Читать книгу Dark Fever - CHARLOTTE LAMB - Страница 7

BIANCA went into Marbella itself that evening, in the hotel courtesy coach, to tour the local tapas bars with a guide. The other guests in the party were all married couples, which made Bianca feel left out and kept reminding her of Rob, and what wonderful holidays they had once had. Even before they arrived at the first bar in the old town she was beginning to wish she hadn’t come, because nobody much spoke to her. It wasn’t until they moved on to another bar that she got into conversation with another of the party—a woman of about her own age with short blonde hair and blue eyes.

She was sitting on a bar stool beside Bianca studying the contents of a tapas saucer. ‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked Bianca, who peered at it too.

‘Squid?’

The bartender was watching them—he suddenly leaned over and grinned. ‘Calamares a la plancha!’ he explained, then went off to serve someone else.

‘You speak Spanish?’ the German woman asked Bianca, who shook her head.

‘But I think plancha means plate.’

They called out to their Spanish hotel guide for a translation.

‘Squid cooked on a hotplate!’ he called over. ‘Don’t be scared. Try some! You don’t have to fight the bulls to be brave, you know!’

Bianca and the other woman laughed, tried the squid and had to agree it was good, if a little rubbery.

‘Too much garlic in it for me, though.’ The German turned to smile at Bianca. ‘We ought to introduce ourselves—I’m Friederike Schwartz; please call me Freddie—everyone does.’ ‘I’m Bianca Fraser.’

Freddie stared and laughed. ‘Bianca…that means white, doesn’t it? And Schwartz means black in German. How funny.’

‘Your English is amazing! I’m terribly impressed. I barely know six words of German.’

‘My husband works for a big German company—we travel the world with him, my children and I. He once spent two years in America, so we all learnt English.’

‘Is he here with you?’ Bianca glanced around the crowded little bar trying to guess which of the men belonged to Friederike.

‘He is the guy with a red tie, playing dominoes at that table,’ Freddie told her. Bianca inspected him, smiling.

‘He’s very attractive! Lucky you!’ He was clearly older than his wife, a man approaching fifty, bronzed and slim, brown-haired, brown-eyed, with a touch of silver at the temples, and still very good-looking.

‘Yes, I am, but he is cross tonight. He didn’t want to come on this bar cruise. Karl does not like to be out late. He wanted to stay in our suite looking after our children, but I talked him into coming.’

‘How old are your children?’

‘Teenagers. I keep telling him they don’t need babysitters any more. We have two sons, twins aged fourteen, Franz and Wolfgang, and my daughter Renata, who is seventeen and getting prettier all the time. When I walked around with her men used to stare at me—now they stare at her! I feel like the wicked queen in Snow White. I look into my mirror and grind my teeth every day.’

Bianca did not take her too seriously—she was laughing as she said it and was much too lovely to feel threatened even by a daughter who was half her age. Freddie was probably in her early forties but she looked ten years younger—her skin was smooth and unlined and her eyes were bright and clear. Her figure was slim and her clothes classy.

Karl looked up and saw them watching him and beckoned to his wife. Freddie groaned. ‘He’s going to ask when we can go back to the hotel! He’s bored already.’ She slid down from her bar stool and smiled at Bianca. ‘Nice talking to you. See you later.’

Bianca sipped her glass of red wine doubtfully—it tasted like red ink. She couldn’t help feeling that she sympathised with Freddie’s husband—she wasn’t enjoying this evening much either. But it would have been depressing to stay in her apartment by herself.

‘You are alone, señora?’ asked the Spanish guide, sliding into the seat beside her.

She gave him a wary look, nodding, hoping he was not going to make some sort of pass. A short, darkskinned man in his thirties with a distinct paunch, he was not her type. But all he said was, ‘Then please be careful not to leave the group. Keep with us at all times. I am afraid handbags have been snatched lately. There are some gangs in town, from other big towns—they work in pairs, going around on motorbikes, and they’re so quick—they come up behind you and snatch your bag, and they’ve gone before you know what is happening.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Bianca assured him, taking a piece of chorizo, the spicy red local sausage, from a little tapas saucer…

‘Enjoy, señora,’ he smiled, getting up to go and talk to some of the other guests.

