Dark Fever

‘Don’t stay out in the sun too much at first. English skin is meant for rain, not sunshine. Keep changing position.’

She heard him walking away and turned on to her back, sitting up to stare at the tall man making his way towards the sea.

There was a dazzle of light from the water, from the sky, which made the whole scene flicker, like a film shot through gauze; Gil’s figure moved through it as if he were walking into infinity. His skin gleamed golden in the sunlight the way it had the first time she’d seen him. His body had a powerful male beauty—wide shoulders, a long, lean back, with that deep indentation in the middle of it, roughened by small dark hairs, slim hips and firm buttocks, long, muscled, dark-haired legs which moved easily, with grace.

Hunger ate at her. She lay down again and closed her eyes. The trouble was, she was really quite inexperienced with men. That sounded ridiculous when she had been married for years, and she had known Rob inside out, as well as she knew herself. Marriage to one man for many years made the two of you grow together, if it was a good marriage, and hers had been.

But knowing one man so well did not make you an expert on all men. She had never got to know any other men; she had been so young when she’d met Rob, and there hadn’t been anyone else before she met him—and she had been totally f

aithful to him all through their life together; she was the faithful type, and had never felt the slightest temptation to look at anyone else. Rob’s death had devastated her. She had thought she would never get over it.

Until now she would have sworn there would never be another man for her. She had always believed that love did not come to you twice—not love as strong and sure as she had felt for Rob.

But this isn’t love! she thought angrily. She knew what the feeling was, and she was ashamed of it. Lust was an ugly word.

There were nicer words for it—desire, passion, infatuation. They were all basic instincts, physical responses—a matter of pure chemistry, of flesh, not spirit. They were illusions, in a sense, because she hardly knew the man; she had not even met him when she’d first felt this way. She had seen him almost naked and wanted him, wanted him with clamouring hunger.

Men were supposed to react that way, but not women—certainly not women like her. She was in many ways a conventional woman, with traditional responses and habits. She had followed a traditional path from girlhood—had married and had children, had stayed at home and looked after them and run the home, and had only gone into business when her husband died.

She was forty years old, a sensible, businesslike, down-to-earth woman—and Gil Marquez made her feel like a schoolgirl. Her body seemed unable to stop reacting to him. Her heart beating fast, Her breathing coming and going irregularly. Her nerves prickling, her skin burning.

I’ve got to stop it, she thought. I have to get over this. And to do that I must keep out of his way.

But how could she do that when she kept meeting him? Maybe she’d take a coach trip somewhere, she thought— it would be nice to go to Granada and see the Alhambra; that would be a fascinating trip; the Moorish architecture of the palace was so beautiful, and the gardens were said to be stunning. She would need a whole day there, would be out of the hotel for hours, and safe from meeting Gil—no doubt the hotel could make all the arrangements for her. That was part of their offered service—there were coach brochures on the reception desk in the hotel, she had noticed. Even if there was no trip to Granada tomorrow, there were lots of places to visit in this area. She was bound to find a coach trip to one of them.

‘I think we’d better be on our way. It’s gone half-past eleven. Are you ready?’

His voice made her jump, eyes wide, dark blue; she sat up, got to her feet, very flushed, quickly pulled her yellow cotton tunic dress over her head and collected her towel and other belongings a little clumsily because she was so aware of him standing there watching her. He made her intensely self-conscious.

‘I’m ready. I must go back to my apartment first. I won’t be more than five minutes.’

He walked with her to her apartment. ‘I’ll go and change too, then I’ll collect my car from the hotel garage. Can you meet me outside the hotel in ten minutes?’

She nodded and hurried through her front door. Ten minutes would just give her time to shower rapidly, put on clean clothes and some make-up.

She made it to the hotel just in time; Gil’s long, sleek car pulled up beside her as she arrived, and he leaned over to open the passenger door. She felt the assessing flick of his grey eyes as she climbed in beside him.

‘That dress is exactly the colour of your eyes!’ he murmured, and her pulses began their tormenting clamouring again.

She kept her gaze down, clicked her seatbelt home, then smoothed the skirt of her blue linen dress down over her knees as he drove away. Gil shot her another glance; out of the corner of her eye she saw his mouth indent ironically.

‘Nervous?’

She stiffened. ‘What about?’

‘Identifying the guy who attacked you, of course,’ he said softly. ‘What did you think I meant?’

She ignored the last question and answered the first one, her voice husky but her chin determined. ‘I’m not looking forward to the identification parade, but I’ll go through with it. I was very scared last night; I’m angry about that. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have that happen to them because I didn’t help the police.’

They were in Marbella now; slowing at traffic lights, Gil gave her a sudden, brilliant smile. ‘Bravo! You are right—next time he might attack a young girl or an old woman, and next time the knife might be used and someone might die.’

She shivered. ‘I know. At the time I was reacting rather than thinking about what was happening... but afterwards, when I was in bed, I kept reliving the moment when he pulled the knife out and I’m only now beginning to realise just how terrified I was.’

‘I expect you’ll have panic attacks now and then for quite a while; it’s only natural. Talking about it helps; you reduce the anxiety and the shock every time you talk it out with someone.’

He’s a nice man, she thought with a pang. He’s kind and thoughtful. But I’m going home in two weeks and we’ll never meet again—and I’m too old for a holiday romance. I probably always was! I was never the type to throw myself into a brief affair, even before I married Rob. I’m far too conservative and cautious.

Scared! mocked a little voice inside her. You were always scared stiff of taking risks. You would never leap before you looked or gamble on your feelings.