A Savage Beauty. Anne Mather
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vaguely American inflection in his English and she thought he might come from one of the South American republics.
‘Strange as it may seem, señor, I have no particular desire to become a mother yet.'
His eyes narrowed. ‘I notice you do not say – a wife and mother. I take it the one is more desirable to you than the other.'
Emma felt impatient. ‘If you insist on taking me home, señor, I live in Kensington. We turn left at the next junction.'
It was comparatively easy to reach Emma's father's house in Dudley Gardens from Warwick Road, and as the fog was so much less dense here she knew he would have no difficulty in finding his way back to the main road again. When the car halted smoothly at the gates to the short drive, Emma turned to him politely.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said, hoping she sounded less nervous than she felt. ‘I don't know how I should have got home without your assistance.'
He shrugged his broad shoulders lazily. ‘No doubt you would have reached Paul Gregory's house eventually,’ he remarked. ‘You were going in the right direction and one way or another you'd have been able to make some arrangement there, I'm sure.'
‘Nevertheless, you've been very kind.’ Emma fumbled for the door catch without success, and without a word he leant past her and thrust open the door. For a brief moment, his hard arm was against her breasts, and she smelt the faint masculine aroma of his skin, and then she was tumbling out of the car, almost tripping in her haste. As she turned to close the door, the interior light was on and she encountered his dark disturbing gaze.
‘Good – good night,’ she said unevenly.
‘Adios!’ He smiled faintly, and then as the door slammed and the light went out, he drove swiftly away. And as he went Emma felt again that disturbingly positive notion that she had seen him before. But how was that possible? He was certainly not Victor's type, nor was he likely to move in Victor's circle. No. It was probably that he reminded her of someone, but who?
With a sigh, she turned and went slowly up the drive to the front door. As she did so, the hall light came on and the door opened to reveal Mrs. Cook, the housekeeper, wrapped in a warm red woollen dressing gown.
‘Miss Emma!’ she exclaimed, with relief. ‘Thank heavens you're back. It's after one o'clock. I've been so worried about you. I was just about to ring Mr. Harrison and ask his advice when I heard the car.'
Emma stepped into the hall, loosening the white leather coat automatically, and as she did so Mrs. Cook gave another exclamation. ‘Is something wrong, miss? Your hair – I mean – you look so dishevelled. Has there been an accident?'
Emma shook her head, throwing her coat on to the chest in the carpeted hallway. ‘Not exactly, Mrs. Cook,’ she answered carefully. ‘And I'm glad you didn't ring Mr. Harrison. I shouldn't like to worry him unnecessarily.’ She walked down the hall and into the comfortable living-room, appreciating the warmth generated from the radiators. ‘What a terrible night!'
Mrs. Cook clicked her tongue with the familiarity of long service. ‘Where have you been, Miss Emma?’ she asked reprovingly. ‘And why did you come home in another car? Where's the Mini?'
‘All in good time, Mrs. Cook.’ Emma ran a hand over her tumbled hair. ‘Tell me, is there any coffee on the stove?'
‘At this time of night?’ Mrs. Cook looked scandalized. Then she sighed. ‘Oh, well, yes, I suppose I can get you some.'
Emma followed the housekeeper into the large modern kitchen at the back of the house, and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar while Mrs. Cook plugged in the percolator and set it bubbling.
‘Now,’ she said, when that was done, ‘what happened?'
‘I ditched the car in the fog,’ said Emma bluntly. ‘I had to hitch a ride home.'
‘What?’ Mrs. Cook was horrified.
‘It's true. I lost my way. Then when I tried to turn the car I ran into a ditch. I couldn't get it out again.'
Mrs. Cook wrapped her dressing gown closer about her. ‘It's just as well your father's not here,’ she stated rebukingly. ‘Can you imagine how worried he would have been?’ Then she frowned. ‘And who was it who gave you a lift?'
‘I don't know.’ Emma shrugged. ‘I didn't ask his name, and he didn't ask mine.'
‘I see.’ Mrs. Cook turned back to attend to the coffee. ‘Well, it seems to me you've been remarkably lucky getting a lift at this time of night. Where's your car now?'
‘I don't know.’ Emma made a helpless gesture as Mrs. Cook began to look impatient again. ‘Well, I don't. Somewhere off the Guildford road, I guess. I should think if I give some details to an agency, they'll find it for me and bring it back. I just don't want Victor to know, that's all.'
‘Mr. Harrison is bound to find out,’ said Mrs. Cook disapprovingly.
‘Why should he? Unless you tell him, of course.'
Mrs. Cook shook her head, pushing a mug of creamy coffee towards her. ‘These things have a habit of coming out, given time,’ she replied dampeningly.
‘Not necessarily,’ retorted Emma, lifting the cup and scenting the aroma experimentally. ‘Hmm, this is good. Thank you. You're a darling!'
Mrs. Cook sniffed. ‘And you're spoiled, that's the trouble with you,’ she asserted, but there was an unwilling twinkle in her eyes. ‘And I'm away to my bed now, if you've everything you need. I have to get up in the morning.'
Emma wrinkled her nose. ‘All right, Mrs. Cook. And thanks again.'
Later, in her own room, Emma viewed her appearance without pleasure. She was horrified to discover that her nose was smudged with soot, and that her hair tumbled loosely almost to her waist. She extracted the few remaining hairpins and ran a brush through its tangled length. Loosened, it was the colour of burnt amber, thick and silky, glowing with health. But she invariably wore it in either a pleat or a chignon, and its colour was then subdued to a dark auburn. Victor preferred it confined. He didn't like loose hair. Maybe he considered it made her look rather young and unsophisticated. He could be sensitive about things like that.
Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared into the wide-spaced grey eyes which were reflected in the mirror. Without make-up her skin was creamy smooth, her lashes dark and thick, shadowing her cheeks. A tissue removed the smudges of soot from her nose and she regarded herself critically. Her hair did look more feminine loose like this, but a gust of wind would send it into wild disorder and Victor hated to find hairs on his immaculately tailored jackets. Her make-up was always very correct, foundation, powder and a bright but not vivid lipstick, and yet she was realizing now that without any colour added to her lips they looked fuller and more sensual…
She rose angrily to her feet. Whatever was she thinking of? What was the matter with her, sitting here assessing her potentialities? She was not a teenager, she was a mature woman of twenty-five, a woman moreover who was engaged to be married to a man quite a lot of years older than herself who was entirely satisfied with her the way she was. Why was she considering ways of improving her appearance? It was ridiculous, ludicrous, pathetic!
She began to take off her clothes quickly, but before going into the bathroom for her shower she glimpsed her naked body in the mirror and hesitated again. Her limbs were long and slender, her hips firm and curving, her breasts warmly rounded; was she a fool not to exploit her body more, to make herself attractive to other men as well as to Victor?
With determined steps she marched into the bathroom. Hell, she thought irritatedly, just because some man, some stranger, had suggested that it was high time she was married, she was allowing his uncultivated beliefs to intrude upon hers. She had not wanted to get married; she had been perfectly happy looking after her father until Victor came along. Why should she feel guilty because of that?
She drew off her diamond engagement ring and regarded it intently for a few