Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

He’s a nice man,

she thought with a pang. He’s kind and thoughtful. But I’m going home in two weeks and we’ll never meet again—and I’m too old for a holiday romance. I probably always was! I was never the type to throw myself into a brief affair, even before I married Rob. I’m far too conservative

and cautious….

Dear Reader,

The Seven Deadly Sins are those sins that most of us are in danger of committing every day: very ordinary failings, very human weaknesses, which can sometimes cause pain to both ourselves and others. Over the ages they have been defined as: Anger, Covetousness, Envy, Greed, Lust, Pride and Sloth.

In this book, I deal with the sin of Lust. We can all become driven by desire, especially when we fall in love; it is a natural human instinct, and can be beautiful—but lust can also have an ugly face and express the very opposite of love. Sometimes lust is born of hatred and a desire to destroy.

Charlotte Lamb

This is the fifth story in Charlotte Lamb’s gripping seven-part series, SINS.

Dark Fever
Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

BIANCA FRASER woke up on a cold, raw February morning and remembered with a sinking heart that it was her fortieth birthday. Outside, it was raining; inside, it was cold, because the central heating hadn’t yet automatically switched itself on; it was set to come on at seven; and it was dark because it was only half-past six and the sun hadn’t yet risen.

She didn’t have to get up yet; her alarm was set for seven-thirty because this was just another working day. She had to shower and dress, get breakfast, drive Tom to school and Vicky to work and then get to work herself by nine. The day stretched out bleakly in front of her, heavy with responsibilities and chores, and she did not feel like getting up.

Turning over in the warmth of the bed, she found herself reaching out towards the accustomed hollow in the centre, but it was empty, as it had been now for over three years.

Closing her eyes on a wave of misery, she pressed her hand down into the mattress where Rob’s body had lain beside her for twenty years. They had gone so fast, those years; it only seemed like yesterday that they had met, fallen in love, married. Time flashed past her closed eyes, under her lids, images vanishing into oblivion.

‘Oh, Rob,’ she groaned, remembering the feel of his body close beside her all night.

She missed him most of all when she was in this bed, alone. Her body ached for his; she quivered and groaned at the memory of his touch, his passionate mouth, his body coming down on her. It was so real; she put her arms out to hold him and felt his warm, naked skin under her hands.

‘Oh, Rob!’ she whispered in pleasure as he moved against her. Running her fingers through his hair, she looked up at him with passion, needing what he was doing so badly that it was almost unbearable.

But it wasn’t Rob. A strange face looked down at her; it was a stranger’s body on top of her.

A scream choked in her throat and she began to fight him off, writhing and kicking until she rolled right off the bed.

As her body hit the floor her eyes flew open. The room was no longer dark; grey morning light filled it. Trembling in shock, Bianca struggled up and looked dazedly at the bed.

It was empty.

Breathing thickly, her heart beating so fast it deafened her, she looked hurriedly around the bedroom. That was empty, too. There was nobody here but her. A second later, her alarm clock began to ring, the noise shockingly loud in the silence.

That was when it dawned on her. She had gone back to sleep; she had been dreaming.

Scarlet, then white, she jumped up, staggering a little, turned off her alarm and rushed to the bathroom. In the room next to hers she heard Vicky’s alarm endlessly jangling until there was a loud moan, the sound of someone heavily turning in bed and the alarm stopped dead.

Bianca used the lavatory, turned on the shower, stripped off her nightdress, all without thinking what she was doing. Her mind was on automatic pilot. She was in shock. The dream was still playing in her head; she was remembering her passionate response as some total stranger did that to her…

Shame made her skin burn. How could she have felt like that? Responded to a stranger? It if had been Rob…but it hadn’t been! I thought it was! she defended herself hurriedly. At first I thought it was, until I saw his face.

But dreams don’t come out of nowhere; you dreamt what you wanted to dream.

