Читать книгу Body And Soul - CHARLOTTE LAMB - Страница 5

‘YOU have to admit,’ said Annie, one of the share analysts, some months later, ‘he’s an asset to the bank!’

‘Oh, please, no puns this early in the morning!’ winced Martine.

‘You’ve got no sense of humour where he’s concerned, that’s the trouble,’ complained Annie, who was a year younger, and very pretty: small, fair, bubbly, and very popular with the men. ‘And you’ve dodged my question! He’s the hottest thing we’ve acquired in years. Look at that Ambleham-Tring merger—I hear we’ve picked up a lot more business from that, and his client list has doubled since he arrived.’

‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ Martine was staring at her VDU, frowning over the string of figures coming up. ‘Because if you haven’t, I have. With Charles ringing in to say he’s working at home today, and our trip to Rome starting tomorrow, I’ve got so much to do I’ll be working until very late tonight, so get off my desk and go away, Annie!’

‘In a minute,’ Annie said, wriggling like a child on the edge of the desk, her small feet swinging back and forth. ‘I wanted to ask you something...’

‘Well, what?’ Martine irritably asked, wondering how Annie could be so thick-skinned. What did you have to do to get rid of her?

‘Has he got a woman tucked away somewhere? I mean, he hasn’t dated anyone since he joined us, he says he isn’t married, and I can’t believe he’s gay, so is there someone in the background?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t care, and will you please shut up about Bruno Falcucci, get off my desk and let me get on with my work?’ Martine frequently wished she had never heard the man’s name, let alone met him. He had been here nearly four months and she sometimes felt as if the whole place revolved around him. It certainly did as far as the female staff were concerned. They couldn’t stop talking about him; half of them were in love with him and the others were simply fascinated.

Except Martine, of course. If anything, she disliked him more now than she had the first day she’d met him.

She had watched grimly while he became a director and immediately began to dominate board meetings, making himself the centre of power on the board, a voice to be reckoned with, pushing Charles further and further out of the picture.

It was what she had feared from the beginning, but Charles would not listen even now. He had smiled gently when she pointed out that Bruno had taken over some of his own clients, some of the most lucrative, at that.

‘At my suggestion, my dear girl!’ he had insisted. ‘I’m trying to shed some of my workload. You told me I was working too hard, remember!’

‘I didn’t tell you to hand some of your best clients over to Bruno Falcucci! And you never told me that was what you were planning!’

He had given her a wry, apologetic look. ‘I knew you’d get agitated and lecture me on your favourite subject!’

Eyes startled, she’d asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Bruno,’ Charles had said, laughing softly as she flushed dark red. ‘Now, don’t deny it—you’re paranoid where he’s concerned. You think he has horns and a forked tail!’

‘Yes,’ she had said then, soberly. ‘I don’t trust him, and I only hope you aren’t making a serious mistake, letting him get into such a position of power at the bank.’

Her uneasiness had not lifted a few weeks after this discussion with Charles, on the cool autumn morning when Annie sat on her desk and would not stop talking about Bruno Falcucci.

‘Shoo,’ she told Annie, pushing her off her desk, and Annie turned a laughing face to her.

‘Oh, come on, I bet you’re secretly crazy about Bruno too—you just won’t admit it!’

‘I’d rather date Dracula!’ Martine snapped just as her office door opened.

She and Annie both looked round, both froze in confusion. Bruno stood in the doorway, his dark eyes hooded and unreadable, his powerful body briefly at rest, which she already knew was rare for him since he was perpetually in motion, a man with burning energy always racing against the clock, or himself, or the world, she wasn’t sure which.

‘What’s Dracula got that I haven’t?’ he drawled, and Annie began to giggle, half in relief because he didn’t seem angry, half with embarrassment because she didn’t know how much of the earlier conversation he had overheard.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Martine said, and Bruno looked into her eyes, his mouth twisting.

‘Could I?’

Annie’s eyes grew enormous, fascinated. She looked from one to the other and waited to hear more.

‘No,’ Martine said through her teeth.

Bruno held the door open. ‘Weren’t you just going, Annie?’ he asked in a bland voice. She hesitated, wanting to stay and eavesdrop, but Bruno’s eyes were hypnotic. Reluctantly she swayed her way across the room towards him. Martine watched Bruno watch Annie. There was a distinct gleam in the dark eyes. Annie was a pocket-sized blonde Venus—high breasts, tiny waist, rounded hips—and she knew how to move to make men stare. Bruno was staring now.

Annie paused to smile up at him; Martine couldn’t see her face but she saw the way Bruno smiled down at her.

