed through unhindered.
As they entered the Arrivals Hall, Zoë caught sight of a chauffeur carrying a sign which simply read "Snr Garcia".
'Ah, good,' said Raoul. 'Our man is here.' He beckoned the chauffeur over, and then turned to Zoë. 'You will excuse me; I must just wash my hands.'
'Sure. I'll wait right here,' said Zoë, and then noticed that Raoul was clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he had rheumatic pain. She then noticed the palms of his hands were red and marked from where he had been gripping the trolley. It looked as if he had been holding on to the trolley with all his strength. That's odd, thought Zoë. 'Is everything okay?' she asked, just as Raoul turned away. He turned back to her, and she could see, for the first time, just a trace of anxiety in his face. He even replied a little sharply.
'Perfectly. I shall not be long.' He walked off swiftly towards the washrooms. Zoë was a little perturbed by this, but by the time he had returned, refreshed and in perfectly good humour, she had forgotten all about it. They followed the chauffeur to the car, and set off for the centre of the city.
Chapter 10
Zoë's first sight of Barcelona was through the windows of the limousine as it drove along the busy roads. Even though the tinted glass kept her one step removed from the reality, already the city was reaching out to her, extending its enticing feelers, beckoning her to investigate
.
Sizzlers' regulars who had visited the Catalan capital had raved about it, but she had not been prepared for such a large and evidently vibrant place. The streets seethed with activity, and everywhere she looked strange new vistas presented themselves for her approval. There was something very immediate, almost familiar, about the look of the place, as if she had been here - or somewhere similar - before, and had enjoyed it. She had barely been introduced to the city, but already it reverberated with hidden promise; she was impatient to get to the hotel, so she could set out and explore on foot.
When they finally arrived about thirty minutes later, she was not surprised by Raoul's choice; she was already getting used to his style.
The Palace Hotel was a wonderful anachronism, an establishment in the grand tradition. Situated on a pretty, tree-lined boulevard, its grand, 19th century exterior exuded olde worlde charm.
As they walked into the lobby, Zoë gasped. It was an immense space, like a cathedral, all marble, chandeliers, dark wood panelling and silk upholstered furnishings.
***
There wasn't much time to enjoy her suite though. Raoul had insisted that, as soon as she had freshened up, she meet him in the lobby, as they had important business to attend to. She had not been in the room more than ten minutes, and was just unpacking her dresses so they should not crease further, when there was a knock on the door.
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