they would not get back to London.
As though realizing her discomfort, he raised his hand and flicked out the light, leaning forward to start the powerful engine. ‘Very well,’ he said, as the car's wheels began to roll forward, ‘now tell me: why are you wandering about in the fog? He glanced her way speculatively. ‘Trouble with a man, perhaps?'
Emma, who had been relaxing, stiffened. ‘Of course not,’ she denied sharply.
‘Why – of course not? It's a reasonable supposition. From the look of you, I'd say you'd been grappling with more than just the weather!'
Emma moved awkwardly, putting up a hand to her hair. Of course, she must look a mess. Her hair, which had begun the evening in its usual sleek pleat, hung in untidy strands down her back, while her face was devoid of all make-up.
‘I went to see a friend in Guildford,’ she explained in controlled tones. ‘But coming back I lost my way in the fog, and when I discovered I was on the wrong road and tried to turn the car, it ended up in a ditch.'
‘Another ditch?’ There was a trace of amusement in his voice.
‘Yes, another ditch,’ she answered abruptly.
‘And you came all the way from London in these conditions to see this friend? A man, without a doubt, señorita.'
‘Not in the way you mean,’ retorted Emma annoyedly.
‘What way do I mean?’ he inquired innocently, and Emma had to bite her lips to prevent herself from making some angry reply. He was deliberately baiting her, amusing himself at her expense, and while he was obviously used to this kind of verbal thrust and parrying, she was not. Victor didn't go in for playing with words.
‘I don't think my reasons for going to Guildford are any concern of yours,’ she stated coldly. ‘I shall be very grateful if you could simply take me to the nearest taxi rank. I can easily get a cab.'
‘Don't be so quick to take offence, señorita,’ he advised her dryly. ‘For someone who until a few minutes ago was lost, cold and bedraggled, you show a definite lack of appreciation.'
Emma felt a sense of contrition at this words. She was indebted to him, and she was allowing his attitude to influence hers. Endeavouring to speak naturally, she said: ‘I'm sorry. I know I must sound ungrateful, but I'm not really. It's simply that I'm not used to coping with this kind of a situation.’ She made a deprecatory movement towards her hair. ‘I must look a terrible mess!'
He glanced briefly in her direction and then returned his attention to the shrouded road ahead. ‘I shouldn't alarm yourself. A beautiful woman usually manages to look good whatever the circumstances.'
Emma caught her breath. ‘Beautiful?’ she echoed, her lips moving uncertainly. And then the colour in her cheeks deepened as she thought she saw a faint twisted smile on his lips. ‘You're very polite!’ There was sarcasm in her voice now.
‘Polite? Why should you think that? You are beautiful, and I'm quite sure you're aware of the fact, so why deny it?'
Emma gasped. ‘No one has ever described me that way before,’ she asserted dryly.
‘No? Well, I've always thought Englishmen lacked perception.’ His long fingers slid expertly round the steering wheel. ‘Among other things,’ he added mockingly.
Emma forced herself to take note of her surroundings. For the last few moments she had been so intent on what her companion had been saying that she had half forgotten her reasons for being in his car in the first place.
Amber lights burning ahead of them signified the roundabout on the main Guildford to London road and she sighed with relief. At last she knew where she was again.
She paused to wonder whether if she contacted a garage in the morning they would send someone out to locate her car. No doubt if Victor contacted them it would carry more weight, but she was not looking forward to explaining the details of her homeward journey to him, particularly after he had advised her not to go. She sighed. If she had heeded his advice she would not now be installed in this sleek, luxurious automobile with a man who, apart from his obvious material attributes, possessed a strong sexual attraction that disturbed Emma's normally placid disposition. Her eyes drifted continually in his direction, to that lean dark profile, sliding over the soft expensive suede of his suit to the strong hands gripping the wheel.
A moment later he startled her by leaning forward, flicking open the glove compartment and extracting a slim gold case. ‘Cigarette?’ he offered.
Emma swallowed quickly. ‘I – I'm trying to give them up,’ she answered automatically. It was true; Victor had been trying to persuade her to do so for weeks. But even as she said the words she wished she could retract them. Right now, a cigarette was what she needed to calm her nerves.
The man shrugged, dropping the case on to the parcel shelf, and drew a narrow cigar out of his pocket, putting it between his lips and flicking a lighter. The exhalation of smoke was intoxicating to Emma. She sighed, almost unconsciously, and he glanced at her again.
‘You want a cigarette? Have one. They're not marijuana.'
‘I never thought they were,’ she exclaimed indignantly.
‘But I am right, aren't I? You would like a cigarette.'
She bent her head. ‘Yes.'
‘Then have one, for God's sake!’ He leant forward and lifting the slim gold case dropped it into her lap. ‘Here. Help yourself.'
Emma opened the case and put one of the long American cigarettes between her lips. But when she would have searched in her handbag for a light he flicked the lighter he had used and she leant forward to apply the tip of her cigarette to the flame. She steadied his hand with hers, conscious of his hard skin beneath her fingers. She was conscious of him, too, and she was almost sure he knew it. She drew back abruptly when her cigarette was lit, breathing deeply.
‘Is it good?’ he asked, and she nodded.
‘Marvellous! I needed it.'
He drew on his own cigar and concentrated on the lights of a solitary vehicle ahead of them and Emma relaxed a little. They would be approaching the outskirts of the city soon and then it would not be long before she was home. If Mrs. Cook was still up she would be worried about her. Emma only hoped the housekeeper had not had the idea of phoning Victor when she was so late. While her father was away Mrs. Cook felt a strong sense of responsibility for Emma.
As they neared the suburbs, traffic became a little more frequent even though it was so late, and there were one or two people making their way home from parties and such like. They crossed Putney Bridge, but when they stopped at some traffic lights, Emma said:
‘I can take a cab from here.'
The lights changed and the powerful Jensen rolled forward without letting her out. ‘If you tell me where you live, I'll drive you home. But you will have to direct me. My knowledge of London is limited to its main thoroughfares.'
‘That's not necessary, thank you,’ replied Emma quickly. ‘I wouldn't dream of taking you out of your way.'
The street lights were casting some illumination into the car now and she could see the faint mockery about his mouth. ‘You are perhaps afraid your husband may see us together?'
Emma's eyes widened. ‘Of course not.'
‘There is no husband?’ He frowned.
‘No.’ She felt herself colouring again.
‘Hombre! I am surprised. Are not most English girls of your age married?'
Emma resented his tone of voice. ‘I am twenty-five, señor, that's all. Why should you imagine I should necessarily be married?'
He raised dark eyebrows. ‘In my country, it is much different. At eighteen a girl is already a wife and mother.'
Emma speculated what