‘Dracula hasn’t got anything you haven’t got,’ Annie said, and giggled.

‘Then why aren’t you scared?’ Bruno asked and bent towards her, lip curling to show his teeth, pretending to be about to sink his fangs into her throat.

Annie shrieked in delight and fled.

Bruno straightened and looked across the room. Martine coldly met his laughing gaze and the laughter stopped; his face tightened and turned cold. He walked towards her, letting the door slam behind him.

Her nerve-ends quivered in alarm at something in his stare. He stopped beside her desk, and for an instant of panic she was afraid he was going to touch her, kiss her.

She went crimson, then white, shrinking back from him.

He watched her inexorably.

‘One of these days I’m going to tell you why you can’t stand the sight of me,’ he said softly. ‘And then you’ll really hate me.’

‘I already do!’

It came out before she could stop it, and she bit her lip in shock. She hadn’t meant to be so up-front about her real feelings; she was horrified that she should have lost control like that. In her work she often came up against men she loathed and despised, but she knew better than to let her view of them show!

‘I’m sorry,’ she said edgily, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I lost my temper, please forget I said that.’

If he told Charles she knew the reaction she would get. Charles would be appalled. He was aware she didn’t trust his cousin but he expected her to have a little self-control and to keep her private opinions to herself. And, in fact, so did she. She was angry with herself for losing her cool.

‘I never forget anything,’ Bruno murmured, and she believed him. She had already discovered what a fantastic memory he had; he seemed to know everything about every public company and many in private hands. The tiniest detail was retained in his mind and could be conjured up out of nowhere when he needed it. They used state-of-the-art computers to do work Bruno could do in his head and seemed to find child’s play.

‘That’s up to you,’ she said, trying to hide her faint dismay. No doubt one day she would pay for having lost her temper. She suspected him to be a man who took his revenge for past wounds. That was why it worried her that Charles seemed to trust him so implicitly. She was afraid that one day Bruno Falcucci would make Charles pay for the way the Redmond family had treated Bruno’s mother.

She swallowed, looked at the screen in front of her and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the latest Japanese figures?’

‘More or less as I predicted,’ he shrugged.

‘Yes, right again, as usual!’ Martine said with saccharine sweetness.

He laughed. She couldn’t even make him angry. It was infuriating. She wished he would go away, he was ruining her morning.

‘I am rather busy,’ she told him coldly. ‘So unless you wanted to tell me something important...?’

‘Charles just rang me from his home,’ he said. ‘About the Rome conference...’

‘Yes?’ She was flying to Rome with Charles the following day for an international banking conference, and was rather looking forward to the trip. It was ages since she had been anywhere interesting, and it would mean getting away from the office and Bruno Falcucci for a little while.

‘His doctor has advised him to stay in bed for a week, so he won’t be able to go,’ Bruno coolly said.

‘What’s wrong? Is he ill?’ Martine anxiously asked but Bruno shook his head.

‘Just tired, I gather. A touch of flu, too, maybe. Nothing serious, but his doctor thinks he needs complete rest. He asked me to explain to you, and say how sorry he is to miss the Rome trip.’

‘Of course; I understand, though,’ Martine said, deeply disappointed, her face falling. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, he has looked quite exhausted the last few days. He really needs a long holiday, but a week in bed would be a good start. Well, I’d better cancel everything, but I don’t think we’ll be able to reclaim the price of the air tickets. The hotel can be cancelled without a problem, of course.’

She put out a hand to the phone but Bruno caught hold of her wrist, his fingers cool and light, yet making her aware of their potential strength.

‘No, don’t cancel anything. The trip is still on, it’s just that I’ll be taking Charles’s place.’

Martine stiffened. ‘You?’

His mouth curled. ‘Sorry, I know I’m no substitute for Charles in your eyes, but you’ll have to put up with my company for a few days, I’m afraid. Charles wants the bank represented. He was making a speech on the pros and cons of monetarist policy and he wants me to read it to the conference.’

Martine knew all about that speech; Charles had discussed it with her at great length. She could have delivered that speech for him, if he’d asked her, but Charles hadn’t even considered that, she realised, her mouth taut.

Bruno considered her expression, his brows crooked. ‘Charles has a rather old-fashioned view of women’s place in banking, doesn’t he?’

‘Which you share?’ she bitterly suggested.

‘You do enjoy thinking the worst of me, don’t you? No, as it happens, I don’t, but Charles was obviously ill and I couldn’t very well argue with him. Have you got all his documentation, by the way? Tickets, etcetera?’