No, that’s not true! she thought angrily. She could not accept that. She hadn’t wanted to dream about some strange man making love to her; she had never even thought of such a thing, not in her waking moments.

My unconscious…she thought, biting her lip. But she knew it wasn’t that simple; she couldn’t dismiss it as something conjured up without her knowing anything about it. It had been her who was dreaming about a stranger making love to her.

And who was he, anyway, that stranger who had shown up so mysteriously in her dream? Who had she substituted for Rob?

She tried to remember something about him—anything—but his face was blank, she couldn’t recall a thing about him, except that it had not been Rob. There had been no sense of recognition, or familiarity—she must have conjured him up out of her imagination, an admission that made her blush.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! Dreams didn’t mean a thing, anyway! When you were asleep your mind ran haywire, conjuring up a cinema show made up of memories, imagination, fantasy.

She looked at herself in the mirror, a woman of forty, with long, loose black hair hanging down her back, widely set apart blue eyes with pale lids, fine black brows, her face really still quite smooth considering she was now officially middle-aged. No wrinkles anyway—unles you counted a few laughter-lines around the eyes and mouth, a faint sadness in the eyes, too, because grief carved its impact on the face as much as laughter did.

She pulled a face at herself angrily. At your age you should have stopped fantasising. That’s for kids. You’re not a kid any more. Forty today! I can’t believe it. Where did the time go? Is that a grey hair? She peered at it closer, decided it was just the way the light fell, but it would come soon, of course. Age was a juggernaut rolling down on you; you couldn’t get out of its way. Before she knew it she would find herself with grey hair, lined skin. how long before she had false teeth? Oh, shut up! she told herself and turned to step under the shower, pushing away the depression creeping up on her.

Mornings were closely timed in this house; there was a lot to do before they could all start their day and she needed to concentrate.

When she was dressed, had put on light make-up and combed her hair up into a smooth chignon at the back of her head, she knocked on Tom’s door and got a sleepy groan from him.

‘Get up, Tom! It’s a quarter to eight!’ He had an alarm clock, which would have gone off by now, but it never seemed to wake him up. Fifteen and healthily active from morning till night, when he did go to bed and stop running and jumping around, Tom could sleep on a washing-line and would probably sleep through an earthquake. She had to bang on his door every morning before he woke up.

Vicky came out of her room without prompting, yawning, brushing her short, curly fair hair. Although her mother found it very hard to believe, Vicky was now nineteen, and for two years had been working in a large department store which insisted on its staff wearing what amounted to a uniform—a black skirt, white shirt and black cardigan. Staff could buy them in the store at a generous discount, and could wear any style they chose, so long as they kept the overall colour scheme. Black and white suited most women; on Vicky they looked exceptionally good because of her blonde colouring. She wore her clothes with panache, moving gracefully on high black heels. Her skin had a warm pink glow, her eyes were large and bright and her pink mouth a cupid’s bow. Vicky was pretty and was enjoying her life so far, although she had recently begun to put on a bored expression and talk with what she believed to be sophisticated cynicism.

‘God, what horrible weather. Raining again,’ she said, and her mother smiled to herself at the drawling tone.

‘Yes, it’s going to be another wet day.’

Downstairs, Vicky put on the kettle for tea or instant coffee while Bianca made porridge for breakfast; Vicky looked at it with horror. ‘No, thanks—all those calories!’ She poured herself orange juice, had her usual tiny slice of thin toast. She was barely five feet two and was terrified of putting on weight, which, admittedly, she did easily.

Tom rushed in, having apparently dragged on his school uniform anyhow before splashing cold water on his pink face but not bothering to put a comb through his straight dark hair.

Bianca was pouring his tea. She looked at him and made a face. ‘Oh, Tom! You look as if you’ve slept in your clothes!’

He grinned, a large envelope in one hand, a brightly gift-wrapped parcel in the other. ‘Happy Birthday, Mum!’ He bent over the table to kiss her on the top of her head.

