Emma shook her head.
‘No, thank you.’ She moved away from him nervously, and with a careless shrug he lifted his glass and emptied it. She was aware that his eyes never left her. They moved over her insolently, intently, assessing her; and it was a disturbing experience for someone who was not used to this kind of mental assault.
As though sensing her unease he moved, his eyes drifting round the attractively appointed room. The wide couch of soft tan leather was complemented by the dull green velvet of the long curtains, while the carpet underfoot was a mixture of autumn shades.
But his eyes lingered longest on the piano, and without asking permission, he walked across to the instrument, sitting down on the matching stool and running his long brown fingers lightly over the keys.
And then she knew who he was, and the sudden realization caused her to utter a faint gasp. He was Miguel Salvaje. And that was why she had thought his face was familiar. She had seen a picture of him in The Times only a few weeks ago when his arrival in this country from Mexico had been widely reported in the press.
He looked up at her exclamation and the long black lashes veiled his eyes. ‘Well, Miss Seaton?’ he challenged softly.
Emma's lips parted involuntarily. ‘You know my name!'
He inclined his head slowly. ‘And you know mine, do you not?'
Emma nodded. ‘I'm sorry. I should have recognized you sooner.'
‘Why?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a lover of classical music, Miss Seaton?'
Emma shrugged awkwardly. ‘I like all kinds of music,’ she said. ‘I – I've never attended one of your concerts, but I do have some of your records. My – my mother was a keen pianist herself.'
‘And you?'
‘Oh, no.’ Emma shook her head. ‘Just to fifth grade. I'm afraid I'm not a very artistic person, señor.’ She frowned. ‘But how do you know my name?'
He rose from the piano stool and came towards her until they were only about a foot apart. ‘I was curious about you,’ he replied. ‘I wanted to see you again.'
Emma felt herself colouring. She couldn't help it. He was so direct. And how could she answer that?
But in fact she didn't have to. Instead, he went on: ‘Tell me! Now that we have been more or less introduced, why do you wear these clothes? Are they – how do you say it – your working clothes?'
Emma was taken aback. ‘I – I don't know what you mean.'
‘Of course you do.’ His dark eyes were disturbingly tense. ‘I do not like them. Take them off!'
Emma was horrified. ‘What did you say?'
‘I asked you to take off these – garments,’ he returned smoothly. ‘Go! Change! I will wait for you.'
Emma was astounded. ‘Señor Salvaje, I don't know what customs you have in your country, but in England one cannot simply walk into a person's house and demand that they change their clothes for your benefit,’ she declared heatedly.
Miguel half smiled. ‘No?'
‘No.’ Emma took a deep breath, conscious of a sense of breathlessness that no amount of deep breathing would assuage. ‘Look, señor, I don't know why you came here, but—'
‘I told you. I came to see you,’ he interrupted her softly.
Emma's palms moistened. ‘I – this is ridiculous! You really must excuse me, señor. I – er – Mrs. Cook will be wondering where I am – whether I'm ready for dinner—'
‘You are running away from me, Emma. Why?'
The way he said her name with its foreign inflection was a caress and Emma's heart pounded furiously. ‘Please, señor—’ she began, but he shook his head.
‘Invite me to dinner,’ he suggested. ‘I am a stranger, away from my own country. Surely you would not refuse a stranger a meal?'
Emma stared at him helplessly. Then she tugged off her overcoat. Her body was overheated already, and the atmosphere in the room was electric. ‘I would like you to go, señor,’ she said carefully. ‘I – I'm very tired.'
‘So am I,’ he remarked lazily. ‘There have been concerts every night this week. This is my first free evening.'
Emma made an impotent gesture. ‘I don't understand you.'
‘No. I would agree with you there,’ he conceded, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and pulling down his tie so that she could see the brown column of his throat. His skin was deeply tanned and for a brief moment she recalled Victor's pale flesh, sallow from too many hours spent in boardrooms, loose from lack of exercise. Miguel Salvaje did not appear to have an ounce of spare flesh on his body, and the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the dark blue silk of his shirt as he moved. Emma was self-consciously aware of noticing this, and guiltily forced her eyes away from him. In a tight little voice, she said:
‘Will you please leave, señor?'
Miguel made an impatient gesture. ‘And if I choose not to do so? What then? What will you do? Will you call the policia? Will you have me humiliated in the eyes of the public – of the press?'
Emma doubted that anyone or anything could humiliate him. Indeed, the humiliation would be all hers. Making a last desperate attempt to appeal to him, she exclaimed: ‘Are you so desperate for companionship, señor, that you would spend an evening with someone who does not want your company?'
He uttered an imprecation. ‘Yes,’ he replied harshly. ‘Yes, I need companionship. I want to relax away from my work – away from the things that bring it constantly to mind. You do not wish me to dine here with you – very well, I accept that. Then let me buy you dinner somewhere. Surely there are restaurants where we need not be formal, where no one will recognize me!'
Emma moved uncomfortably towards the door. ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, señor.'
‘Why? Why is it out of the question? I would like to spend an evening with you, and I think you would not find it so objectionable, in spite of what you say.'
Indignation flooded her at his words. Did he imagine her refusal was merely a coy attempt to increase his interest? And to suggest that she would be prepared to eat with him at some out-of-the-way restaurant so that none of his friends or associates should learn of their association was insulting. What had she done to make him think she would welcome his attentions? Did he assume that as she was a woman who on his own admission he considered to be past marriageable age she would welcome an affair with someone like himself? How dared he? The audacity of it all!
Her breasts rose and fell with the tumult of her emotions, and she found it difficult to articulate clearly. ‘I – I can assure you, señor, that I am not desperate for company. And if my fiancé were here you would not dare to speak to me in this way—'
‘Fiancé?’ His thin face was sardonic. ‘You have a fiancé, señorita?’ He shrugged. ‘A novio? I am not interested in your novio.'
Emma
