by Anne Mather
‘Is something wrong, mademoiselle?’ he queried solicitously.
Dionne managed to shake her head with what she hoped was casual composure. ‘No – no, nothing,’ she replied swiftly. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Beautiful,’ he echoed, nodding, and she fled up the stairs to her room.
As she changed for lunch into a cotton shift in a rather attractive shade of lemon which Clarry had made for her Dionne tried desperately to assimilate her position. She combed and secured her hair again in the chignon, touched eye-shadow to her slightly olive lids, and applied a colourless lustre to her mouth, but she did all these things automatically. She had somehow not planned beyond the phone call. If she were to ring again and Manoel should not be there a second time, the family would begin to become suspicious of her motives and she dared not risk that. But how else could she contact him? She could not possibly drive all the way to Avignon on the off-chance of meeting him.
She descended to the dining-room with a distinctly hollow feeling in her stomach that had little to do with food.
She ate little, even though the fish soup was delicious, and refused anything more than some fresh fruit afterwards. She enjoyed the coffee; it was invigoratingly strong, and as she sipped it she sought about in her mind for a reason to drive out to the manade itself.
Leaving the restaurant, she crossed the reception area to the wide entrance to the hotel, looking out on the shaded square with thoughtful eyes. There were not many guests staying in the hotel. It was early yet for tourists in Arles. They would come later, in May and June, when the festivals began, when the gypsies gathered for their own particular celebrations …
Dionne pressed a hand to her suddenly churning stomach. It was all so bitterly familiar, and so unfair somehow that she should have had to come back here at this particular time of year. She touched her fingers to her lips feeling again the dryness of salted bread and the thirst for red wine poured from earthenware pitchers. She could hear the excited noise, the music, the uninhibited thrill of being part of a ritual that had taken place for hundreds of years …
With tightly clenched fists she turned back into the hotel. It was no use. She had to go through with it, however painful and ugly it might be. For Jonathan’s sake.
She spent the afternoon in the hotel, much to the manager’s amazement. He had obviously written her down as a tourist, and that she should not be out sampling the tourist’s places of interest was clearly an enigma to him. Several times she caught him watching her from the doorway of the lounge and she deliberately pretended not to notice so that she would not embarrass him.
In the late afternoon, when the shadows in the square were lengthening, she left the lounge and made her way to the telephone booth again. Her knees trembled slightly, and she had difficulty in co-ordinating her movements. But she reached the booth at last and lifted the receiver.
A female voice answered the call again, and Dionne’s spirits sank. But it was not Jeanne. It was a girl’s voice, a voice Dionne vaguely remembered. Manoel had had a sister, a young sister – Louise.
‘Excusez moi,’ she said, hoping her accent would not sound too English, ‘mais je veux parler avec Monsieur Manoel St. Salvador.’
‘Manoel?’ The girl sounded surprised. ‘Qui est là?’
Dionne hesitated. How could she tell the girl her name without creating the kind of situation she most wanted to avoid.
‘C’est une amie de Monsieur St. Salvador,’ she prevaricated.
The girl uttered an exclamation. ‘Mais êtes-vous anglaise?’
Dionne pressed her lips together. She had not thought her accent was so bad, but then it was several years since she had used French. What could she say? If she denied it the girl would know she was lying, and if she agreed her position would be even worse.
‘Ce n’est pas important,’ she replied, and for the second time she rang off, despising herself for her cowardice.
Leaving the booth, she went upstairs to her room and stared at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. Her eyes were troubled now, their green depths haunted by the anxiety she was suffering. What was she going to do?
She was in the process of changing for dinner when there was a tap at her door. ‘Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!’
The voice was feminine and Dionne crossed the room to the door, wrapping her housecoat closer about her. A maid waited outside.
‘There is a telephone call for you, mademoiselle,’ she explained with a smile. ‘Unfortunately, you will have to take it downstairs –in the hall.’