They moved on a few minutes later to another bar, another selection of tapas—the other guests grazed eagerly on the food on offer while they drank their glasses of wine, discussing the various dishes with each other. Bianca noticed that Freddie and her husband had disappeared; perhaps they had taken a taxi back to the hotel.

The range of tapas was bewildering—artichokes in vinaigrette, baby clams served in a garlic sauce, fried whitebait, baby eels or squid, snails, mushrooms in a rich tomato sauce, chorizo, hard-boiled eggs stuffed with a variety of things. Everything was beautifully cooked but very rich.

The last bar they visited was the best—along with the tapas there was music and flamenco dancing, a blackjacketed man urgently drumming the heels of his highly polished shoes, his partner dancing with passion and invitation around him, her red skirts flaring.

The sexual tension in the music and dancing did something drastic to Bianca’s mood. She was flushed and feverish as she clapped along with the others and drummed her feet, as they were instructed—the rhythm of the music had got into her blood.

When the dancing ended the bar seemed even noisier; as the evening went on and more and more people piled inside until there was hardly room to move. Bianca began to get a faint headache. She needed some fresh air so she wriggled through the crowded bar and went outside into the cool Spanish night.

She had no intention of going far; she would just wait in the street for her companions to come and join her. They would be leaving soon, she imagined—it was getting very late.

The cool air was delicious on her overheated skin; she stood there breathing in for a minute, sighing with pleasure, feeling her headache easing off, and then, across the narrow street, she saw a small boutique and was struck by a dress displayed in the window. It reminded Bianca of the dress the flamenco dancer had worn—low-necked, tight-waisted, full in the skirt, and a vivid red. She walked over to take a closer look. It was stunning on the window dummy—she wasn’t sure she had the nerve to wear it in public, it was so dramatic and eye-catching; her children were bound to laugh at her. But she was tempted. She had the right colouring and she was slim enough to wear a dress like that.

She frowned, trying to work out the price in English money, and was vaguely aware of a motorbike roaring round the corner from the main square and heading towards her.

It slowed as it reached her, someone jumped off it, and she saw another reflection move in the glass window of the boutique beside her own reflection. A small, slim figure in black leather, the face hidden by a black helmet, was running up behind her. The motorbike had skidded to a stop a few yards on along the street.

With a start, Bianca remembered the guide’s warning about motorbike thieves. Her nerves jumping, she swung round, just as the black-clad figure grabbed for her handbag. She instinctively opened her mouth wide and began to yell, holding on to her bag like grim death. The fact that she couldn’t see the face of her attacker made the whole thing more frightening.

After trying to yank her bag away the boy let go and pushed his hand into his black leather jacket—the hand came out holding something. In the street-light’s yellow gleam she saw steel glittering and her throat closed in shock. He was holding a knife.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion. She stared at the long, razor-edged blade, frozen, saw the black-gloved hand holding it, the black leather cuff of the boy’s jacket not quite meeting the glove.

Between them there was a red line etched in the tanned flesh—a knife-cut, she thought dumbly, and somehow the sight of the scar made the knife real. She went into panic, backing away, so scared that she had even stopped screaming. The knife slashed downwards. For a second she thought he was stabbing her—then she realised what he intended. He was trying to cut the straps of her handbag.

Her fear subsided a little, but, because she had been really scared, now she got angry. She had once been to a short self-defence class at the local evening school; she remembered what she had been taught, and brought her knee up into his groin, hard.

