A Savage Beauty

But before she could begin to co-ordinate her thoughts, strong hard hands hauled her unceremoniously to her feet and a stream of harsh vituperative Spanish rang in her ears. Then the man, for no woman could speak so violently, seemed to realize she could not possibly understand and reverting to English, snapped: ‘Crazy fool! Throwing yourself into the road like that! Are you in the habit of trying to kill yourself?'

To Emma his anger was the last straw and she felt the hot burning of tears behind her eyes. But she drew herself up to her full height of five feet six inches and faced him bravely. Even so, she had to look up at him, and she blinked rapidly as the dampness misted on her lashes.

‘If you think for one moment my action was deliberate then you must be the fool!’ she declared fiercely. ‘I slipped and I fell!'

The man was looking down at her, but it was too gloomy to distinguish his expression. ‘Then please to tell me what you are doing climbing around ditches at this hour of the night on a private road!'

Emma's eyes widened. ‘This is a private road? So that explains it!'

‘Explains what?’ The man was clearly impatient. ‘Look, I am getting wet and cold. Where are you bound for? To see Gregory?'

‘Gregory?’ Emma was vague, and then realizing that this man had no idea of her circumstances, explained: ‘No – I was going to London, but I'm afraid I lost my way.’ It was no use pretending otherwise. At this hour of the night her motives for being on this man Gregory's private road might be misconstrued unless she was honest.

The man hesitated for a moment and glanced back up the road behind him. ‘I see.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Are you in the habit of walking long distances in such weather?’ There was sarcasm in his voice now.

Emma grimaced, and then shivered, and her companion seemed to realize that their conversation could be conducted so much more easily in the warmth of his car.

‘Come!’ he said. ‘I am going to London myself. I will take you there provided you can offer me some reasonable explanation as to why you should be wandering about Paul Gregory's private road at this hour of the night.'

Emma had, perforce, to follow him to his car, but she did so without enthusiasm. Although he had agreed to take her back to town and this knowledge should have filled her with relief, it did not. She had not yet seen his face, she would not have been able to identify him again, and yet she was aware of an air of leashed strength and ruthlessness about him that disturbed her a little. Afterwards she was never quite sure how she had instinctively felt this about him. She only knew that she was reluctant to put herself, however tenuously, into his hands.

The car he was driving, she saw, was a sleek Jensen sports saloon, and inside there was a warm smell of expensive leather and cigars, and what possibly might have been brandy. She glanced across the bonnet at the man as he indicated that she should get into the car and hoped she was not about to make the biggest mistake of her life. What if he had been drinking? She had not smelled alcohol on his breath, but then she had been too disturbed to notice. She sighed, inwardly berating herself. He had stopped expertly enough when she had fallen across his path. That was hardly the reaction of someone who was bemused with drink.

She got slowly into the soft bucket seat and slammed her door and he did likewise, flicking a switch as he did so which illuminated the interior of the vehicle. Emma blinked again, and put up an involuntary hand to her hair. What a mess she must look, she thought, and knew that had Victor seen her like this he would have been horrified. He was always so conscious of appearances.

Her companion turned to regard her with chilling appraisal, his eyes narrowed, calculating. ‘It is interesting to see you in the light, señorita,’ he observed mockingly, and to her annoyance Emma felt herself colouring, a thing she had not done for years.

But really, he was one of the most disturbing men she had ever encountered. Thick dark hair grew low on his neck, brushing the collar of his dark blue suede jacket in a way which would have caused Victor to twist his lips contemptuously. He abhorred the way men today allowed their hair to grow unchecked, and although he acceded to neatly trimmed sideburns, this was his only concession to modern trends.

This man's sideburns were longer and darkened his already darkly tanned cheekbones, while his eyes were almost black between the longest lashes Emma had ever seen on a man. His features were not regular; his face was thin, his nose decidedly bent, and there were hollows beneath his cheekbones. His mouth was thin, too, and yet it had a sensual curve to it which, added to the arrogant, alien attractiveness of him, caused Emma to feel a disquieting ripple of apprehension along her spine. His intent appraisal was disquieting, too, and as she was unaccustomed to being treated in this way she drummed up a feeling of resentment.

‘I can assure you my reasons for being here are entirely respectable,’ she said.

His eyes flickered. ‘Yes, I am sure they are,’ he conceded lazily. ‘However, you will forgive me if I choose to make my own assessment of the situation. I should hate to discover to my cost that you were some female decoy waiting to disable me the minute I set the car moving.'

Emma gasped. ‘If I were going to do that, I should hardly wait until the car was moving, would I? Whatever would I do with you slumped over the wheel?'

‘A pleasant thought,’ he agreed, with a wry twist to his mouth, and Emma looked abruptly away. She couldn't encounter that lazy mocking gaze of his, and in any case, the way he looked at her made her feel uncomfortable. He was obviously used to dealing with members of her sex, and from his attitude she guessed he was probably aware of his own attractions. He was young, too, only about thirty or thirty-two, and although she knew she had never met him before, there was something vaguely familiar about him. She quelled her curiosity. This would never do. So long as he sat there looking at her, making her aware of every inch of her own body, 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.