‘Oh, thank you, darling,’ she said, smiling up at him. She had begun to wonder if they had forgotten—usually their father had reminded them.

Vicky looked guilty. ‘Yes, Happy Birthday, Mum. I’m getting your present later today; I’ll give it to you tonight.’

Over her head Tom mouthed something at his sister; Bianca suspected it was rude from the glare Vicky gave him. They argued all the time; sometimes she wondered if they always had, or if it was only since their father died; she didn’t remember them being so ratty with each other when Rob was there—or was it simply that they had changed since they began growing up?

Grief gnawed inside her again. Rob would have loved to be there to watch Tom play for his school, score the goal that won a match…

She looked at the birthday card blankly for a second, then made herself look properly. It was funny—a cartoon with a joke message; she laughed and handed it to Vicky to read.

‘Oh, ha ha,’ Vicky said disagreeably, dropping it on the table.

‘Don’t you get porridge on my card!’ Tom said, snatching it up again.

Bianca unwrapped the parcel, which turned out to hold a tiny bottle of French perfume; she unstoppered it with some difficulty and almost reeled from the musky scent. She always wore light floral perfumes, and could not imagine herself wearing this, but she smiled at her son who was watching her eagerly.

‘Mmm…gorgeous…Thank you, Tom. I love it.’

‘Put some on, then!’ he urged.

She cautiously dabbed a little behind each ear and Tom leaned over to inhale the smell.

‘Great,’ he said in satisfaction.

Bianca caught Vicky’s eye and silently warned her not to make one of her tart comments. Looking at the clock on the kitchen wall, she said, ‘Time’s getting on. Sit down Tom, and eat your porridge. We’ll have to go soon.’

He threw himself into his chair and picked up his spoon. ‘This is a porridge sort of morning, isn’t it? Listen to that rain. Are we going out to dinner tonight, for your birthday? We always used to when…’

He stopped and looked at her and Bianca swallowed, a bitter pang of sadness hitting her.

‘Yes, Dad always took us out on my birthday—I think that’s a great idea,’ she said gently.

She had told them to talk about Rob whenever they felt like it, she wanted to keep him alive for them, but these spiky little moments were always happening; they would start a sentence then remember, and look at her guiltily. Were they over their grief but aware that she wasn’t? Bianca felt that sadness again, shadowed by a sense of guilt towards her children—it was quite normal, after all, for people to get over a death; she didn’t blame them for that. After Rob died she had determined to be both mother and father to them—she hadn’t wanted to make them feel they must never mention their father in case they hurt her. She wanted to set them free to enjoy their lives—not make them anxious and uncertain.

‘Let’s eat Chinese!’ Vicky suggested.

‘Oh, yeah! Terrific,’ said Tom.

‘OK, I’d like that,’ Bianca said, picking up her cup and draining the last of her coffee. ‘I’m going to get the car out of the garage—hurry up, you two! Don’t forget your briefcase, Tom—and your games kit.’

The rain fell in the same relentless way as Bianca drove to work later, having dropped off her children. It was still raining later when she was dressing the window of Zodiac Fashions, the little boutique she and a friend ran.

‘We did much better with the January sales than I’d dared hope, and I’m really pleased with the new spring styles. I. Are you listening? What’s the matter with you?’ Judy Turner suddenly realised that Bianca had stopped work and was just standing in the window, gloomily gazing out into the almost empty, rain-washed street.

One hand absently tucking stray strands into the otherwise immaculate chignon in which she habitually wore her black hair, Bianca turned round, sighing. ‘Apart from this weather, the fact that I am now forty, and that I’m utterly fed up, you mean?’

Judy put down the account books she had been working on behind the counter. ‘I’ll make the coffee, you watch the shop, then you can tell me all about it.’

‘I just did!’ Bianca called after her departing back, then got on with the window-dressing, easing a bright yellow dress on to a haughty-looking model whose arm kept getting stuck in one position.