He gave a gasp of pain and staggered backwards, then recovered and came at her again with the knife, muttering in Spanish. She didn’t know what he said—his voice was muffled by his helmet—but it sounded very unpleasant, and she knew that this time he was not trying to cut her handbag straps—he wanted to hurt her. The air throbbed with hatred.

A second later a car came round the corner. The yellow beam of its headlights lit them as if they were on a stage. She turned to face it, waving urgently, shouting, ‘Help! Help!’

The black-clad figure on the motorbike shouted out in Spanish and turned the bike to come back towards them. Snarling, the other boy climbed on to the pillion, made a very rude gesture at Bianca with his black-gloved hand, then they rode off at high speed and disappeared.

Bianca sagged against the wall, her knees turning to jelly, trembling violently now that the adrenalin had gone and reaction had set in.

The car screeched to a stop and a man got out and strode towards her, saying something in Spanish. She weakly lifted her head and the light of the street-lamp fell on her face and showed her his—they recognised each other in that instant. He was the man she had seen swimming that morning.

‘Are you OK? Did he hurt you?’ he asked in a deep, husky voice, his grey eyes moving over her in search of some visible sign of injury.

She shook her head, feeling even more like fainting. Why did it have to be him who came along just at this moment? It seemed less like a coincidence than a punishment. He was the last man she wanted to see right now.

‘He wanted my handbag,’ she whispered.

‘Did he get it?’ His English was very good, but she heard the faint note of a foreign accent. Presumably he was Spanish. He was certainly very dark, with olive skin and black hair which was glossy and very thick.

He was very casually dressed, in cream linen trousers and a chocolate-brown shirt, worn without a tie, the collar open at the throat to give her a glimpse of the bronzed skin she had stared at that morning when he’d climbed out of the pool. The very memory of that moment sent a wave of heat through her whole body. From a distance she had found him devastating—at such close proximity he had an even deeper impact on her.

‘No,’ she said unsteadily, showing him her handbag which she still clutched in one hand. Then she broke out in a voice that shook, ‘He had a knife!’

She still couldn’t believe it. It would be a long time before she got over the shock of seeing the knife shining in the lamplight. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before; she had always led a rather quiet, peaceful existence; violence was something she had only read about in newspapers. She had never imagined it happening to her.

‘I saw it. As I was driving towards you I saw the knife he held and I thought he was trying to kill you—you’re sure you aren’t hurt?’

She was wearing a little black jacket over a white dress printed with lilacs. He reached out to touch her shoulders and arms lightly, his fingertips gliding over the material of the jacket in exploration.

She quivered helplessly, shaken to her depths by what she instantly felt—his fingertips left a trail of fire on her skin through the layers of material under them.

‘No, I…I’m not…He didn’t hurt me.’ she stammered.

‘You’re cold,’ he said, his frown even deeper. ‘That’s shock. Come and sit in my car. I’ll call the police.’

She urgently said, ‘No, please don’t—I don’t want to spend hours talking to policemen; he didn’t get anything, or hurt me, so…I couldn’t even describe him; he was wearing a helmet that made it impossible to see his face; he looked like a spaceman.’

His face tightened in disapproval. ‘You ought to tell the police about it—he’s dangerous; he might use that knife on someone else and they might not be as lucky as you were.’

She knew he was absolutely right; it was what she would have said herself to anyone who had been attacked like that. How different a situation looked when it was you, yourself, who was experiencing it. Her common sense and reason told her one thing, she felt another.

Sighing, she said, ‘Well…could you ask if I could talk to them tomorrow? I really don’t feel up to it tonight.’

He stared down at her, his face still hard. ‘Very well, I’ll get in touch, explain what happened; I shall have to give evidence too, because I witnessed the attack. I’ll ask if you can talk to them tomorrow. Come along, I’ll drive you back to the hotel.’

She resisted the hand that tried to lead her away. ‘I’m with a group from the hotel—they’re in that bar; they’ll come out looking for me any minute.’

He shrugged her refusal away coolly. ‘I’ll go in and speak to the guide—it’s Ramon tonight, isn’t it?’

