A Savage Beauty. Anne Mather
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What ought she to do? What could she do? Stop the car and trust that the driver would be an understanding type, or hide until it had passed and hope nobody would notice her white leather coat? Left to herself, she might possibly have decided on the former, but Victor had influenced her life for so long that she automatically turned towards the hedge at the side of the road in an effort to conceal herself because she knew that that was what Victor would have expected her to do. And after all, it was late to expect many decent people to stop.
But although she was wearing boots, their soles were damp and slippery and when they encountered the greasy surface of the turf they caused her to slip and lose her balance. For a moment she remained poised between safety and disaster, desperately trying to right herself, and then, as there was nothing to grab on to and save herself, she fell backwards, awkwardly, into the path of the oncoming automobile.
There was the instant scream of brakes as whoever was driving applied them efficiently, but on the wet road the car still skidded a little before coming to a halt barely inches from Emma herself. Any moment, she expected to feel the crunch of those powerful tyres on her inert body, but the uncanny silence which had fallen following the braking of the car was broken only by the sound of its door opening and being slammed again with obvious impatience. Emma took a shuddering breath. The fall had stunned her, and the realization of how close she had come to death was sufficient to paralyse her. She lay there helplessly, unable to will life into her limbs.
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