you would not refuse a stranger a meal?'
Emma stared at him helplessly. Then she tugged off her overcoat. Her body was overheated already, and the atmosphere in the room was electric. ‘I would like you to go, señor,’ she said carefully. ‘I – I'm very tired.'
‘So am I,’ he remarked lazily. ‘There have been concerts every night this week. This is my first free evening.'
Emma made an impotent gesture. ‘I don't understand you.'
‘No. I would agree with you there,’ he conceded, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and pulling down his tie so that she could see the brown column of his throat. His skin was deeply tanned and for a brief moment she recalled Victor's pale flesh, sallow from too many hours spent in boardrooms, loose from lack of exercise. Miguel Salvaje did not appear to have an ounce of spare flesh on his body, and the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the dark blue silk of his shirt as he moved. Emma was self-consciously aware of noticing this, and guiltily forced her eyes away from him. In a tight little voice, she said:
‘Will you please leave, señor?'
Miguel made an impatient gesture. ‘And if I choose not to do so? What then? What will you do? Will you call the policia? Will you have me humiliated in the eyes of the public – of the press?'
Emma doubted that anyone or anything could humiliate him. Indeed, the humiliation would be all hers. Making a last desperate attempt to appeal to him, she exclaimed: ‘Are you so desperate for companionship, señor, that you would spend an evening with someone who does not want your company?'
He uttered an imprecation. ‘Yes,’ he replied harshly. ‘Yes, I need companionship. I want to relax away from my work – away from the things that bring it constantly to mind. You do not wish me to dine here with you – very well, I accept that. Then let me buy you dinner somewhere. Surely there are restaurants where we need not be formal, where no one will recognize me!'
Emma moved uncomfortably towards the door. ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, señor.'
‘Why? Why is it out of the question? I would like to spend an evening with you, and I think you would not find it so objectionable, in spite of what you say.'
Indignation flooded her at his words. Did he imagine her refusal was merely a coy attempt to increase his interest? And to suggest that she would be prepared to eat with him at some out-of-the-way restaurant so that none of his friends or associates should learn of their association was insulting. What had she done to make him think she would welcome his attentions? Did he assume that as she was a woman who on his own admission he considered to be past marriageable age she would welcome an affair with someone like himself? How dared he? The audacity of it all!
Her breasts rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions, and she found it difficult to articulate clearly. ‘I – I can assure you, señor, that I am not desperate for company. And if my fiancé were here you would not dare to speak to me in this way—'
‘Fiancé?’ His thin face was sardonic. ‘You have a fiancé, señorita?’ He shrugged. ‘A novio? I am not interested in your novio.'
Emma gave an exasperated ejaculation. ‘What does it take to convince you that I mean what I say?’ she demanded. ‘Is this the way you treat women in your country, señor?'
He shook his head slowly. ‘In my country? No. But this is not my country.'
Emma sighed. Where was Mrs. Cook? Why didn't she come? Surely she must have heard her come in, must know she would be shocked to find this man waiting for her.
Miguel Salvaje continued to regard her for a few moments longer and then his lean fingers slid up and tightened his tie again. She noticed inconsequently that he wore a ring on his left hand, a carved antique gold ring that made a fitting setting for a ruby that glowed with an inner fire all its own.
He inclined his head. ‘It shall be as you insist, señorita. I regret the intrusion.'
He walked towards the door, and as he did so Emma felt a terrible sense of compunction. But why should she? she asked herself impatiently. Just because for a brief moment he had seemed completely defenceless she should not fool herself into thinking it was anything more than another attempt to get her to change her mind. She must remember he was Miguel Salvaje, rich, clever, aware of his own potentialities, prepared to use her as no doubt he had used other women in other cities, and not merely a lonely man seeking companionship.
She sighed, but he did not look back and a few moments later she heard the sound of the outer door closing. He had gone. She hesitated only a moment, and then she rushed across to the window, drawing aside the curtain and peering out. He was walking down the short drive, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket. He didn't have an overcoat and she thought he must be frozen, used as he was to a warmer climate in any case. Where was his car? She frowned. She didn't remember seeing it as she came in. Surely she would have noticed such a conspicuous automobile if it had been parked anywhere near the house.
She bit her lip hard, but he had disappeared into the street and the hedges of the house next door hid him from sight. She allowed the curtain to fall back into place and as she did so Mrs. Cook came into the room.
‘Oh, you're home, Miss Emma!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn't hear you come in. When I heard the door just now—’ She looked round. ‘Has Señor Salvaje left?'
Emma cupped the back of her neck with her hands. ‘It looks like it, doesn't it?’ she asked impatiently. ‘You knew who he was, then?'
‘Of course.'
‘I didn't know you were interested in music, Mrs. Cook.'
‘Interested in music?’ Mrs. Cook frowned. ‘What do you mean?'
Emma stared at her. ‘I thought you said you knew who he was.'
‘Yes. He introduced himself to me. I understood he was the gentleman who brought you home the other evening.'
‘He was – he is!’ Emma heaved a deep breath. ‘He's also a concert pianist.'
‘Is he?’ Mrs. Cook made a suitably respectful grimace. ‘I didn't know that. Anyway, what did he want?'
Emma shrugged. ‘I don't really know. He – well, he invited me to have dinner with him.'
Mrs. Cook raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? And what would Mr. Harrison say to that, I wonder?'
‘Well, you've no need to, Mrs. Cook. Because I'm not going.'
Mrs. Cook nodded slowly. ‘Well, I just came to see what time you wanted your meal. Are you ready now?'
Emma looked down at the severe lines of her suit irritably. Then she shook her head. ‘No, not yet. I want to change first.'
‘Change?’ Mrs. Cook couldn't hide her curiosity. ‘Are you going out again then?'
Emma shook her head. ‘No – no, I'm not going out again, Mrs. Cook. I merely want to change, that's all.’ Her tone was eloquent of her resentment at Mrs. Cook's probing.
‘Yes, miss!’ Mrs. Cook was offended, her back stiff and unyielding as she went out again. Emma kicked off her shoes ill-temperedly. What was the matter with her? Speaking to Mrs. Cook like that! There was no cause for it.
Clenching her teeth, she marched out of the room and up the stairs. It was as though contact with that man, Miguel Salvaje, disrupted her. The last time she had felt like this was when he had brought her home in the fog, and now here she was a mass of conflicting emotions, just because he had taken it upon himself to enter her life again. It was stupid and childish. She wasn't an adolescent, so why was she behaving like one?
All the same, she found herself thinking about him a lot through that long evening, wondering where he was and what he was doing, and whether he had found someone else to keep him company…
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