A Savage Beauty

With determined steps she marched into the bathroom. Hell, she thought irritatedly, just because some man, some stranger, had suggested that it was high time she was married, she was allowing his uncultivated beliefs to intrude upon hers. She had not wanted to get married; she had been perfectly happy looking after her father until Victor came along. Why should she feel guilty because of that?

She drew off her diamond engagement ring and regarded it intently for a few minutes before turning on the shower. In any case, she told herself grimly, inadvertently stepping under the shower without her cap and soaking her loosened hair so that it clung in curling tendrils about her back and shoulders, the man she had encountered this evening was not at all the sort of person Victor would want her to associate with. Victor was not narrow-minded, he liked her to have friends of her own, and she did, but somehow she sensed that the dark stranger of the fog would not fall into that category.

CHAPTER TWO (#ueb85257e-d8e2-5d93-975c-098e8cb9d0f9)

THE next morning Emma slept late and she was awakened by the sound of raised voices in the hall downstairs. For several minutes she lay there listening, wondering if Mrs. Cook was having an altercation with the butcher, but then she realized it was Victor's voice.

Leaning over, she examined the clock on her bedside table, focusing on it with difficulty. It was after eleven-thirty, and she scrambled hastily out of bed, pulling on a soft brushed nylon housecoat over her nightdress, wondering apprehensively what Victor was doing here at this hour and what, if anything, Mrs. Cook had told him about the night before.

As she opened her bedroom door, she could hear Victor saying impatiently: ‘But what time will she be up? I can't hang about here all day. I have work to do.'

Emma went to the head of the stairs. ‘Victor!’ she exclaimed, beginning to descend slowly. ‘I didn't know you were coming this morning. I'm sorry I wasn't up when you arrived. I'm afraid I've overslept.'

Victor Harrison regarded her with disapproval, and Emma became self-consciously aware of her state of déshabille. Beside his sleek business suit she felt hopelessly out of place, and a feeling of embarrassment swept over her. But Victor always looked immaculate and as he was a tall, broad man, his clothes fitted him with elegance. Although he was in his late forties, and his hair was tinged with grey in places, he had a very distinguished appearance, and Emma had always admired him. His waistline was thickening now with so many business lunches to attend, but his height could stand it without it becoming too noticeable. When they went out together Emma always tried to emulate his elegant example.

But this morning the contrast between them was strongly marked, and Emma wished she had stopped and brushed her hair and put on some clothes before coming downstairs.

‘I came to see whether you'd like to have lunch with me,’ Victor said now, casting a dismissing glance in Mrs. Cook's direction. The housekeeper tactfully murmured something about coffee and disappeared into the kitchen, and sighing, Emma said: ‘Come into the lounge, Victor. We can't talk here.'

She led the way into a high-ceilinged room to the right of the hall where a warm fire burned in the grate. The flames reflected in the rosewood of the baby grand that stood in one corner, and cast shadows on the pale walls. Although the house was centrally heated, Emma's father insisted on keeping a fire in this room. It had been her mother's domain and Emma found the cheerful glow comforting as well as warming.

Victor followed her reluctantly, and she gave him an appealing smile. ‘I'm sorry, darling. I don't normally appear like this at lunchtime.'

‘I should hope not.’ Victor sighed, running a hand over his hair. ‘Did you get to Guildford last evening?'

Emma turned away so that he could not see her face, nodding. ‘Yes. Stafford was delighted to see me. I was glad I took the trouble.'

Victor accepted this without comment. It was obvious he did not connect the fact of her oversleeping with her visit to Guildford.

‘And how long will it take you – to – well – make yourself presentable?’ Victor was asking now, and she swung round frowning.

‘You'll wait?'

‘I shall have to, shan't I?’ Victor looked irritable.

‘Where are we lunching?'

‘The Dorchester.’ Victor thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘Sir Malcolm wants to discuss the Messiter deal with me and this is his only opportunity. But as his daughter's in London at the moment, he suggested we make up a foursome for lunch.'

‘Oh, I see. A business lunch.’ Emma was less than enthusiastic. ‘Do I have to attend?'

Victor's square face became stiff. ‘You don't have to do anything, of course. I simply thought that as my fiancée you'd want to take an interest in my affairs.'

‘But, darling, your business affairs have nothing to do with me.'

‘On the contrary, they have everything to do with you. Once Messiter Textiles comes within the sphere of Harrison Interloop, we shall hold a tremendous influence—'

‘All right, all right,’ Emma interrupted him with a sigh. She had no intention of allowing Victor to go into a long monologue about the possibilities of cornering the textile market. ‘I'll come. Mrs. Cook is making some coffee, so you help yourself and I'll go and take a shower.'

‘Very well.’ Victor's face relaxed agreeably, and Emma waited for a few moments to see whether he would now relax sufficiently to kiss her, to show her in some way that he was glad to see her. But Victor merely smiled in a satisfied way and took up a position in front of the fire, obviously prepared to wait for her to go and get ready. With an impatient gesture Emma left the room and encountered Mrs. Cook in the hall, on her way to the lounge with a tray of coffee.

‘Well?’ said the housekeeper, looking knowingly at Emma's exasperated expression. ‘Are you lunching out?'

‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’ Emma brushed past her and ran up the stairs to her room, but once there she flung off her clothes irritably. Couldn't Victor sometimes let himself go and show a little emotion? Heavens, it wasn't as though he had never seen a woman in a dressing gown before; he had been married for almost fifteen years. Surely in that time he had grown used to seeing a woman about his home. He must have become accustomed to his wife, invalid though she had been; used to entering her bedroom, sleeping in her bed!

