Dark Fever Read online

  She hurriedly turned away, afraid that he could read her thoughts, her feelings—the very last thing she wanted him to do. She had to hide her reactions from him; he must not guess how he was making her feel. None of this was real; it wouldn’t last; it was some sort of hormonal thing, she decided. Neither her heart nor her mind was involved—this was just her body acting up, a chemical reaction which would pass if she ignored it.

  ‘Your first name is Bianca, isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘A lovely name—it suits you; you look like Snow White, with your black hair and blue eyes and that lovely skin. Bianca is an Italian name, isn’t it? Have you got any Italian blood?’

  She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the busy traffic through which they drove.

  ‘My name is Marquez,’ he said. ‘Gil Marquez. The rest of my name is far too long to remember. I won’t bother you with it; just call me Gil. I was the last child and first son my mother had—before I was born she had three girls. She was forty when I was born. The doctors said she shouldn’t have any more children, so my father gave me all his favourite names—six of them!’

  ‘Six first names?’ she repeated, startled.

  He grinned at her. ‘He was an extremist—I’m afraid I take after him. He named me after three of his favourite saints, and added the names of his two brothers—Gil was his father’s name, so that came first, and that is the one I use.’

  ‘He sounds wonderful,’ she said, wondering what he meant by saying that he was an extremist, like his father. He certainly had the bone-structure of one—fierce, sharp, insistent planes, piercing eyes, a strong mouth and an arrogant jawline. She could imagine him in armour, in medieval times, fighting with ruthless implacability. He was an all-or-nothing man, not someone comfortable and easygoing.

  Nothing like Rob, she thought, and guilt stabbed inside her again. Why did she keep comparing him with Rob?

  They were chalk and cheese, physically and mentally, such totally different men that it was ridiculous to compare them. Ridiculous, and shameful. Rob was her own dear love; she would never love like that again. She never wanted to! What she was feeling about Gil Marquez was a spring madness, infatuation, crazy, unreal. She wished to heaven she had never stood on her balcony and seen him climb out of the water, his body flittering gold in the sunlight.

  Maybe the sunlight and the foreign nature of this place had something to do with her inexplicable reactions to Gil Marquez, these turbulent feelings? She was away from everything familiar, everything safe. She was alone, for the first time in years, without her family—a woman without responsibilities, without boundaries, out of touch with reality for a while, free. Had that freedom gone to her head?

  ‘He was,’ Gil said, and she looked at him again blankly, at first not realising what he was talking about. Then she remembered that he had been talking about his father, and the past tense registered.

  ‘He’s dead?’ she said with sympathy.

  He nodded, his face unsmiling now, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and a frown carving itself into his forehead. ‘A year ago. He was eighty-five, he had had a good life, but it was a shock to all of us.’

  ‘Death always is,’ she said with sympathy, watching his sculptured profile, and he turned to give her a searching glance.

  ‘I noticed on your registration card that you were a widow. How long has your husband been dead?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Three?’ A pause, then he asked, ‘How long were you married to him?’

  ‘Twenty years.’ A lifetime, she thought—the time she was with Rob felt like her whole life; she found it hard to remember the time before they married.

  ‘And you were happy together.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, flat and unaccented.

  ‘Yes.’

  Another pause, then he said, ‘You haven’t remarried—haven’t you met anyone else, or—?’

  She stiffened, resenting the curiosity, and interrupted sharply, ‘I have two children and a business to run. My life is quite busy enough.’

  His grey eyes flickered mockingly over her. ‘What a waste!’

  She felt hot colour sting her face. ‘I don’t like discussing my private life with a complete stranger, Senor Marquez!’

  ‘How very English,’ he murmured, his mouth flicking up at the edges.

  ‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘Very English.’

  ‘Is that a warning?’

  She shrugged and didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said drily. They were approaching the hotel complex, she was very relieved to see. He was forced to give all his attention to slowing down in order to make the right-hand turn into the grounds. They were very pretty at night, coloured fairy-lights in the trees facing the road, glowing globes of lamps standing on all the paths between the trees and beside the apartment blocks.