Startled, she nodded. ‘Yes.’ How had he known that? Had he been on this tour himself? Or did he work at the hotel?

He had such a marvellous tan—he must surely live here to have got so brown at this time of year. That tan was not the product of a week or two in Spain. It spoke of months of exposure to the sun.

‘Sit in my car and I’ll have a word with him, then I’ll drive you back.’

Bianca was so shaken by what had happened that she didn’t argue, although in other circumstances she might have done. She was too independent and used to running her own life and taking care of herself and her children to enjoy being ordered around by some strange man. But tonight she was quite relieved to be able to let him take charge; she let him lead her to his car and slide her into the front passenger seat.

He left the door open, but instead of going straight into the bar he went round to the back of his car and was back a moment later with a warm woollen tartan car rug which he gently wrapped around her.

‘It gets quite cold at night at this time of year,’ he said as she looked up, startled, her blue eyes wide, the pupils dilated as she felt his hands moving over her. ‘And you’re probably still in shock. Just sit here and rest. It will only take me a minute to find Ramón and explain.’

He closed the car door and she watched him walk rapidly over to the bar; the light from it spilled out around him as he opened the door and went in, his black hair gleaming and his face in sharp profile, his nose long and straight, his mouth a ruthless slash, his jawline determined.

Not a man you would want to argue with, and few people probably ever dared—which accounted for his cool assumption that she would obey him.

That could get annoying! she thought wryly, her mouth twisting. If she weren’t feeling so weak at the knees just now she would probably have resented being ordered around like that.

Or did she start feeling weak-kneed the minute she saw him get out of this car?

The idea made her tense and hurriedly shut her eyes as if that would make it easy to forget what she had just thought. It didn’t, of course. She couldn’t ignore the truth. Closer, and fully dressed, he was even more devastating than he had seemed at a distance, almost naked. She couldn’t understand why he was having such an intense effect on her. When he’d wrapped this rug around her his hands had touched her and she had felt her body throb with sensations she was afraid to remember. Her face ran with hot colour, her mouth went dry.

With a pang she thought of Rob, and felt an instant stab of guilt. It was shameful to be feeling this way about some other man, a stranger she had only seen for the first time today. What’s the matter with you? she asked herself. You have been on your own now for three years and you’ve met plenty of men during that time, some of them pretty good-looking—what’s so different about this one? You’re acting like a teenager with a first crush.

I wish I were a teenager! she thought. Well, maybe not a teenager—but I wish I were twenty again. I don’t want to be forty.

Was that what it was all about? Was she desperately looking for some way to stop time? To go back to her youth?

She pulled the rug closer, glad of the warmth. She was still shivering, her skin icy and her body weak with shock.

Her birthday had been a watershed, she realised. It had made her think about the way time was passingseemed, in fact, to be accelerating. She hadn’t noticed the fact until her birthday. She had been too busy looking after her children, learning to run the shop, coping with grief and loneliness. When she had thought about time it was only to remember lost happiness—it had always seemed as if only yesterday she had been twenty years old and falling in love with Rob, walking on air, looking forward to marrying him, starting a family, believing blissfully that they had an eternity together in front of them. She gave a long sigh which wrenched her body. That was the best time of my life. I wish I could have it back again, she thought.

But you could never have time back. It flowed, like a river, in one direction, on and on without stopping, and you could never swim back upstream. You had to go on with the river.

She heard a sound and opened her eyes again to see the door of the bar opening. He was coming back.

He walked quickly, long-legged, easy-moving, the night wind making his black hair blow back from his forehead, making his shirt ripple against him in a way that made the planes of his upper body very visible.

She stared at the wide, muscled shoulders, the ribs and flat stomach of a man in the peak of condition, swallowing, aware of her pulses going crazy. She had never met a man who had this effect on her; it was really beginning to spook her.