Bianca normally enjoyed this job; it gave her a chance to indulge her creative streak, finding accessories to go with a garment or a season, making the window look so attractive that women hurrying by simply had to stop to look at it. Today she wanted an air of spring; she had put a line of little yellow fluffy chicks along the front, sprays of pink apple blossom were pinned on the sides and the models would be carrying spring flowers—all artificial, of course, but they were surprisingly reallooking and had cost far more than real flowers would have done. You could use them again and again, however, which made them cost-efficient.

When Judy came back with the mid-morning coffee, the window was almost finished, and she went outside briefly to assess it, coming back with a smile. ‘It looks great! I love the chicks—pity we haven’t got a mother hen to go with them. You’ve got a real flair for window-dressing—didn’t you say you once went to art school?’

‘I started at college, taking an arts course, but then I met Rob and by the end of my second year—’ Bianca broke off, a little pink, laughed, and finished, ‘Well, I was pregnant, so I left without finishing the course.’

Judy laughed too. ‘The old, old story. But couldn’t you have gone on with your studies? Why did you have to leave college? Were your parents difficult?’

‘They weren’t too pleased at first, but they were very good about it. That wasn’t why I left college. I can’t blame anyone else for that. It was my decision. I simply wasn’t interested any more. I had this strong urge pushing me along—I wanted my baby, I wanted to be a wife and mother; I didn’t want college. Later on I wished I hadn’t been so stupid and I could have kicked myself for not finishing my course, but at the time all I knew was that I was obsessed with going along a different road.’

‘Did Rob feel the same?’

‘He was very keen to get married, too. He was much older than me and he wanted to start a family, have a home. So we got married in a hurry, my parents gave us some furniture, his parents gave us the deposit on a flat. Rob had a good job, of course, so we could manage without me going out to work. I stayed at home and looked after Vicky. I didn’t want to leave her with some stranger. I wanted to look after her myself.’

Bianca’s dark blue eyes were smilingly wistful as she sat down to drink her coffee. ‘I sometimes think those were the best years, those first years, we were so happy!’

‘You still miss him, don’t you?’

‘Every day.’

Judy gave her a look in which affection and concern mixed with faint impatience. ‘It has been three years, Bianca! You should be over it by now. I mean. I know you loved him and the two of you were very happy together, but you can’t go on grieving forever; it isn’t right. Life has to go on, and, after all, you’re still young.’

‘Forty isn’t young!’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, forty isn’t old either—you’re in your prime! No wonder you’re fed up. I bet you haven’t had sex since he died.’

Suddenly scarlet as she remembered the vivid dream she had had a few hours ago, Bianca almost spilled her coffee.

‘Honestly, the things you say!’ she spluttered.

‘It isn’t just men who need sex, you know,’ snorted Judy. ‘Women have the same urges. We’re just not encouraged to face up to it. Have you even been out on a date yet?’

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Has anybody asked you out?’

‘Judy, stop it! What’s got into you?’

‘You give off stop signs,’ Judy told her bluntly. ‘Any man who looks at you gets that old “don’t even think about it” signal, so they back off fast. Men need encouragement. They need to be sure they won’t get their faces slapped if they so much as ask you out.’

‘I’m not looking for another man!’ Bianca told her fiercely. ‘I’m too old to start again with someone else. Anyway, I’ve got the children to think about.’

‘They aren’t going to be around all the rest of your life, Bianca. They’ll grow up and move out, get flats, get married—it’s only natural; they’ll soon be adults who need their own lives.’

‘Not for years yet. Tom is only fifteen!’

‘And when he’s twenty you’ll still only be forty-five. I bet Vicky gets married young. She’s so pretty, she’s going to be swamped with men. When they’re both gone, what will you do? You could live to be eighty—all on your own!’

A shiver ran down Bianca’s back.

