Dark Fever

‘In bed,’ she said, sitting up so that he could lay the tray across her knees.

Gil’s eyes flicked over her nightdress; a delicate, pale pink, it had no sleeves, a low neckline and the soft folds of it clung to her full breasts.

She felt a surge of panic and ostentatiously inhaled the fragrance of the coffee. ‘That smells good!’

‘Hungry?’

‘A little.’ She poured herself coffee, sipped her orange juice.

He drew a chair near the bed and sat down. Was he planning to stay while she ate her breakfast? God, I hope not, she thought, spreading jam on a roll while she secretly watched him through her lowered lashes. I really can’t cope, not this morning; I don’t want to have him near me.

‘Don’t let me keep you from your work!’ she said, and Gil gave her one of his amused looks, his mouth twisting in sardonic appreciation.

‘My assistant is in charge, and you needn’t worry— I’m not intending to stay. I just wanted to see for myself how you were...’

‘Well, now you’ve seen!’

‘Yes. You’re as prickly as a cactus—which is good, I suppose. At least it’s better than finding you weeping into your pillow. You’re far too tough to collapse under pressure, though—aren’t you?’

She gave him a cross look. ‘You sound disappointed. Would you rather I was the weepy sort?’

He grimaced. ‘Certainly not! Stay just the way you are.’ He got up, leaned down and kissed her on top of her head. ‘I’d better get back to work. Stay in bed; someone will come and collect the tray later. Anything you want? Magazines? Books?’

She shook her head. ‘I have plenty to read, thanks, and I have my personal stereo and half a dozen tapes to play in it.’

‘Well, if you do need anything, just ring the hotel.’

She watched him leave, feeling stupidly regretful and at the same time relieved. She needed to be alone; she felt like a snail which had lost its shell and needed to build itself another one.

The day went faster than she had imagined it would. She dozed a good deal, read, listened to music—at one o’clock a waiter brought her a selection from the cold buffet table, chosen for her by Gil, she was told. Salad, cold rice jewelled with tiny fragments of sweetcorn, peas, red and green peppers, slices of cold, cooked chicken, large pink prawns, and a thin slice of pink salmon. He had chosen an apple mousse for a pudding. It was so light it melted in the mouth and had a delicious flavour.

Gil rang her that evening to ask what she wanted for supper and she told him she wasn’t hungry; she planned to eat a tin of soup she had, with toast, and some fresh fruit.

‘I want to get to sleep early,’ she added.

‘Good idea; rest is what you need. The police rang a couple of hours ago, by the way—they’ve charged him and he will not be given bail, so you don’t need to worry about him any more. It will be months before the case comes up in court, too. They’ll want you to make a formal statement before you go home, but there’s no hurry about that.’

She sighed. ‘OK.’

‘Goodnight, Bianca,’ he said gently, and put the phone down.

Tears stung in her eyes. She felt unbearably sad, as if watching something die.

She couldn’t bear to think about him any more—that was the truth. She didn’t want to see him, hear his voice, be reminded of him in any way. Remembering how she had felt the first time she’d seen him made her wince; she wanted to forget she had ever felt that way. It was too close to the horror of that moment in the apart

ment when she’d seen the lust in that boy’s eyes as he’d stared at her.

Oh, the way she felt about Gil was nothing like that! That boy had wanted only to hurt, to humiliate. That was not how she had felt whenever she looked at Gil. She had felt pleasure in his male beauty, had yearned to touch him, to caress him—it wasn’t the same at all. That boy had wanted to despoil, to degrade—the direct opposite of love, the other side of the coin, the dark side of desire. Nevertheless there was a subterranean connection in her mind. The two emotions seemed to her to come from the same source, from the instinctive reactions of the body. She was ashamed of having wanted Gil that way; it made her feel sick whenever that secret link was made. She kept shuddering, almost retching, at the memory, and each time alongside the memory of the boy’s vicious, gloating eyes she thought of Gil and flinched.

She was glad to put out the light and get to sleep a couple of hours later, and she slept deeply again, in spite of having been in bed all day. She woke up early, showered, and got dressed in white cotton jeans and a blue T-shirt; the clothes were chosen instinctively and it was only when she saw herself in them, in the mirror, that she realised why she had picked them—they were such cool, neutral colours and made her look businesslike, less feminine.

It was odd, the way the mind worked, she thought, grimacing at her reflection. Her choice of clothes was a disguise, a protection. There was something almost childish about that that made her laugh even though she felt more like crying. With faintly shaky fingers she brushed her damp hair and tied it up in a ponytail— pulling her hair off her face, giving herself a severe, nunlike look.

A thin young Spaniard from Room Service arrived with her breakfast a few moments later. On the tray was a note from Gil with a red rose in a thin glass vase. She flushed as she glanced at the note, aware of the waiter watching her.

‘Good morning!’ was all Gil had written but the rose was a wordless addition to the message which made her very tense.

She had to get home. She could not stay here.