Dark Fever

‘Fine.’

‘OK, Mum.’

She caught sight of the time and sighed. ‘I’ve got to go, Tom; I’m going out tonight and I haven’t dressed. You’ve got my number here, if you need me. Bye.’

It was way past seven now; she had to dress in a hurry, and when she had she was taken aback by her reflection in the mirror. She had never in her life worn a dress like this—she was stricken with uncertainty, intensely self-conscious. Who was this woman in the mirror, her black hair piled high behind her head, pinned with a great black Spanish comb, black lace floating from it? This woman in scarlet and black lace, a dress so tight that it showed every line of her body, black high-heeled shoes that gave her a height she didn’t normally have—she didn’t know her!

The self she was used to seeing in her mirror was a woman of forty who dressed conventionally, was sensible and responsible, worked hard, ran a home, looked after her children. Never took risks, never got excited, never wanted anything for herself, only planned for her children’s future—never for a future of her own. The Bianca who had woken up on her fortieth birthday had been ground down into the ruts of her life, had had nothing to look forward to, just a quiet succession of days all the same as before, forever and ever to the edge of doom.

That was not her in the mirror. Was it? No, no, she didn’t recognise that woman. Even her mouth seemed strange and unfamiliar—a disturbing scarlet bow, cushiony in the full lower lip, hot and inviting.

She gave it another startled, horrified glance. That wasn’t her mouth. She picked up the black lace fan which Freddie had made her buy to go with the dress, flicked it open and lifted it to hide her mouth; over it her eyes glittered, wide and bright, with excitement, with invitation. She did not know them either.

She couldn’t wear the dress to dinner tonight! She didn’t have the nerve to walk into the bar to meet Freddie and Karl looking like this!

Freddie has already seen you in the dress—don’t be silly! she told herself. And Karl is too preoccupied with his wife to give you a second glance.

But Gil would be there.

Oh, yes, that was what was bothering her, wasn’t it? The idea of Gil seeing the feverish excitement in her eyes, in the parted redness of her mouth, in the tense curve of her body—seeing and understanding the smouldering sexual invitation in the way she looked in this intensely sexy dress. She didn’t want to give him the idea that she was giving him any such message!

Don’t you? she thought, looking at her reflection helplessly, fighting to calm herself. Her hands were clenched in the effort to tone down her high colour, the quiver of her mouth, the glitter of her eyes.

Who are you trying to fool? You wanted Gil the minute you saw him. You want him so much it’s eating away at you night and day; you can’t think of anything else!

She turned away, biting her lip. Stop it! she told herself. Shame flooded through her. What was the matter with her? Obsessed with sex, aching to have a man, at her age?

Her age? Was that it? Had waking up to find herself forty, and on the verge of middle age, thrown her entire mind and body into turmoil? Was this some sort of midlife crisis? The next big crisis of her life would probably be when she hit the menopause and stopped being capable of having a baby—maybe this was nature’s way of telling her to hurry up and grab a last chance?

Was she actually falling in love with Gil—or had her hormones simply gone crazy when it had dawned on her that time was running out? Was Gil just the first eligible man she had run into since her birthday?

It was horrifying to find yourself the prisoner of your own hormones. She felt stupid and helpless. This churning excitement, this permanent state of aroused sexuality... was it nothing but chemistry?

A brisk tap on the front door of her apartment made her jump. She swung round, her skirts flaring around her legs. A maid, come to turn down her bed?

The tap came again, louder. No, a maid would have used her pass key to come in if there was no answer.

Gil, she thought, pulses thundering, and couldn’t move. It had to be Gil.

Slowly she went to the door and began to open it. Then the door was knocked wide by a body crashing into it, forcing it back right into Bianca, who was thrown across the room.

The door slammed shut. Terror paralysed her as she saw the hard, hating black eyes, the vicious face of the boy she had picked out in the police station the other day.

Her mouth opened to scream but he leapt across to her too fast for a sound to escape. His black-gloved hand rammed down on her mouth, pushing her lips back on her teeth, silencing the muffled sounds she made.

Eyes wide with terror, she fought him, trembling, trying to push him away. His thin, muscular body jerked forward, thrust itself down on her, forcing her back against the wall.

He muttered a word in Spanish; she didn’t know the word but she knew he had insulted her. He looked down at her body, the full white breasts half exposed by the ruffles of black lace, the way the soft material clung to her waist and hips, fell back from her long legs.

He grinned, and Bianca felt suddenly sick. His eyes were insulting, crude, explicit. He grabbed the lace with his free hand and ripped; her breasts spilled out and he bent his head and sank his teeth into her nipple. The pain was agonising. Under his muffling hand Bianca screamed. She began to struggle wildly then, punching him, trying to knee him in the groin as she had that night in the Marbella street.

He was ready for her this time, though; before she made contact he balled his fist and struck her in the face, right between the eyes. Her head was flung violently back and hit the wall so hard, it almost knocked her out. Dazed and in agony, she sagged downwards, all the fight knocked out of her.

While she was half fainting, he lifted her off the floor, put her body over his shoulder, and carried her into the bedroom. Bianca came back to full consciousness just as he pushed her down on the bed.

A scream broke out of her; she tried to sit up, to get away, but he punched her in the face again, in the mouth; she tasted her own blood on her tongue.

He pulled a long silk scarf from round his own neck, rammed it into her mouth, gagged her with it, caught hold of her tumbled black hair, dragging her head painfully up off the bed, and tied the scarf in a double knot behind her head.