Judy saw the change in her face and said coaxingly, ‘Do something about yourself—change your hairstyle, stop wearing those boring pale pink lipsticks, get some sexy clothes.’ She leaned over to sniff. ‘I like that scent, by the way—that’s more like it—something musky and mysterious, not that wishy-washy lavender or rosewater you’ve been using for years! You could have men dropping from the trees if you took some trouble.’

Bianca thought of that as she walked down the busy street to lunch at a small bistro later, leaving Judy to take care of the shop. As she passed under a barebranched poplar tree amusement lit her blue eyes at the idea of men floating down from it to land at her feet, like a Magritte painting.

By one of those strange coincidences life threw at you, a second later she looked into a travel agent’s window and there was the same image again.

The window was dominated by a large poster advertising holidays in Spain; out of a bright blue sky floated men in bowler hats and dark suits, carrying umbrellas, coming down to land on a golden beach, a blue sea foaming up on the sand, with girls in revealing swimsuits sunbathing under striped umbrellas, and in the background were white hotels, black bulls, glasses of red white, a pair of flamenco dancers, the man all in black, with a tricorn hat, the girl in a bright red flared dress, her black high heels tapping out the rhythm of the dance.

It was so colourful and vivid, full of sunshine. Shivering in the cruel wind, Bianca pulled her warm coat closer and longed for the sun.

Maybe Judy was right. Perhaps it was time she did something about herself. Oh, she wasn’t looking for a man—but she must do something about the way she felt, shake herself out of this grey depression.

Was that what her dream had meant? She went red again and hurried into the travel agent’s.

That evening she didn’t get home until half-past six; she was tired and cold. As she parked her car she remembered that she had agreed to go out to dinner at the Chinese restaurant a couple of streets away, and was grateful that she wouldn’t have to cook dinner tonight as she did most other nights.

She stepped out of her wet boots and left them to drain in the porch. She was so sick of this endless winter. She had to get some sunshine soon or she would go crazy. She hung up her dark pink woollen coat before putting her head round the door of the lounge.

Her two children were watching a video and didn’t even look up. Bianca considered them wryly for a second. There was no family resemblance between them; a stranger would never guess they were brother and sister. Fifteen-year-old Tom, sprawled on a sofa, as relaxed as if he were boneless, his long, slim body limp, had changed out of his school uniform and was now wearing the inevitable jeans and a blue sweater, his hair the same colour as her own, his eyes the same widely spaced dark blue, and Vicky was sitting in an armchair carefully painting her nails a strange dark plum. She was far more like her father than her mother, with corn-coloured hair and hazel eyes, except that she had a petite, pocket Venus figure instead of Rob’s height.

‘Hello, Mum, have you had a good day? Isn’t it cold outside? You must be frozen; come and sit down by the fire and I’ll make you a lovely cup of coffee,’ Bianca said loudly.

Her son, Tom, did look round then, grinning as he tossed his untidy hair out of his eyes. ‘The little men in white coats will come for you if you keep talking to yourself.’

‘I have to. Nobody else around here will. Are you both ready to go out for this Chinese meal?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Tom said, his attention riveted on the screen again. ‘Do you really want some coffee?’

‘Not if we’re going out at once. Are you ready, Vicky?’ Vicky stirred, blew on her fingers. ‘I’m ready, but I can’t go yet—it would ruin my nails and I only just painted them.’ She looked round, waving a plum-tipped hand at a small table on which lay a red-foil-wrapped box. ‘Oh, that’s your present there, Mum. Happy Birthday.’

Bianca unwrapped a box of Chanel make-up, her eyes widening. ‘Why, thank you, Vicky, that’s wonderful.’ She hoped Vicky hadn’t spent too much on the expensive cosmetics; it had been very generous of her.

‘I know you don’t usually wear those colours, but I think you should—you need an image change!’ Vicky said. ‘My friend Gaynor is on the Chanel counter; she picked out the colour scheme for you; she said they’d suit you.’

