Dangerous Enchantment

“Lord, what was that?”

“A cocktail. My own special recipe. Don’t you like it?”

“It’s like fire-water!” she cried indignantly.

His eyes darkened. “Very appropriate … for a man who is partially Indian,” he muttered, his voice cold suddenly. “Excuse me. I will see if our table is ready.”

Julie stared after him. What had she said? She had not known of his ancestry, and besides, what did it matter? She shrugged. Well, at least she knew how to cool him off, she thought, feeling ridiculously like crying.

When he returned, however, he was his old urbane self, and she half-wondered if she had imagined the anger in his voice earlier. The dinner was, as he had predicted, delicious, and Julie, who appreciated good food and who suddenly felt starvingly aware of the emptiness of her stomach, ate well. There was a different wine for every course, and a warmed brandy glass with a little of that fiery liquid to complete the meal with their coffee. The restaurant had filled up considerably since their arrival and Julie noticed how Manuel avoided direct contact with people who would be bound to recognize him.

When the meal was over, and they were smoking cigarettes with their coffee, she said:

“Thank you, anyway. I enjoyed it.”

“Good. So did I, surprisingly.”

“Why surprisingly?”

“Well, I half expected you to be one of those creatures who pick and choose everything that is put before them, and continually watch their figure. Isn’t that the usual thing?”

July smiled. “Well, as yet I’m lucky. I can eat what I like. Does Miss Arriviera pick and choose?”

His expression darkened for a moment, and then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “Dolores has to watch her weight for obvious reasons; dancers must be very careful.”

Julie nodded, and he said: “Why were you discussing me … or rather Dolores with your colleagues at work? Are you the kind of girl who tells her friends everything that you do? Will you regale them with stories of tonight, exaggerated, of course, to heighten the illusion?”

Julie flushed. “I don’t suppose I shall mention this at all.” She felt very small suddenly, and wished she could explain her reasons for acting as she had; for talking about him as she had done to rid herself of the aching feeling she had felt at the knowledge of his association with Dolores Arriviera.

He studied her appraisingly, and then said: “I believe you won’t. Julie Kennedy, you intrigue me.”

“Do I? Why?” Julie’s stomach turned over.

“I’m not sure. But you have a very devious mind; perhaps that’s it. I don’t know. Come, have you finished? We should be leaving.”

“But … but it’s early!” Julie glanced at her watch. It was barely eight o’clock.

“I know, but you forget I have a living to earn. I am appearing in the ten-thirty cabaret at Guardinos.”

Julie’s heart dropped several inches. She had not imagined when he suggested she should have dinner with him that there was any question of them not spending the whole evening together. She had accepted that it would be an early meal, but even then she had not imagined he would leave her so early. Why, Paul was not calling for her until seven-thirty, and the party at his friend Patrick’s would not begin much before nine. She felt an angry resentment at Manuel’s highhanded treatment of her, and she rose abruptly to her feet and went to collect her coat from the cloakroom with ill grace.

Manuel was standing in the foyer talking to the commissionaire when she emerged, and in spite of her anger she could not quite squash the thrill of pleasure it gave her to know he was waiting for her.

The Ferrari was warm and untouched by the elements outside its cosy interior, and Manuel did not immediately start the engine, but looked at Julie instead.

“You are angry,” he said. “Why?”

Julie hunched her shoulders. “I didn’t expect to get bundled home at half past eight as though I were some kid out late as a special treat!”

Manuel grinned. He had switched on the interior light, and his nearness disturbed her terribly. She had never known a man who by his mere presence created such a furore inside her. She badly wanted to touch him, and have him touch her, and these thoughts made her hot all over with embarrassment and shame. She had never thought herself wanton in any way, but with Manuel Cortez she wanted to be. She wished she were some gorgeous femme fatale, able to get away with that kind of thing successfully, quite unaware that her youth and beauty were far more potent stimulants.

“Do you think I want to take you home?” he asked, softly now. “Believe me, Julie, I would rather spend the rest of the evening with you, but my agent would have a seizure.” He sighed. “And tomorrow I have to fly to Paris in the morning, tape a recording for French television in the afternoon, and fly back tomorrow night for Guardinos. You see, I have quite a busy life.”

“I know, I know. And today you were at a loose end.” Her voice was bitter.

“No. Tonight I was to have dinner with Bernard Hoffman,” he said, calmly, announcing the name of a famous impresario. “But I wanted to have dinner with you. Does that please you?”

Julie looked at him sideways, and managed a smile. “Yes.”

“Good.” Manuel’s eyes narrowed and she thought for a moment he was going to touch her, then he switched out the light and turned on the car’s powerful engine.

The journey back to town was as silent as the journey out, and taking his directions from Julie Manuel dropped her at the end of Faulkner Road.

As she was getting out, he caught her hand, and said huskily:

“Will you have dinner with me on Wednesday?”

Julie swallowed hard. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want,” he said lazily. “I’ll pick you up from work, okay?”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

She watched the tail lights disappear, and then turned and walked slowly down the road to number forty-seven. The houses in the road were a selection of semis and detached villas, and the Kennedy house was detached with the left wing given over to her father’s consulting rooms and surgeries. She entered with her own key and went into the lounge where her parents were usually sitting watching television. To her astonishment Paul was sitting with them, gloomily staring at the screen, and she said:

“Paul! What are you doing here? What about the party?”

Paul brightened considerably at her entrance. “Oh, you know, Julie. I didn’t want to go alone, so I rang Pat and told him not to expect us.” He took her coat and hung it in the hall with the familiarity of frequent use and continued: “Who have you had dinner with? Your mother said some school friend. Do I know her?”

Julie, unused to telling even white lies, felt awful. Her parents had always brought her up to be truthful no matter what, and it was difficult to deceive them. But she knew if she told the truth tonight there would be an uproar, and she did not feel she could face it just now.

“Celine Chalmers,” she said firmly, sitting down. “No, Paul, you don’t know her.”

“Oh. And did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, I did, actually.” Julie sighed. “Is there any coffee going, Mum? I feel a bit lightheaded; we had wine with the meal and I’m not used to it.”

“Oh, yes, and who paid for that?” asked her father, smiling.

Julie blushed anew. “Celine,” she faltered awkwardly. “I’ll go and see about that coffee. Does anyone else want some?”

Paul followed her out to the kitchen. “Julie, is anything wrong? You look strange, somehow.”

Julie shook her head. “What could be wrong?”

“Well, do you mind my being here, waiting for you?”

“Of course not,” Julie was contrite. “I’m sorry, Paul. I guess I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.”