He opened the door and got back into the car and she was immediately tense, wildly conscious of his closeness, of the proximity of their bodies in that small, enclosed space, of the faint scent of his aftershave, his long legs stretching out beside her own. Sensual pleasure went through her in waves, making her mouth dry, her skin hot, her ears beating with hypertension.

‘I found Ramón and explained,’ he said, starting the car and glancing at her at the same time. ‘He was horrified when I told him what had happened. He wanted to come out to make sure you were OK, but I told him I’d look after you.’ The car began to move slowly as he added drily, ‘He also tells me he had given the usual warning about never leaving the party and going off on your own.’

Flushing, she admitted it. ‘Yes, he did, but.’

‘But you didn’t think it could happen to you?’ His tone was sardonic and she felt her skin prickle with resentment. He obviously thought she was stupid, a silly woman with no common sense.

‘It was very hot and crowded in the bar and I needed some fresh air; I didn’t think it would be dangerous just to step outside; I didn’t mean to go anywhere else. But I noticed a dress in a shop window so I went over to look at it and—’

She broke off, swallowing as she remembered the moment of panic as she’d faced the knife. She had been stupid; she couldn’t deny it. His cool censure was justified. She had no excuse for her folly. She had been warned, and had taken the warning lightly. ‘It happened so fast, there was no warning,’ she whispered.

‘There never is; they don’t give their victims a warning; they’re ruthless and vicious,’ he said drily. ‘You were lucky it didn’t end in tragedy—he might have used that knife and you could be on your way to hospital now, or a slab in the morgue.’

She shivered and stared out of the window. He was right. She had had a narrow escape. What would have happened to her children if she had been killed tonight?

As he drove through one of the squares, she stared at a large stone fountain, the spray of water shooting out of a nymph’s hands, glittering in the lamplight, rainbowcoloured. A group of young people in jeans and T-shirts ran out of a narrow, winding street and danced across the square, laughing and singing under the barebranched, pollarded lime trees.

The car drove on along another road, between white houses, their window-boxes filled with little pink flowers, their shutters closed over the windows behind which, no doubt, people were eating—in Spain they ate dinner very late, often at nine or ten o’clock at night.

A few moments later he drove out of town and headed down the motorway which ran along the Costa del Sol from Malaga to the border, with golf courses and new villa estates on their left, the sea on their right, a distant gleam of silvery water under the moon.

She sighed. ‘It’s so lovely here, it’s hard to believe anything violent could happen.’

‘Well, it could,’ he said impatiently. ‘Just remember—it could happen anywhere, any time. We live in a violent world—whether we live in London, New York, Spain or anywhere else—it’s wise to be careful, wherever we are.’ He shot her another look. ‘You’re here for two weeks, aren’t you?’

Her blue eyes widened. ‘Yes—how did you know that?’

‘I run the hotel, Mrs Fraser. It’s my job to know who is in each apartment. We pride ourselves on our security—some very rich and famous people stay with us and they expect us to keep a close eye on who comes and goes in the hotel. I’m sure you’ve noticed our security men patrolling the grounds?’

Still absorbing the fact that he was the hotel manager, she blankly shook her head, her black hair flicking against her shoulder. He gave her another of his dry smiles.

‘Well, they’re here, day and night. Look out of your window some time and you’re bound to see one. They wear uniform, they’re armed and they keep in touch with base on walkie-talkies. Any disturbance is dealt with immediately; you need have no fear while you’re in the hotel grounds.’

She was taken aback by this new revelation and shivered. ‘I find that pretty scary—having armed men all around me day and night!’

He turned his head again, to look down into her blue eyes, his expression changing. His stare seemed to dive down into her very soul, and her heart made a frightening leap, like a salmon trying to fight back upstream against a powerful tide.

She hurriedly turned away, afraid that he could read her thoughts, her feelings—the very last thing she wanted him to do. She had to hide her reactions from him; he must not guess how he was making her feel. None of this was real; it wouldn’t last; it was some sort of hormonal thing, she decided. Neither her heart nor her mind was involved—this was just her body acting up, a chemical reaction which would pass if she ignored it.