Bianca fingered them all in their matching packaging: a glossy dark red lipstick, eyeshadow boxes in a trio of shades, from light blue to brown, a cream foundation, and loose powder in a compact.

‘I can’t wait to try them.’ Somebody else trying to do an image change on her! she thought crossly. First Judy, now her own daughter…What was so wrong with the way she looked?

She opened her shopping bag and took out a holiday brochure, her blue eyes brightening. ‘How do you two feel about a winter holiday? Two weeks in Spain. sunshine, beach life, flamenco dancing?’

‘Great—when?’ asked Tom without looking round.

‘As soon as we can fix it!’

‘What…now?’ He looked round then, aghast. ‘You’re joking, Mum. I’ve got matches fixed every Saturday for weeks. I can’t go away. We’d lose if I wasn’t there.’

‘Big head,’ Vicky told him.

‘It’s true,’ he insisted indignantly. ‘I’m their best striker! Ask anyone. I get all the goals. I can’t go away during the season—they’d kill me.’

Vicky said casually, ‘I can’t go either, Mum. Actually, Drew and I were thinking of going to Majorca some time in the spring—’

‘Drew can come with us!’ Bianca interrupted.

Vicky’s look revealed first blank incredulity, then scornful amusement. ‘Drew and me.go away with you? Come off it, Mum! You don’t think I want my mother around, do you? Anyway, we were thinking of going on one of these under-thirty holidays. No old people can go on them.’

‘Old people?’ repeated Bianca, outraged.

Vicky gave her a quick, half-laughing look. ‘Well, you’re not old, of course; I didn’t mean you, I meant. Well, you know what I meant.’

Oh, yes, she knew what Vicky had meant. Her daughter did not want her around when she went on holiday; she was the wrong age group. Her son was too absorbed in his own life to want to go away at all. Her spirits sank. She had been looking forward to getting away to the sun, but she couldn’t go alone; she hadn’t had a holiday alone for. She stopped, frowning, realising with a shock of surprise that she had never had a holiday alone. Before she met Rob she had gone away with her parents, and then she had always gone with Rob and the children. She had never once gone anywhere alone.

Well, it’s time I did, she thought. Judy was rightshe had to start adjusting to the idea that Tom and Vicky were growing up, would one day leave home. She had to build a life which did not revolve around them.

‘I’ll go away alone, then,’ she said, and they both turned to stare at her, mouths wide open in disbelief.

‘Alone?’ Vicky repeated.

‘You mean you’re going to leave us on our own here?’ Tom’s eyes sparkled. ‘For two whole weeks?’

She could read his mind; he was looking forward to two weeks without supervision, without anyone nagging him to do his homework, do his daily chores. Tom hated doing housework, but Bianca insisted that he helped out, did as much as his sister. She had been determined not to bring up a useless boy who expected women to do everything for him. She had a brother like that. Jon had never had to lift a hand at home; their mother had waited on him hand and foot, and after Jon had married he’d expected his wife to do the same. Sara had resented it; the marriage had broken up after a few years, with Jon complaining that Sara was unreasonable, and Sara bitterly accusing him of being selfish. Jon had married again, but his second marriage was far from contented; it seemed to be drifting on to the rocks exactly the way the first one had.

Bianca didn’t want her son turning out like Jon. She had shared out work equally between her two children. In the kitchen was a computer-printed rota pinned up on the wall; Vicky and Tom each had jobs to do every day.

Bianca expected them to keep their own bedrooms tidy, and inspected them once a month to make sure they were actually doing the work, but they also had to help her keep the rest of the house tidy, do the shopping, help prepare meals for them all. Bianca, too, had a rota, which was pinned up next to theirs, so that they should know that she did twice as much as the two of them put together. Which was more or less what they expected, of course, but it put a stop to claims that she was asking them to do too much.