Dionne gripped the door handle tightly. ‘Are – are you sure it’s for me?’ she asked faintly.
‘Mais certainement, mademoiselle. It is a man, mademoiselle!’
‘A man!’ Dionne shook her head bewilderedly. ‘Oh, oh, very well, I – I’ll come down. Give me a minute to put some clothes on.’
As she thrust her legs into close-fitting cream pants and a chunky jade green sweater that accentuated her extreme slenderness she sought about in her mind for an explanation. Surely if that had been Louise she could not have recognized her voice so quickly! And even if she had, how could she have known where she was staying?
Her legs trembled as she ran downstairs to the phone, but when she picked up the receiver the voice that said: ‘Mademoiselle King?’ was most definitely not Manoel’s. It was much lighter, much younger, and infinitely less disturbing.
‘Who – who is that?’ she asked, jerkily.
‘Henri Martin, mademoiselle. We met yesterday, on the plane.’
Dionne sagged against the wall of the booth. ‘Oh – oh, Monsieur Martin,’ she breathed huskily. ‘I – I didn’t know your name.’
‘I know. But I was lucky enough to learn yours. Tell me, have you settled into your hotel? Is everything satisfactory?’
Dionne heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, yes, yes, everything’s fine,’ she replied dejectedly. ‘Why are you ringing?’
He sounded disconcerted. ‘Why am I ringing, mademoiselle?’ He chuckled. ‘But of course you know. I want to ask you if you will dine with me this evening.’
Dionne straightened. ‘I’m sorry, that’s impossible.’
‘Why? Why is it impossible?’
Dionne shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I — I’m tired. I don’t feel much like dining at all, monsieur.’
He uttered an exclamation. ‘Ah, but I am desolated, mademoiselle. Surely you must eat!’
Dionne bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘I don’t know what I shall be doing tomorrow.’ That at least was true.
‘You are wrecking my ego,’ he commented lightly. ‘Please, lunch, then.’
‘Some other time,’ said Dionne firmly, and rang off.
Leaving the booth, she walked slowly back up the stairs to her room and once there she did not bother to change, but flung herself on the bed, a well of bitterness rising up inside her. She felt completely alone, and not even the knowledge of Clarry and Jonathan waiting for her so confidently in England could dispel the desolation she was feeling.
Deciding she could not bear the idea of facing a meal in the restaurant, she collected her handbag and went downstairs again and out into the square. The shadows of the street lamps cast pools of light on the shadowed streets, but it was very warm and she found the melting softness of the darkness like a balm to her troubled heart and mind. Tomorrow was another day!
She had a cup of coffee and a pastry in a small bistro on the banks of the Rhone and then walked in the direction of the Arena. She had been to the Arena several times with Manoel, watching the spectacle which could bring nausea to the most hardened stomachs. The famous bulls of the Camargue were worthy opponents for their human counterparts and while Dionne had turned away from the bloody killing, so cruel somehow in the heat of the afternoon, she had been fascinated by the men who diced so casually with death. Some of the most famous bullfighters from Spain crossed the border to take part in t
he corrida in the arena at Arles, and pit their skills against the sturdy black bulls that could inflict such cruel wounds with the flick of deadly horns, while amateurs from all around continually appeared to challenge the professionals, each more willing than the last it seemed to tempt the ultimate fate.
Dionne had watched Manoel in the corral at the mas with the bulls, and had stood in frozen immobility as he made passes that in the arena would have aroused the excited shouts of ‘Olé!’ Those were times when she had hated him for subjecting her to such an agony of anxiety and she had run away, only to have him follow her, tumbling her to the ground and kissing away her indignation in a way that made her forget everything but her need of him …
A pain twisted in her stomach. How swiftly those months had gone by, how sweetly had each day been the culmination of her wildest dreams, and how tortuous had been the parting when it inevitably came.
She returned from her walk about nine o’clock, the solitary stroll having had a calming effect on her heightened senses. She felt pleasantly tired, and she refused to consider any more the probabilities and possibilities of the morrow. It was hopeless trying to speculate on anything so nebulous.