She nodded and began to get up. Bruno moved back just enough to let her pass; she picked up the scent of his aftershave and decided she didn’t like it.

She found the folder containing all the travel documents for Charles, and handed it to Bruno.

‘The name on the tickets will have to be changed. I’ll do that.’

‘Don’t worry, my secretary will deal with it,’ he said, turning to walk out. ‘See you tomorrow, on the plane.’

She glared after him, half inclined not to turn up. Only her loyalty to Charles made her decide to go. Someone had to keep an eye on Bruno Falcucci.

They met at Heathrow, in fact, in a chaotic, overcrowded terminal building. All planes were delayed by fog in the London area. Bruno and Martine bought piles of newspapers and magazines, drank lots of bitter black coffee, tried to ignore screaming babies, restless children, the whine of the Tannoy, the discomfort of the seats they sat on.

At last the fog lifted and planes began to take off. They were two hours late in leaving for Rome, in the end.

The chauffeur-driven car they had ordered was not waiting to meet them when they arrived. They had to take a taxi, there were long queues and a black, relentless rain was falling. Rome sulked under sagging clouds and grey skies. Looking up, Martine felt very depressed.

By the time they got to their hotel, which sat near the top of the Spanish Steps, she was barely able to stand, and very fed up. She collected her key and went straight to her room, which turned out to be charming: beautifully furnished and with a magnificent view over the huddled roofs, towers and cupolas of the city.

The rain was still teeming down, lashing along streets, trickling down windows, spilling from the gargoyles on churches, splashing in gutters, forming rivers down the Spanish Steps.

Martine leaned on the window for a while, gazing out. There was a magnificent desolation about the scene spread out below her, and her eyes wandered from building to building, absorbing the atmosphere. Even in the rain Rome was noisy, bustling, over-full of people and vehicles. She heard the blare of horns, police whistles, people shouting to each other, people quarrelling loudly, the clatter of feet on old pavements.

Sitting there with the window open made her shiver after a while. She stood up, closed the window and went into her modern bathroom to take a long, warm, fragrant bath, pouring deliciously scented bath oils into the water before she climbed gratefully into it.

Bruno had suggested that they meet for dinner at eight o’clock in the bar. The first gathering of the conference was at nine o’clock the following day, and was scheduled to take place at another hotel, the Excelsior, which was a popular conference centre with efficient modern facilities, next door to the United States embassy and close to the via Veneto. Most of the delegates were also staying at the Excelsior, but Charles had wanted to have a peaceful bolthole to make for when conference politics grew too hectic. It often helped to be able to escape for a while. The lobbying began at breakfast and went on until well into the night, and if you could get away you had a better chance of preserving your sanity, Charles said.

After her bath, Martine went to sleep on her bed, wrapped in her thick white bathrobe, a quilt over her. Her dreams were as chaotic as the traffic in the Rome streets; she twisted and sighed in her sleep, her body restless, overheated.

She woke up with a start when someone knocked sharply on the door. For a second she was totally disorientated. While she had slept, night had fallen; the room was dark, only the flash of a neon light somewhere nearby in the city to show her the furniture, the high oblong of the window.

She lay on the bed, staring blankly; then somebody knocked on the door again, louder, peremptorily.

Stumbling off the bed, she went to the door and opened it on the chain, blinking in the light from the corridor.

It was Bruno, in evening dress, looking the way he had the night she first saw him—ultra-civilised, menacingly primitive. It was a very disturbing mix, added to which, just the sight of his smooth-skinned, closely shaven face and sleek black hair, his gleaming jet eyes, his powerful body, sent a strange quiver of weakness through her. Ever since she had met him she had been both alarmed by and hostile to him, working on instincts buried inside her, too deep for her to be quite sure what it was about the man that set all her alarm bells jangling.

‘Aren’t you dressed yet? We said eight o’clock,’ Bruno reminded her, his gleaming eyes roaming slowly over her dishevelled, damp coils of auburn hair, her flushed face, the short white robe which left her long legs bare and revealed the deep cleft between her breasts.

She instinctively put up a hand to pull her robe lapels together to hide her breasts, and saw Bruno’s mouth twist in wry comprehension.

‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she stammered. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink in the bar, and I’ll only be ten minutes, I promise!’

She shut the door quickly, afraid he would notice she was trembling. Switching on the light, she leaned on the elaborately carved oak bed for a moment, to steady her nerves. What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe she had picked up some bug? The same one Charles had got? She wouldn’t be surprised. That was how she felt—ill, feverish, weak-legged, shivery.