‘Your first name is Bianca, isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘A lovely name—it suits you; you look like Snow White, with your black hair and blue eyes and that lovely skin. Bianca is an Italian name, isn’t it? Have you got any Italian blood?’

She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the busy traffic through which they drove.

‘My name is Marquez,’ he said. ‘Gil Marquez. The rest of my name is far too long to remember. I won’t bother you with it; just call me Gil. I was the last child and first son my mother had—before I was born she had three girls. She was forty when I was born. The doctors said she shouldn’t have any more children, so my father gave me all his favourite names—six of them!’

‘Six first names?’ she repeated, startled.

He grinned at her. ‘He was an extremist—I’m afraid I take after him. He named me after three of his favourite saints, and added the names of his two brothers—Gil was his father’s name, so that came first, and that is the one I use.’

‘He sounds wonderful,’ she said, wondering what he meant by saying that he was an extremist, like his father. He certainly had the bone-structure of one—fierce, sharp, insistent planes, piercing eyes, a strong mouth and an arrogant jawline. She could imagine him in armour, in medieval times, fighting with ruthless implacability. He was an all-or-nothing man, not someone comfortable and easygoing.

Nothing like Rob, she thought, and guilt stabbed inside her again. Why did she keep comparing him with Rob?

They were chalk and cheese, physically and mentally, such totally different men that it was ridiculous to compare them. Ridiculous, and shameful. Rob was her own dear love; she would never love like that again. She never wanted to! What she was feeling about Gil Marquez was a spring madness, infatuation, crazy, unreal. She wished to heaven she had never stood on her balcony and seen him climb out of the water, his body glittering gold in the sunlight.

Maybe the sunlight and the foreign nature of this place had something to do with her inexplicable reactions to Gil Marquez, these turbulent feelings? She was away from everything familiar, everything safe. She was alone, for the first time in years, without her family—a woman without responsibilities, without boundaries, out of touch with reality for a while, free. Had that freedom gone to her head?

‘He was,’ Gil said, and she looked at him again blankly, at first not realising what he was talking about. Then she remembered that he had been talking about his father, and the past tense registered.

‘He’s dead?’ she said with sympathy.

He nodded, his face unsmiling now, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and a frown carving itself into his forehead. ‘A year ago. He was eighty-five, he had had a good life, but it was a shock to all of us.’

‘Death always is,’ she said with sympathy, watching his sculptured profile, and he turned to give her a searching glance.

‘I noticed on your registration card that you were a widow. How long has your husband been dead?’

‘Three years.’

‘Three?’ A pause, then he asked, ‘How long were you married to him?’

‘Twenty years.’ A lifetime, she thought—the time she was with Rob felt like her whole life; she found it hard to remember the time before they married.

‘And you were happy together.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, flat and unaccented.

‘Yes.’

Another pause, then he said, ‘You haven’t remarried—haven’t you met anyone else, or—?’

She stiffened, resenting the curiosity, and interrupted sharply, ‘I have two children and a business to run. My life is quite busy enough.’

His grey eyes flickered mockingly over her. ‘What a waste!’

She felt hot colour sting her face. ‘I don’t like discussing my private life with a complete stranger, Señor Marquez!’

‘How very English,’ he murmured, his mouth flicking up at the edges.

‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘Very English.’

‘Is that a warning?’

She shrugged and didn’t answer.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said drily.

They were approaching the hotel complex, she was very relieved to see. He was forced to give all his attention to slowing down in order to make the right-hand turn into the grounds. They were very pretty at night, coloured fairy-lights in the trees facing the road, glowing globes of lamps standing on all the paths between the trees and beside the apartment blocks.