She entered the reception hall of the hotel slowly, her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, her hand raised to tuck an errant strand of black silk behind her ear.
She thought the hall was deserted at first, but as she crossed the wide expanse of green carpeting a man rose from a chair positioned at the foot of the stairs and stepped to block her path.
Dionne halted, her gaze sweeping up over mudsplattered knee-length boots and grey suede trousers, noticing inconsequently the man’s height and leanness and the intense darkness of his face in the shadows. For a moment he remained motionless and a twinge of apprehension feathered along her spine, and then he stepped into the light and she fell back a pace, a hand pressed to paling lips.
‘Hello, Dionne,’ he said, his voice, with its unmistakable accent, lacerating her with incisive harshness. ‘Might one ask why you are here and why you wish to speak with me?’
CHAPTER TWO
DIONNE stared at him disbelievingly, unable to accept for a moment that this was not some crazy hallucination brought on by her intense longing to see Manoel St. Salvador again, a longing which until this moment had existed only in her subconscious.
But this was not the Manoel she remembered. Her recollections of him were acute, and this cold-eyed stranger bore little resemblance to the warm-blooded man she had known and loved. The features were the same, and yet not the same. They were arranged in the same order, grey eyes below dark brows, arrogantly carved cheekbones, a full and sensual mouth, dark side-bums growing down to his firm jawline. But he was leaner than she remembered, and the grey eyes were more deeply set in their sockets and tinged with bitterness. Deep lines etched nose and mouth, and he had a slightly bored and jaded air. His body was leaner, too, although the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the soft suede of his short jacket, and the strong thighs strained against his taut-fitting trousers.
Now she shook her head helplessly, aware that this moment had come upon her unannounced and unprepared and she could not cope with it. What possible hope of compassion could she expect from the cruel-looking man who was regarding her with something like hatred in his eyes? How could she begin to believe that she might ask anything of him? How could she have imagined so foolishly that the passing of the years should not have laid as much experience at his door as at hers?
‘Well, mademoiselle?’
It was the cold detached voice of a stranger, and Dionne turned away, unable to stand the accusation in his eyes. But what was he accusing her off? Why did he regard her with such obvious distrust, such aversion? Was the memory of the past so distasteful to him?
‘I – I – how did you find me?’ Dionne’s words were scarcely audible.
Manoel uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘Is that important? Why are you here? What do you want of me now?’ He stepped towards her, swinging her round to face him, his hand a cruel pain on her shoulder. ‘So! Do not turn away, Dionne! Or is the sight of me so repugnant to you?’
Dionne quivered in his grasp and his gaze raked her face grimly and then travelled down the slim length of her body in the chunky green sweater and cream pants. His hand on her shoulder softened and his thumb probed the fragile bones at her throat before his jaw tightened and his hand fell away.
‘Well?’ he said again. ‘I repeat – why are you here?’
Dionne swallowed a choking breath. ‘I – I came to see you. I – I didn’t know – who else to turn to.’
Manoel’s eyes darkened. ‘You are in trouble?’ He glanced round impatiently. ‘We cannot talk here. You have a room?’ And at her nod, he said: ‘We will go there!’
‘No!’ The word was tom from her and she faltered desperately, ‘No – I mean – we couldn’t go there. It’s small – a bedroom, no more!’
‘So? And what do you imagine I intend to do in this room of yours? Swing you about, little cat?’ His mouth twisted harshly.
Dionne shook her head helplessly. How could she explain that she wanted no remembrance of his presence in that small bare room to haunt her through the long lonely reaches of the night?
‘There – there’s a lounge here,’ she stammered. ‘If – if it’s not occupied …’
She thrust open the door on to darkness that enveloped her like a shroud. She moved quickly into the room, switching on the lamps, illuminating the emptiness.
