Dark Fever

‘I run the hotel, Mrs Fraser. It’s my job to know who is in each apartment. We pride ourselves on our security—some very rich and famous people stay with us and they expect us to keep a close eye on who comes and goes in the hotel. I’m sure you’ve noticed our security men patrolling the grounds?’

Still absorbing the fact that he was the hotel manager, she blankly shook her head, her black hair flicking against her shoulder. He gave her another of his dry smiles.

‘Well, they’re here, day and night. Look out of your window some time and you’re bound to see one. They wear uniform, they’re armed and they keep in touch with base on walkie-talkies. Any disturbance is dealt with immediately; you need have no fear while you’re in the hotel grounds.’

She was taken aback by this new revelation and shivered. ‘I find that pretty scary—having armed men all around me day and night!’

He turned his head again, to look down into her blue eyes, his expression changing. His stare seemed to dive down into her very soul, and her heart made a frightening leap, like a salmon trying to fight back upstream against a powerful tide.

She hurriedly turned away, afraid that he could read her thoughts, her feelings—the very last thing she wanted him to do. She had to hide her reactions from him; he must not guess how he was making her feel. None of this was real; it wouldn’t last; it was some sort of hormonal thing, she decided. Neither her heart nor her mind was involved—this was just her body acting up, a chemical reaction which would pass if she ignored it.

‘Your first name is Bianca, isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘A lovely name—it suits you; you look like Snow White, with your black hair and blue eyes and that lovely skin. Bianca is an Italian name, isn’t it? Have you got any Italian blood?’

She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the busy traffic through which they drove.

‘My name is Marquez,’ he said. ‘Gil Marquez. The rest of my name is far too long to remember. I won’t bother you with it; just call me Gil. I was the last child and first son my mother had—before I was born she had three girls. She was forty when I was born. The doctors said she shouldn’t have any more children, so my father gave me all his favourite names—six of them!’

‘Six first names?’ she repeated, startled.

He grinned at her. ‘He was an extremist—I’m afraid I take after him. He named me after three of his favourite saints, and added the names of his two brothers—Gil was his father’s name, so that came first, and that is the one I use.’

‘He sounds wonderful,’ she said, wondering what he meant by saying that he was an extremist, like his father. He certainly had the bone-structure of one—fierce, sharp, insistent planes, piercing eyes, a strong mouth and an arrogant jawline. She could imagine him in armour, in medieval times, fighting with ruthless implacability. He was an all-or-nothing man, not someone comfortable and easygoing.

Nothing like Rob, she thought, and guilt stabbed inside her again. Why did she keep comparing him with Rob?

They were chalk and cheese, physically and mentally, such totally different men that it was ridiculous to compare them. Ridiculous, and shameful. Rob was her own dear love; she would never love like that again. She never wanted to! What she was feeling about Gil Marquez was a spring madness, infatuation, crazy, unreal. She wished to heaven she had never stood on her balcony and seen him climb out of the water, his body flittering gold in the sunlight.

Maybe the sunlight and the foreign nature of this place had something to do with her inexplicable reactions to Gil Marquez, these turbulent feelings? She was away from everything familiar, everything safe. She was alone, for the first time in years, without her family—a woman without responsibilities, without boundaries, out of touch with reality for a while, free. Had that freedom gone to her head?

‘He was,’ Gil said, and she looked at him again blankly, at first not realising what he was talking about. Then she remembered that he had been talking about his father, and the past tense registered.

‘He’s dead?’ she said with sympathy.

He nodded, his face unsmiling now, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and a frown carving itself into his forehead. ‘A year ago. He was eighty-five, he had had a good life, but it was a shock to all of us.’

‘Death always is,’ she said with sympathy, watching his sculptured profile, and he turned to give her a searching glance.

‘I noticed on your registration card that you were a widow. How long has your husband been dead?’

‘Three years.’

‘Three?’ A pause, then he asked, ‘How long were you married to him?’

‘Twenty years.’ A lifetime, she thought—the time she was with Rob felt like her whole life; she found it hard to remember the time before they married.

‘And you were happy together.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, flat and unaccented.

‘Yes.’

Another pause, then he said, ‘You haven’t remarried—haven’t you met anyone else, or—?’

She stiffened, resenting the curiosity, and interrupted sharply, ‘I have two children and a business to run. My life is quite busy enough.’

His grey eyes flickered mockingly over her. ‘What a waste!’

She felt hot colour sting her face. ‘I don’t like discussing my private life with a complete stranger, Senor Marquez!’

‘How very English,’ he murmured, his mouth flicking up at the edges.