As they drew up outside the hotel they heard music from inside. The hotel was also brilliantly lit; through the plate-glass windows they saw a crowd of people in the piano bar, drinking at tables or dancing on the polished wood floor, or standing around the white piano listening to the man playing it.

Gil Marquez turned to face her, one arm draped over the steering-wheel, his lean body gracefully lounging against the seat, one knee brushing hers, making her even more aware of him.

‘It takes a while for shock to wear off, Mrs Fraser; our resident nurse should take a look at you before you go off to bed.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, sliding out of the car.

It was unfortunate that her foot skidded under her on the damp surface of the stone path—an automatic water spray was whirling among the flowerbeds near by, and some of the drops of water had fallen on the path, making it very slippery; she had to grab for the car to stay upright.

She heard Gil mutter in deep, angry Spanish, then he was out of the car and beside her, his arm going round her waist, his fingers just below her breast; she felt her body quiver in primitive arousal.

Drowning in sensation she thought, He mustn’t notice; he mustn’t realise what’s happening to me. Her knees had gone again; she could barely stand up, she was trembling so much, and she had to yield to his support, her body leaning on him.

He bent to look at her. ‘Are you going to faint? Don’t argue again—you’re going to see our nurse, whatever you say. Can you walk?’

‘Of course I can!’ she protested. She pushed his hand down and moved away from him to take the steps up to the hotel. They were marble and as slippery as the path; she had to move carefully.

Gil watched her for a few seconds, then said something in fierce Spanish under his breath. She didn’t know what he had said, but it made her nerves jump; his voice sounded like the crack of a whip.

He came up behind her, his arm going round her waist again, lifting her off her feet, apparently without effort. His other arm went under her legs and she found herself being carried against his chest; her head swam, and she let it fall against his arm, shutting her eyes, afraid to look at him for fear of what he might read in her face. She heard the curious buzz of voices in the hotel foyer, though, and felt her face burning. People would be staring. What on earth would they be thinking?

Someone spoke to Gil in Spanish and he answered without pausing in his stride across the foyer. A moment later she heard a door slide shut and then she knew they were in a lift which was rising smoothly.

Where was he taking her?

The lift stopped, he walked out, and Bianca lifted her lids enough to see that they were in a hotel corridor, deeply carpeted, calm, silent. He wasn’t taking her to his room, was he? Alarm bells rang inside her.

She opened her eyes fully and said huskily, ‘Please put me down, Señor Marquez. I’m OK now—I want to go to my own apartment, please.’

He had paused in front of a door. He looked at her, his mouth twisting. ‘No need to get agitated, Mrs Fraser. This is only the surgery. I haven’t brought you up to my room to make a pass at you.’

She went bright pink. ‘I didn’t think you had!’

‘Oh, yes, you did; that’s why you’re having palpitations and trembling like a leaf!’ he drawled.

Bianca wished the floor would open up and swallow her. Instead, the door opened and she hurriedly looked at the woman standing there—a small, thin, dark woman in a nurse’s uniform with a neat white cap. Behind her Bianca saw a sparcely furnished room with white walls, venetian blinds on the windows, the usual paraphernalia of a doctor’s surgery—a desk, chairs, a tall screen on wheels, a high trolley with leather padding for a patient to lie down on.

The nurse smiled politely, spoke in Spanish to Gil and he answered in English, so that Bianca could understand him, which she thought was very thoughtful of him.

‘This is Mrs Fraser, Nurse Santos—she is staying in one of our apartment blocks. She was attacked in the street by a mugger—she doesn’t seem to be hurt, but I think she is in shock. Will you look after her while I go and ring the police?’

‘Sí, of course, senor.’ Nurse Santos took Bianca’s arm firmly. ‘Please. come in, Mrs Fraser. How you feel?’

Gil vanished, closing the door behind him. Nurse Santos sat Bianca down on a chair and asked her a few questions, examined her, took her pulse and temperature, her blood-pressure, then smiled.