Manoel’s expression was grim. ‘Very well, it will do. Now—’ He followed her into the quiet room, closing the door and leaning back against it, his whole being emanating the kind of strength that she had only begun to remember could annihilate any defence she might erect. ‘Now, Dionne, what is it? What is wrong? Why do you need my help?’
Dionne moved about the room restlessly, unable to stand still under that piercing examination, unable to find words to say what she wanted to say. And presently he tired of her restiveness and said intensely: ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, Dionne, I am not a patient man! Say what you have to say and be done with it!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want? Money?’
Dionne halted abruptly and stared at him, her lips quivering. ‘Why should you imagine I want money?’ She was stung by the cynicism of his tone.
‘Is that not what everybody wants?’ he inquired carelessly. He snapped his fingers. ‘If that is what this elaborate charade is about, then continue with it no longer. Such performances bore me!’ He straightened, looking at her contemptuously. ‘What puzzles me is why you should imagine I might give you money!’
Dionne stared at him, her tongue straying to the comer of her mouth. ‘Am I to take it from your remarks that you refuse to help me?’ she inquired tersely, summoning all her composure to confront him squarely.
Manoel returned her gaze insolently, forcing her lids to fall defensively over the jade green eyes. She found it incredibly difficult even after all this time to sustain a measure of confidence with him, and she was afraid her eyes might mirror a little of what she was feeling. There was a poignant kind of pleasure in just looking at him, but with the looking came memories which she had previously never allowed to enter her conscious mind. She knew every facet of that lean strong face intimately, she had kissed the firm skin of his cheek and felt the sensual curve of his mouth against her body, driving all coherent thought from her mind. Despite the passage of years it was impossible not to be affected by such recollections.
He hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants which circled his narrow hips. Without bothering to answer her question he said: ‘Tell me something, why do you need money?’
Dionne squared her shoulders. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she said. ‘Besides, as you so obviously are opposed to helping me, I don’t see that it matters.’
‘I do not recall stating categorically that I would not help you,’ he drawled, his eyes watchful. ‘You are too quick to take offence, Dionne. You ca
nnot expect to come back here after three years and expect things and people to be the same now as they were then.’
Dionne pressed the palms of her hands against each other. ‘I don’t expect anything of the sort,’ she said carefully. ‘I realize life goes on, nothing stays the same. The reason I am avoiding unnecessary complications is so that this situation should not impinge upon your privacy—’
Manoel swore violently, moving towards her menacingly. ‘Do you imagine you can come here without impinging upon my privacy, as you put it?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Good God, woman, we are human beings, not automatons! Anything you do would be bound to effect what has gone before and what is to come after!’
Dionne trembled in the grip of his angry emotions. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said chokingly. ‘I had to come to you! There was no one else I could turn to!’
‘And you need money?’ He was controlling himself with difficulty, his shoulders hunched, his eyes glittering with suppressed violence.
‘Yes.’ Dionne managed to articulate with difficulty.
‘How much money?’
Dionne swallowed hard. ‘Two — two hundred pounds,’ she faltered.
His brows drew together. ‘Two hundred pounds? What is that? About twenty-five hundred francs?’
‘Something like that,’ Dionne nodded.
Manoel chewed his lower lip for a full minute, and then he said: ‘Two hundred pounds, eh?’ His eyes travelled insolently down the length of her slim body, coming to rest almost tangibly on her parted lips. ‘What is it you need this money for, Dionne? You are pregnant, perhaps?’
‘No!’ Dionne stared at him in horror. ‘No! How could you suggest such a thing?’ Her voice broke, much to her chagrin, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.
‘Why?’ he asked now, his grey eyes raking her body mercilessly. ‘Why should I not assume such a thing? Is it such an uncommon occurrence in your country? Are men there any different from anywhere else? I think not. You are a beautiful woman, Dionne, you always were. How many nights have I lain awake remembering exactly how beautiful you were when you lay in my arms?’ His lips twisted cruelly. ‘Surely some other man must have known the delights we shared—’