Emma went into her bathroom with ill-concealed dissatisfaction. Although she had known him for five years, although they had been engaged for almost six months, they had never got beyond the stage of gentle lovemaking he had first courted her with. And although it was rare that Emma ever felt that their relationship was not developing in the way that it should, today she felt inordinately dissatisfied with her lot. She wished her father would come back. Perhaps it was being alone so much that was unsettling her.

But then she heaved a sigh. Her father was enjoying himself in Canada with her older brother and his wife, and as he had now retired from medical practice, there was nothing to stop him from remaining there another three months. He knew Emma was well looked after by Mrs. Cook, and in any case he considered her a sensible girl.

During the following week, life settled back into its normal pattern. Emma worked part-time for a friend in a secretarial agency off Oxford Street, more for something to do than for the money involved, for although she had been offered a place at university seven years ago her mother had died at that time and she had known that as her brother was already married she could not leave home and her father alone. In consequence, she took a secretarial course at a London technical college and eventually joined Fenella Harding at the agency.

Fenella was older than Emma, a contemporary of Victor's, in fact, and it had been through Fenella that Emma had first met her fiancé. Even so, the idea that the big, powerful industrialist should take anything more than a fleeting interest in her had never occurred to her until he introduced himself to Dr. Seaton and slowly but surely eased himself into her life. Emma had always been rather shy and withdrawn, preferring the company of books to that of the opposite sex, and Victor's worldly manner had aroused a sense of admiration in her. That he was so much older than she was had been unimportant. She had never considered herself a particularly trendy sort of person. Her clothes were square, the other girls in the office said so, and since she had taken to wearing her hair in its pleat, she knew she looked years older.

But Victor approved, and after all, that was all that really mattered.

The afternoon following her unfortunate accident in the fog, she had managed to contact a garage in the Guildford area who, for a fee, had been prepared to locate the whereabouts of her car from the description of the circumstances she was able to give them. The Mini had been returned to her as good as new, and Victor had learned nothing of the incident, much to her relief.

All the same, from time to time, she couldn't help pondering the identity of the man who had rescued her and brought her home. The certainty that she had seen him before had strengthened and it was a tantalizing puzzle which intrigued her. But as such thoughts were abortive she endeavoured to put all such speculation to the back of her mind.

On Friday evening it was late when Emma left the agency. They had had rather a panic on that afternoon, as several of the girls were away with ‘flu, and consequently they were inundated with work. Emma had volunteered to stay on as Victor was away in Brighton for the evening, attending a business dinner, and she did not expect to see him again until the following afternoon.

It was a cold, frosty evening when she emerged from the office building, but there was no fog, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling of release. She walked the few yards to where the Mini was parked and drove home without incident, parking it in the drive before entering the house.

‘Mrs. Cook!’ she called. ‘I'm home!'

There was no immediate response and, shrugging, Emma crossed the hall to the lounge, unbuttoning her tweed overcoat, thrusting open the door to enter the comfortable lamplit room. As she did so, a man rose from his position on the couch, and she stepped back in alarm, a hand pressed to her lips. But as the man moved into the light, she said incredulously: ‘You! What are you doing here?'

The dark Spanish-American regarded her intently. ‘I came to see you,’ he replied simply, but his eyes were surveying her with a mixture of doubt and disbelief.

Emma put up a hand to her hair. It was as smooth and elegant as ever, her blue tweed suit beneath the matching coat beautifully tailored, but rather severe in style. She was conscious of feeling years older than he was as he stood there so dark and lean and attractive in a close-fitting cream suede suit that moulded every muscle of his thighs.

‘I – well – have you been waiting long?’ she asked nervously, unable to assimilate the situation with any degree of composure. ‘Did Mrs. Cook let you in?'

‘Your housekeeper?’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Yes, she let me in. She didn't want to, but when I explained who I was…’ His voice trailed away. ‘You've suffered no ill effects of your midnight ramblings, I see.'

‘Oh, no – no!’ Emma glanced over her shoulder uneasily. ‘I – I'm very grateful to you for helping me.'

The man inclined his head politely and she rubbed her finger tips together rather awkwardly. Why had he come? Had she left something in his car? But no, if she had, she would have missed whatever it was by now, wouldn't she?

Her eyes alighted on the drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘Er – did Mrs. Cook – that is – can I offer you a drink?’ she inquired, stepping forward again.

‘Thank you,’ he nodded, and she walked jerkily across the room to the cabinet, conscious of his eyes upon her the whole time.

‘Wh-what would you like?’ she asked, inspecting the bottles. ‘Scotch? Gin? Brandy?'

‘Scotch would be fine,’ he replied calmly, folding his hands behind his back. His jacket was unfastened and the lapels parted to reveal a dark blue shirt and matching tie beneath. Emma's eyes were drawn to him almost against her will, and she had to force herself to concentrate on what she was doing.

As it was the bottle jangled noisily against the glass, and he moved swiftly across to her with lithe grace and took it from her unresisting fingers. ‘I'll do it,’ he said, and she stood aside and let him. The Scotch poured smoothly into the glass, the bottle was put back in its place, and he raised the Scotch to his lips. ‘Salud!’ he said, and swallowed half of it at a gulp.