The Night Of The Bulls. Anne Mather
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‘You are in trouble?’ He glanced round impatiently. ‘We cannot talk here. You have a room?’ And at her nod, he said: ‘We will go there!’
‘No!’ The word was tom from her and she faltered desperately, ‘No – I mean – we couldn’t go there. It’s small – a bedroom, no more!’
‘So? And what do you imagine I intend to do in this room of yours? Swing you about, little cat?’ His mouth twisted harshly.
Dionne shook her head helplessly. How could she explain that she wanted no remembrance of his presence in that small bare room to haunt her through the long lonely reaches of the night?
‘There – there’s a lounge here,’ she stammered. ‘If – if it’s not occupied …’
She thrust open the door on to darkness that enveloped her like a shroud. She moved quickly into the room, switching on the lamps, illuminating the emptiness.
Manoel’s expression was grim. ‘Very well, it will do. Now—’ He followed her into the quiet room, closing the door and leaning back against it, his whole being emanating the kind of strength that she had only begun to remember could annihilate any defence she might erect. ‘Now, Dionne, what is it? What is wrong? Why do you need my help?’
Dionne moved about the room restlessly, unable to stand still under that piercing examination, unable to find words to say what she wanted to say. And presently he tired of her restiveness and said intensely: ‘Pour l’amour de Dieu, Dionne, I am not a patient man! Say what you have to say and be done with it!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want? Money?’
Dionne halted abruptly and stared at him, her lips quivering. ‘Why should you imagine I want money?’ She was stung by the cynicism of his tone.
‘Is that not what everybody wants?’ he inquired carelessly. He snapped his fingers. ‘If that is what this elaborate charade is about, then continue with it no longer. Such performances bore me!’ He straightened, looking at her contemptuously. ‘What puzzles me is why you should imagine I might give you money!’
Dionne stared at him, her tongue straying to the comer of her mouth. ‘Am I to take it from your remarks that you refuse to help me?’ she inquired tersely, summoning all her composure to confront him squarely.
Manoel returned her gaze insolently, forcing her lids to fall defensively over the jade green eyes. She found it incredibly difficult even after all this time to sustain a measure of confidence with him, and she was afraid her eyes might mirror a little of what she was feeling. There was a poignant kind of pleasure in just looking at him, but with the looking came memories which she had previously never allowed to enter her conscious mind. She knew every facet of that lean strong face intimately, she had kissed the firm skin of his cheek and felt the sensual curve of his mouth against her body, driving all coherent thought from her mind. Despite the passage of years it was impossible not to be affected by such recollections.
He hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants which circled his narrow hips. Without bothering to answer her question he said: ‘Tell me something, why do you need money?’
Dionne squared her shoulders. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she said. ‘Besides, as you so obviously are opposed to helping me, I don’t see that it matters.’
‘I do not recall stating categorically that I would not help you,’ he drawled, his eyes watchful. ‘You are too quick to take offence, Dionne. You cannot expect to come back here after three years and expect things and people to be the same now as they were then.’
Dionne pressed the palms of her hands against each other. ‘I don’t expect anything of the sort,’ she said carefully. ‘I realize life goes on, nothing stays the same. The reason I am avoiding unnecessary complications is so that this situation should not impinge upon your privacy—’
Manoel swore violently, moving towards her menacingly. ‘Do you imagine you can come here without impinging upon my privacy, as you put it?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Good God, woman, we are human beings, not automatons! Anything you do would be bound to effect what has gone before and what is to come after!’
Dionne trembled in the grip of his angry emotions. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said chokingly. ‘I had to come to you! There was no one else I could turn to!’
‘And you need money?’ He was controlling himself with difficulty, his shoulders hunched, his eyes glittering with suppressed violence.
‘Yes.’ Dionne managed to articulate with difficulty.
‘How much money?’
Dionne swallowed hard. ‘Two — two hundred pounds,’ she faltered.
His brows drew together. ‘Two hundred pounds? What is that? About twenty-five hundred francs?’
‘Something like that,’ Dionne nodded.
Manoel chewed his lower lip for a full minute, and then he said: ‘Two hundred pounds, eh?’ His eyes travelled insolently down the length of her slim body, coming to rest almost tangibly on her parted lips. ‘What is it you need this money for, Dionne? You are pregnant, perhaps?’
‘No!’ Dionne stared at him in horror. ‘No! How could you suggest such a thing?’ Her voice broke, much to her chagrin, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.
‘Why?’ he asked now, his grey eyes raking her body mercilessly. ‘Why should I not assume such a thing? Is it such an uncommon occurrence in your country? Are men there any different from anywhere else? I think not. You are a beautiful woman, Dionne, you always were. How many nights have I lain awake remembering exactly how beautiful you were when you lay in my arms?’ His lips twisted cruelly. ‘Surely some other man must have known the delights we shared—’
Dionne’s hand shot out before he could move and stung sharply across his cheek, and then with a little moaning cry she thrust past him, opening the door as though the devil himself were at her heels and fled up the stairs to her room.
Inside, she closed the door and turned the key, leaning back against it shakingly. But there was no sound of pursuit, no angry banging at her door, only the panting sound of her own breathing that took many long minutes to return to normal.
And when it became obvious that no one was going to follow her, she flung herself face downward on the bed, dry-eyed and utterly bereft.
It was with great reluctance that Dionne rose the next morning. She had slept badly and dark lines rimmed her eyes so that she went down to breakfast in dark glasses to avoid the inevitable comment from the friendly manager.
Over breakfast, which consisted only of several cups of strong black coffee, she tried to take stock of her situation. If only Clarry were here, she thought longingly, although Clarry would not approve of the way she was going about things. Clarry was all for telling the truth and shaming the devil, but in this instance Dionne could not agree with her. How could she confess to Manoel St. Salvador the real reasons behind her need for money? What reaction might he make to her confession? What small amount of compassion need she expect from him after his abasement of her last night?
But what will you do if he doesn’t come back? a small inner voice chided her. How will you manage? Will you sacrifice Jonathan’s chances of good health for the sake of pride?
Dionne rose jerkily from her seat. Such thoughts did not bear thinking about. She had to go on. She had to humiliate herself before Manoel St. Salvador, and if the ultimate was required of her she must give it – for Jonathan’s sake.
But what then? Her thoughts ran on. What then? What if, confronted with the truth, he wanted the child? What possible redress would she have? She, who had only her teacher’s pay to support her, and Manoel with his vast estate in the Camargue, the vineyards in the upper Rhone valley, wealth of a kind she had not even dreamed about. Who would win such a battle? She had no need to doubt the answer.
Her palms moistened. Had she been a fool to come here? To ask Manoel