‘OK, no problem, Mrs Fraser.’ She had a much stronger Spanish accent than Gil Marquez. ‘Heartbeat a bit fast, not serious. You need sleep, to be quiet, quite OK in morning.’

There was a tap on the door and the nurse called out in Spanish. The door opened and Gil glanced in, raising his brows. Nurse Santos said something else in Spanish and he nodded. ‘Well, that’s good.’ He looked at Bianca. ‘Nurse Santos doesn’t think you’re going to die just yet.’

‘I know, she told me,’ she said, very aware of him and trying to hide it. She turned to smile at the nurse. ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’

‘Not at all, my pleasure.’

Bianca stood up. ‘Well, I’ll follow your instructions and go back to my apartment and get some sleep. Goodnight, Nurse Santos.’

She walked out of the door and Gil came after her. ‘I’m afraid you can’t just yet.’

She stopped and faced him, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The police have asked to talk to you tonight—don’t worry, they’re coming here to interview you. I told them you were in a state of shock and they won’t talk to you for long, but you must see them tonight. They have a pair of suspects picked up after another attempted mugging. This time they knocked the man out; he’s still unconscious so your evidence could be very helpful to them at this stage. You can talk to them in my office. It’s on this floor, at the far end of the corridor. Not far to walk!’

She couldn’t refuse. Reluctantly she followed him to a door which bore a brass plate with the word ‘MANAGER’ on it. Gil ushered her inside and followed, closing the door.

She paused to look around, taking in the large, leathertopped mahogany desk, with its bank of telephones, a pile of papers on a leather-framed blotter, a silver-framed photograph and behind the desk a leather swivel chair.

‘This is where you work?’

He nodded. ‘Would you like something to drink while we wait for the police?’ He gestured to a modern creamcovered couch on one side of the room. ‘We’ll be more comfortable over there.’

She didn’t like the sound of that, but he took her elbow and steered her to it.

‘Would you like a brandy? It might calm you down.’

‘No, thank you. I’d much rather have some orange juice—if you have any.’

He nodded and opened a cabinet on the wall, which held a mini bar; he got out glasses and poured her chilled orange juice, poured himself some whisky and added a dash of soda. ‘Ice?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘No, thank you; it waters the juice down.’

He carried the glasses over and sat down beside her, handing her the juice.

She sipped, anxiously watching out of the corner of her eye as he swallowed a mouthful of whisky. He was sitting far too close; his knee was touching hers. She could hear the clock ticking on the wall, hear the intake of her own fast breathing.

She felt his eyes wandering over her and her alarmed glance shot to him and away again. She tried to think of something to say but her mind had frozen; her body was entirely in control of her.

Any minute he was going to touch her. She knew it. She wanted it, which was worse. But she was terrified.

When someone knocked on the door she almost jumped out of her skin. Her orange juice shot over the rim of her glass and fell on her skirt. She frantically rubbed at it, trembling.

‘My God, your nerves are shot to hell, aren’t they?’ Gil Marquez said, staring, then he called out something in Spanish and the door opened.

Two Spanish policemen stood there. Gil got up and put down his glass, went over to shake hands with them, speaking to them in deep, grave Spanish. Bianca struggled to pull herself together, grateful for the fact that he stood between her and the policemen.

By the time she had to face them she was more or less in control of herself again and was able to answer their questions calmly enough.

They did not stay long. Clearly, her replies were disappointing to them; they had hoped she could give them a good description of the faces of the two men, but she had never seen their faces, and could only guess at theirheight and weight, and describe the bike they had been riding.

After asking her to go down to the police station next morning to attend an identity parade, they left, and she immediately told Gil that she wanted to go back to her apartment.

He didn’t argue this time; he walked her to the lift and took her down to the ground floor. As they went out of the exit into the garden they walked past the blonde German woman Bianca had met in the bar that evening. Freddie didn’t notice Bianca, but she did do a double-take as she spotted Gil Marquez.