She didn’t want to get dressed, do her hair, have dinner alone with Bruno Falcucci; she didn’t feel strong enough.

But how could she get out of it? They were here representing the bank, standing in for Charles; she couldn’t simply duck out of her responsibilities, she would be letting Charles down. She must pull herself together.

Her hands cold and shaking, she began to get ready. She had picked out her dress before she had her bath: a dark green velvet, figure-hugging, with a deep scoop neckline along which ran a Greek key pattern in gold thread, a tight waist and very short skirt which left her long legs bare. It was formal and elegant, but once she had put it on Martine had second thoughts.

She stared at herself in the mirror, biting her lip. She had forgotten just how tight the dress was, and how short the skirt! It made her feel half-naked. Charles had always liked the dress, that was why she had packed it, but wearing it for Charles was one thing—wearing it when she was going to spend an evening alone with Bruno Falcucci was something else. The very thought of it made her hair stand up on the back of her neck.

She looked at her watch, and groaned. There was no time to change, either. If only she hadn’t fallen asleep on the bed! She still had to do her hair and her face. She picked up her brush and began to work hurriedly.

When she walked into the hotel bar she saw Bruno watching her from a table on the other side of the room and an atavistic shudder ran through her.

Déjà vu, she told herself hurriedly. That was what it was, déjà vu, because this was almost a re-run of the night they’d met—and she remembered with another shudder the way their reflections had shimmered in the dark glass behind the bar. It had seemed significant then; more so now.

He’s dangerous to me, she thought. Dangerous to Charles. To the bank.

Yet there was something darker involved, something she had never quite faced.

She did so now. I’m afraid of him, she admitted, ice trickling down her spine. He terrifies me.

She thought of Charles’s pale face and tired eyes, the sadness in his heart, and she hated Bruno Falcucci. Charles was helpless against him; he didn’t have the drive or the desire to fight back if he was attacked, but Bruno wasn’t going to destroy Charles if she could stop him, so she pushed her fear away and began to walk towards him through the crowded bar.

Her auburn hair glowed like dark flame in the light of chandeliers, her oval face a classical cameo, green-shadowed eyes, elegant nose, wide, full, generous red mouth. Her slender, rounded figure swayed under the tight dark green velvet, the low neckline drawing eyes to her high, white breasts, her pale legs moving gracefully, the skirt constantly sliding up to give glimpses of her slim thighs.

The lively hum of voices, the clink of glasses, the laughter, died away and people’s heads turned to watch her, although Martine herself was completely unaware of her effect on the others in the bar because she was too absorbed in staying cool, getting herself under control.

The only watching eyes of which she was aware were Bruno’s; she didn’t meet them but she felt them fixed on her, black, brilliant, intent, and the way they watched her made a pulse beat hard in her throat.

He stood up to greet her, she slid into the deep-upholstered seat beside him, and the noise in the bar broke out again.

‘That was quite an entrance!’ Bruno drily said. ‘What will you have to drink?’

She looked at his glass and wasn’t surprised to see that it was mineral water with a twist of lime in it. ‘The same as you, thanks.’

He ordered the drink and handed her a menu. ‘I’ve already decided what I want, but take your time to choose. The food is terrific here, and as it is a special occasion I thought we might try a glass or two of an excellent Italian wine they have on their list. You do drink wine, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes, not often,’ she agreed, looking at the menu and realising suddenly that she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten on the plane because she hated unreal food, and with surprise it dawned on her that her last meal had been breakfast at the airport. ‘What a huge menu! I don’t know what half these dishes are!’ Remembering suddenly that he was a Swiss of Italian extraction, she asked him, ‘Can you recommend something?’

He shifted along the seat and leaned over her shoulder. She felt his thigh touching hers, his arm against her, smelt his cologne.

‘This is probably good at this time of year,’ he suggested, pointing. ‘Autumn is the best time for wild mushrooms, and I love them served with seafood.’

Martine read the name of the dish falteringly: funghi e frutti di mare.

‘Mushrooms and seafood?’ she asked.

‘Exactly.’ Bruno’s deep voice had a husky tone, she felt his warm breathing on her bare shoulder.

‘OK, I’ll have that,’ she hurriedly said, nervously aware of his body somehow even closer. ‘And I suppose I’ll just have pasta for the main course.’ She would have moved away then but Bruno shook his head, pointing to the menu again.

‘Don’t be so predictable!’ he softly said, very close to her ear. ‘Try the saltimbocco...’

‘What’s that?’

