woke up with a start when someone knocked sharply on the door. For a second she was totally disorientated. While she had slept, night had fallen; the room was dark, only the flash of a neon light somewhere nearby in the city to show her the furniture, the high oblong of the window.
She lay on the bed, staring blankly; then somebody knocked on the door again, louder, peremptorily.
Stumbling off the bed, she went to the door and opened it on the chain, blinking in the light from the corridor.
It was Bruno, in evening dress, looking the way he had the night she first saw him—ultra-civilised, menacingly primitive. It was a very disturbing mix, added to which, just the sight of his smooth-skinned, closely shaven face and sleek black hair, his gleaming jet eyes, his powerful body, sent a strange quiver of weakness through her. Ever since she had met him she had been both alarmed by and hostile to him, working on instincts buried inside her, too deep for her to be quite sure what it was about the man that set all her alarm bells jangling.
‘Aren’t you dressed yet? We said eight o’clock,’ Bruno reminded her, his gleaming eyes roaming slowly over her dishevelled, damp coils of auburn hair, her flushed face, the short white robe which left her long legs bare and revealed the deep cleft between her breasts.
She instinctively put up a hand to pull her robe lapels together to hide her breasts, and saw Bruno’s mouth twist in wry comprehension.
‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she stammered. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink in the bar, and I’ll only be ten minutes, I promise!’
She shut the door quickly, afraid he would notice she was trembling. Switching on the light, she leaned on the elaborately carved oak bed for a moment, to steady her nerves. What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe she had picked up some bug? The same one Charles had got? She wouldn’t be surprised. That was how she felt—ill, feverish, weak-legged, shivery.
She didn’t want to get dressed, do her hair, have dinner alone with Bruno Falcucci; she didn’t feel strong enough.
But how could she get out of it? They were here representing the bank, standing in for Charles; she couldn’t simply duck out of her responsibilities, she would be letting Charles down. She must pull herself together.
Her hands cold and shaking, she began to get ready. She had picked out her dress before she had her bath: a dark green velvet, figure-hugging, with a deep scoop neckline along which ran a Greek key pattern in gold thread, a tight waist and very short skirt which left her long legs bare. It was formal and elegant, but once she had put it on Martine had second thoughts.
She stared at herself in the mirror, biting her lip. She had forgotten just how tight the dress was, and how short the skirt! It made her feel half-naked. Charles had always liked the dress, that was why she had packed it, but wearing it for Charles was one thing—wearing it when she was going to spend an evening alone with Bruno Falcucci was something else. The very thought of it made her hair stand up on the back of her neck.
She looked at her watch, and groaned. There was no time to change, either. If only she hadn’t fallen asleep on the bed! She still had to do her hair and her face. She picked up her brush and began to work hurriedly.
When she walked into the hotel bar she saw Bruno watching her from a table on the other side of the room and an atavistic shudder ran through her.
Déjà vu, she told herself hurriedly. That was what it was, déjà vu, because this was almost a re-run of the night they’d met—and she remembered with another shudder the way their reflections had shimmered in the dark glass behind the bar. It had seemed significant then; more so now.
He’s dangerous to me, she thought. Dangerous to Charles. To the bank.
Yet there was something darker involved, something she had never quite faced.
She did so now. I’m afraid of him, she admitted, ice trickling down her spine. He terrifies me.
She thought of Charles’s pale face and tired eyes, the sadness in his heart, and she hated Bruno Falcucci. Charles was helpless against him; he didn’t have the drive or the desire to fight back if he was attacked, but Bruno wasn’t going to destroy Charles if she could stop him, so she pushed her fear away and began to walk towards him through the crowded bar.
Her auburn hair glowed like dark flame in the light of chandeliers, her oval face a classical cameo, green-shadowed eyes, elegant nose, wide, full, generous red mouth. Her slender, rounded figure swayed under the tight dark green velvet, the low neckline drawing eyes to her high, white breasts, her pale legs moving gracefully, the skirt constantly sliding up to give glimpses of her slim thighs.
The lively hum of voices, the clink of glasses, the laughter, died away and people’s heads turned to watch her, although Martine herself was completely unaware of her effect on the others in the bar because she was too absorbed in staying cool, getting herself under control.
The only watching eyes of which she was aware were Bruno’s; she didn’t meet them but she felt them fixed on her, black, brilliant, intent, and the way they watched her made a pulse beat hard in her throat.
He stood up to greet her, she slid into the deep-upholstered seat beside him, and the noise in the bar broke out again.
‘That was quite an entrance!’ Bruno drily said. ‘What will you have to drink?’
She looked at his glass and wasn’t surprised to see that it was mineral water with a twist of lime in it. ‘The same as you, thanks.’
He ordered the drink and handed her a menu. ‘I’ve already decided what I want, but take your time to choose. The food is terrific here, and as it is a special occasion I thought we might try a glass or two of an excellent Italian wine they have on their list. You do drink wine, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes, not often,’ she agreed, looking at the menu and realising suddenly that she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten on the plane because she hated unreal food, and with surprise it dawned on her that her last meal had been breakfast at the airport. ‘What a huge menu! I don’t know what half these dishes are!’ Remembering suddenly that he was a Swiss of Italian extraction, she asked him, ‘Can you recommend something?’
He shifted along the seat and leaned over her shoulder. She felt his thigh touching hers, his arm against her, smelt his cologne.
‘This is probably good at this time of year,’ he suggested, pointing. ‘Autumn is the best time for wild mushrooms, and I love them served with seafood.’
Martine read the name of the dish falteringly: funghi e frutti di mare.
‘Mushrooms and seafood?’ she asked.
‘Exactly.’ Bruno’s deep voice had a husky tone, she felt his warm breathing on her bare shoulder.
‘OK, I’ll have that,’ she hurriedly said, nervously aware of his body somehow even closer. ‘And I suppose I’ll just have pasta for the main course.’ She would have moved away then but Bruno shook his head, pointing to the menu again.
‘Don’t be so predictable!’ he softly said, very close to her ear. ‘Try the saltimbocco...’
‘What’s that?’
‘It means...hmm..."jump in the mouth"...it’s veal escalope, rolled in ham,