‘And while I’m away there are to be no wild parties, or hordes of your friends wrecking the house!’ she told Tom, who looked at her innocently, blue eyes wide as a child’s.

‘No, Mum.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Vicky said with suspicious sweetness.

‘It applies to you too, Vicky. I’ll hold you both responsible for anything that happens, remember.’

She had been encouraging them both to be responsible ever since their father died. Before she made any decision she had carefully asked their opinions, and listened to them seriously.

After Rob’s death she had had the choice of living, with difficulty, on a small fixed income for the rest of her life—or taking the risk of investing some of the money from Rob’s insurance in a business which might give them all a comfortable income.

After talking it over with Vicky and Tom, she had decided on the latter course. Judy, who was a close friend and long-time neighbour, had enthusiastically offered to put up fifty per cent of the money and share the work in running the business. She had recently inherited money from her father, and wanted to put it to work in a more interesting way than simply investing it in stocks and shares. Her husband, Roy, was a travelling salesman who was away a good deal, her children were grown-up, and Judy was tired of working in other people’s shops; she’d wanted to run her own.

Bianca had explained to Tom and Vicky that she could only manage to work six days a week if they were prepared to help in the house, and they had both agreed. They had more or less kept their bargain, too, even if reluctantly at times.

‘Are we going to the Chinese or not?’ she asked them both crossly now. ‘Or shall I make some beans on toast?’

They gave each other a silent but eloquent look, then smiled soothingly at her, getting up.

‘We’re ready, Mum!’

Now they were going to be indulgent, as if she were a half-wit. A pathetic old half-wit. Resentment churned inside Bianca as she drove them to the restaurant. Some birthday she had had! It had begun with depression in bed that morning and it was ending in much the same mood. And now I’m forty, she thought. Forty! She had a terrible feeling that from now on life was going downhill all the way.

* * *

A week later she landed at Málaga airport in very different weather. She came out of the airport building into a world of blue skies, sunlight and palm trees, and stood there for a moment feeling her winter-chilled skin quiver in disbelief. Then she hurried off to collect the hire car she had booked in advance before setting out on the motorway to Marbella. The drive took longer than she had expected, largely because of heavy traffic, but eventually she found the hotel.

Bianca would not be staying in the hotel itself; she had booked an apartment in the grounds, which were extensive, with large white adobe-style buildings scattered among trees and lawns intersected by winding narrow streams running under arched wooden bridges in something like the Chinese style. Each building contained half a dozen separate apartments, each with its own front door and a balcony looking over blue swimming-pools and gardens down to the sunlit blue sea.

The apartments were spacious; Bianca found she had a bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room, one corner of which was a tiny kitchen area, with everything you might need to prepare a meal.

She unpacked rapidly, explored her new domain, showered and put on a stylish green linen dress and white sandals. The hotel served a buffet lunch at one o’clock and it was just after twelve now. She would take a walk through the grounds before going to lunch. As she was on holiday she wouldn’t want to spend her time cooking—she was going to eat out a good deal.

She went out on to her balcony and leaned on the rail, staring down over a pool right below the building.

There was someone swimming in it. Through the blue glare of the light on the water Bianca saw a shape moving, a black seal’s head, a powerful, gold-skinned body cutting through the pool.

Shading her eyes, she watched as the swimmer slowed to a standstill, at the edge of the pool, before hauling himself out of the water. He stood on the blue and white tiles for a moment, raised his hands to slick back his dripping black hair. She stared at the wide, smoothly tanned shoulders, the deep, muscular chest, the slim waist and strong hips, the powerful thighs and long legs. His wet black swimming-trunks clung to him, almost transparent in the strong sunlight, so that he might as well have been naked.

She couldn’t look away. Her mouth went dry and her skin prickled with heat.

At that instant, as if some primitive instinct warned him that he was being watched, the stranger lifted his head to stare in her direction.

Her face burning, Bianca guiltily turned and almost ran back into her apartment.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

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