‘It means...hmm..."jump in the mouth"...it’s veal escalope, rolled in ham, flavoured with sage, fried and then simmered in Marsala wine. Very rich, but it’s a Roman speciality, you must try it once, at least. While you’re in Italy, and especially in Rome, you must be more adventurous, take a few risks for once in your life!’

She tensed, picking up the undertone, the hidden meaning, and hedged instinctively. ‘Risks and banking don’t go together!’

‘Oh, but they do,’ he drawled. ‘Lending money is always a risk, but if you don’t gamble you don’t accumulate, as you know very well. You’ve been working for Charles for too long. Charles has the excuse of being middle-aged, but you’re not.’

‘Charles isn’t middle-aged!’ she threw back, flushed and angry now. ‘He’s only in his forties.’

Bruno laughed coldly. ‘That is middle-aged!’

‘Yes, well, Charles is still very...’ She broke off the sentence, not sure how she had been meaning to finish it, and Bruno finished it for her in a hard, sardonic voice.

‘Attractive? Was that what you were going to say? I know you worship the ground he walks on, and I’d be curious to know why you’re so fixated on a man who was at university before you were even born! Does he remind you of your father? Or didn’t you have a father? If I had a crude mind, I’d suspect it might be Charles’s money you were really interested in, and that thought did occur to me before I got to know you, but I’ve realised you aren’t that materialistic. No, it’s Charles himself, isn’t it?’ His dark eyes watched her tense profile closely. ‘You have a real problem, Martine. The gap’s too wide. You’d regret it bitterly sooner or later if Charles was crazy enough to take what you’re dying to give him.’

Her face was burning and a choking rage filled her throat. She turned on him furiously, her green eyes stormy with resentment.

‘How dare you...?’ She stopped as the waiter approached. Quivering, dark red, Martine had to swallow the words boiling to get out.

Bruno was as cool as the ice-cubes in their drinks. He smiled blandly at the waiter. ‘Ah, ready to take our order? Right.’ He ordered for them both, without consulting Martine again, which at any other time would have infuriated her, but which she accepted without comment then because she knew she couldn’t have said a word without her voice shaking.

By the time the waiter had gone Martine had had time to work out what she really wanted to say to Bruno, but, before she could start, someone else came up to their table.

Before she actually spoke, Martine picked up the heady, musky fragrance of her perfume. It enveloped them like a cloud.

‘Bruno, caro!’ a warm voice said, and Bruno got up, smiling. Martine watched coldly as he was engulfed in what looked like a very passionate embrace. The woman was in her thirties, her black hair wreathed at the back of her head in coils and pinned there with a huge black lace bow, her skin olive, but glowing with a golden tan she had not got in Italy at that time of year. She had a figure like a fairground switchback, curving in and out exaggeratedly: full, warm breasts, a tightly belted waist, with rounded hips giving a curved line to the black satin evening suit she wore. It glittered with diamanté on the neck and cuffs and hem. Diamonds shone in her ears, at her throat, at her wrists; her hands sparkled with rings, too.

She was certainly not a wallpaper person, thought Martine drily. In fact, she obviously dressed to be noticed, in every sense of the word.

The way she was kissing Bruno, they must surely have been lovers at one time. Good friends didn’t kiss on the mouth like that. So, that was the sort of woman he liked?

Martine’s green eyes chilled. Every little detail about him was important, told her new facts about him, might help her defeat whatever he had planned against Charles. But she wouldn’t have expected him to like a woman who looked like that.

A second later, Bruno turned her way to introduce her. ‘Angelina, this is a colleague from London, Martine Archer. Martine, this is the wife of an old friend of mine, Angelina Fabri.’

Martine smiled politely and coldly, offered her hand. The other woman took it, her own smile equally cool, studying her with shrewd, sophisticated eyes.

‘You are in banking?’ She spoke English with a strong Italian accent, her phrasing slightly off most of the time. ‘Yes, I can tell you are. A career woman, obviously. And if it gives you all you need, why not? For some women it is the answer; we don’t need to get married these days, after all!’

Martine kept her face cool, her teeth together, but she knew she had just been patronised and insulted.

Bruno smoothly intervened, openly amused by the instant hostility between the two women.

‘I think your friends are about to leave, Angelina.’

She turned to look across the room at a group near the door, and waved, nodding.

‘Yes, I must go, caro! Will we see you while you’re here? Now, promise we will!’

‘I’ll do my best. Give Carlo my best wishes, tell him I’ll ring, as soon as I can. Unfortunately, I have too many engagements during the conference, but my last day here is free, maybe we could meet then?’

‘You must come to dinner, caro