Dark Fever

Flushed, she shook her head. ‘I’ll go with the others!’

Coolly, he insisted, ‘We need to talk about what happened; I think the police should be informed at once.’

She looked at him uneasily. ‘But I’ve no proof that the men on that motorbike were the same two who attacked me!’

‘The bike drove straight at you, you said!’

She nodded. ‘It did. I’m quite certain about that— they stared at me first, from a distance, then the bike began to move and came very fast. If I hadn’t moved, they would have hit me.’

‘But they swerved away when you ran back to the rest of your group?’

‘That’s right.’ She remembered it, shivering. ‘I really thought they were going to plough into me. At the time I was certain it was the same two—although I thought they were still in custody. I just felt it was them and that they were going to attack me. But I didn’t see their faces this time either. I have no evidence at all that it was the same two men, and anyway, nothing happened. What on earth is the point of going to the police?’

His mouth twisted. ‘OK, if you don’t want to talk to the police you don’t have to—but I’ll ring them to find out what time they released the two boys. If they couldn’t have got to Granada in time we’ll know it wasn’t them. But just in case it was them you have got to be doubly careful in future. You must not go out of the hotel grounds, even on coach trips. If you want to sightsee or shop, I’ll take you, or make sure you’re with someone I trust. Freddie and Karl, for instance—Karl

would take good care of you. But if you were with a big group it would be far too easy for someone to attack you and get away.’

‘I don’t want to see the police again,’ she confessed, sighing. Her life back in England had always been so quiet and tranquil; she wasn’t used to coping with situations like this; she had felt on edge almost since she got here and it seemed to get worse every day. ‘Anyway, what could they do?’ she said. ‘Nothing happened. I wasn’t attacked, I just thought I was going to be, and I could simply have over-reacted; there could have been no threat to me at all.’

He nodded. ‘You could have done, but I somehow don’t think so. I don’t see you as the over-imaginative type.’

She wasn’t so sure that was a compliment. What did he mean by that?

‘I think your instincts are pretty sound,’ he went on, and again she wondered exactly what he meant—was there a mocking undertone to that, or was she being too sensitive? He smiled drily at her. ‘But, if it bothers you, OK, we won’t tell the police about it... yet—we’ll wait and see if they turn up again, but from now on you must be on your guard, keep your eyes open everywhere you go.’ He looked down into her eyes insistently, and she noticed the faint little flecks of gold around the black pupil, like rays around a dark sun, so striking against the pale, pale colour of the iris.

Her voice husky, she murmured, ‘Yes, don’t worry, I certainly will.’

He was endlessly watchable, she thought. She couldn’t stop looking at him: that golden skin, smooth and deeply tanned, with few lines on his face, only faint ones around his mouth and eyes, etched by smiling; the powerful structure of the bones beneath that skin; the thick, midnight-black hair; the wide, warm mouth, which had such charm when he smiled; the stubborn jawline.

The dark suit gave him a formal, conventional look, but Gil Marquez was neither formal nor conventional. The power he exuded was very different, a warm and physical power based on the body under those clothes, and with that a devastating self-assurance; no woman could ignore it, certainly not Bianca. Every nerve-end in her body was aware of him; he made her blood move faster, her breathing quicken, perspiration spring out on her hot skin.

He drove her back to Marbella shortly after that. He was driving a different car today, she noticed, settling into the front passenger seat of a sleek white sports car. The upholstery was black leather, deep and luxurious; the woodwork was golden, highly polished. Bianca knew nothing about cars, and she had no idea what make this one was, but she could see that it must have cost a fortune; Tom would love it; her son was crazy about cars, particularly special cars like this one.

She felt the curious stares of the other passengers, climbing up into their coach a few feet away, as she and Gil drove off. No doubt they wondered why she had left the tour party—but while the women stared at Gil the men were all envying his car, studying the, lines of it and the speed with which it took off through Granada.

‘Have you sold your other car?’ she asked him, and he started, then shook his head, laughing.

‘That’s my business car; I use it for work—it’s solid and conventional and gives me the right image. Image is everything in my business; the hotel has to breathe an air of luxury and at the same time be totally safe for our wealthy clients—so the car I drive when I’m at work has to be expensive but very safety-conscious, energy-conserving, solidly built, reassuring. When I’m not working I can do as I please, though, and this car is my private fantasy, my dream car. I expect some people would say it was my ego-booster, and maybe it is. I don’t spend too much time analysing my unconscious. I have always wanted a fast sports car so as soon as I could afford one I bought this. It costs an arm and a leg to run, eats up petrol, and it seems to spend a lot of time in the garage being tuned up, but I love driving it.’

‘I’m not surprised—my son would love it too,’ she said, smiling. ‘He’s crazy about cars.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fifteen.’

He gave her a sideways glance, his mouth twisting. ‘A difficult age for boys—that’s when they start arguing over everything they’re told to do and being bloody-minded—is he at the problem stage?’

She made a little face. ‘Not exactly; he can be annoying at times...untidy, reluctant to do anything—you know what teenagers are like—but he’s a good boy at heart; he doesn’t give me any real trouble.’

He shot her an amused look. ‘Mothers always think their sons are wonderful, don’t they?’

‘Did yours?’

He smiled without looking at her this time, his eyes on the road. ‘She had waited so long to get me, having girl after girl, she would have thought I was wonderful if I’d had two heads!’

‘Is she still alive?’ she asked, remembering that he had told her his father was dead.

‘Yes—she’s nearly eighty now, of course, but still very active. She lives in Madrid with my eldest sister, Gisela. My mother’s a doting grandmother and Gisela has four children for her to spoil. She comes here to stay for a few weeks every year, for a holiday by the sea—usually in January, because Madrid is very cold in winter and Mama hates cold weather. She visits my other sisters, too; we’re scattered all over Spain—Eva is in Barcelona and Rosa lives near Alicante, so my mother goes on to Rosa from here every year. That’s where she is right now. She will be going back to Madrid in a fortnight.’