  As they drew up outside the hotel they heard music from inside. The hotel was also brilliantly lit; through the plate-glass windows they saw a crowd of people in the piano bar, drinking at tables or dancing on the polished wood floor, or standing around the white piano listening to the man playing it.

  Gil Marquez turned to face her, one arm draped over the steering-wheel, his lean body gracefully lounging against the seat, one knee brushing hers, making her even more aware of him.

  ‘It takes a while for shock to wear off, Mrs Fraser; our resident nurse should take a look at you before you go off to bed.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, sliding out of the car.

  It was unfortunate that her foot skidded under her on the damp surface of the stone path—an automatic water spray was whirling among the flowerbeds near by, and some of the drops of water had fallen on the path, making it very slippery; she had to grab for the car to stay upright.

  She heard Gil mutter in deep, angry Spanish, then he was out of the car and beside her, his arm going round her waist, his fingers just below her breast; she felt her body quiver in primitive arousal.

  Drowning in sensation she thought, He mustn’t notice; he mustn’t realise what’s happening to me. Her knees had gone again; she could barely stand up, she was trembling so much, and she had to yield to his support, her body leaning on him.

  He bent to look at her. ‘Are you going to faint? Don’t argue again—you’re going to see our nurse, whatever you say. Can you walk?’

  ‘Of course I can!’ she protested. She pushed his hand down and moved away from him to take the steps up to the hotel. They were marble and as slippery as the path; she had to move carefully.

  Gil watched her for a few seconds, then said something in fierce Spanish under his breath. She didn’t know what he had said, but it made her nerves jump; his voice sounded like the crack of a whip.

  He came up behind her, his arm going round her waist again, lifting her off her feet, apparently without effort. His other arm went under her legs and she found herself being carried against his chest; her head swam, and she let it fall against his arm, shutting her eyes, afraid to look at him for fear of what he might read in her face. She heard the curious buzz of voices in the hotel foyer, though, and felt her face burning. People would be staring. What on earth would they be thinking?

  Someone spoke to Gil in Spanish and he answered without pausing in his stride across the foyer. A moment later she heard a door slide shut and then she knew they were in a lift which was rising smoothly.

  Where was he taking her?

  The lift stopped, he walked out, and Bianca lifted her lids enough to see that they were in a hotel corridor, deeply carpeted, calm, silent. He wasn’t taking her to his room, was he? Alarm bells rang inside her.

  She opened her eyes fully and said huskily, ‘Please put me down, Senor Marquez. I’m OK now—I want to go to my own apartment, please.’

  He had paused in front of a door. He looked at her, his mouth twisting. ‘No need to get agitated, Mrs Fraser. This is only the surgery. I haven’t brought you up to my room to make a pass at you.’

  She went br
ight pink. ‘I didn’t think you had!’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did; that’s why you’re having palpitations and trembling like a leaf!’ he drawled.

  Bianca wished the floor would open up and swallow her. Instead, the door opened and she hurriedly looked at the woman standing there—a small, thin, dark woman in a nurse’s uniform with a neat white cap. Behind her Bianca saw a sparcely furnished room with white walls, Venetian blinds on the windows, the usual paraphernalia of a doctor’s surgery—a desk, chairs, a tall screen on wheels, a high trolley with leather padding for a patient to lie down on.

  The nurse smiled politely, spoke in Spanish to Gil and he answered in English, so that Bianca could understand him, which she thought was very thoughtful of him.

  ‘This is Mrs Fraser, Nurse Santos—she is staying in one of our apartment blocks. She was attacked in the street by a mugger—she doesn’t seem to be hurt, but I think she is in shock. Will you look after her while I go and ring the police?’

  ‘Si, of course, senor.’ Nurse Santos took Bianca’s arm firmly. ‘Please... come in, Mrs Fraser. How you feel?’

  Gil vanished, closing the door behind him. Nurse Santos sat Bianca down on a chair and asked her a few questions, examined her, took her pulse and temperature, her blood-pressure, then smiled.

  ‘OK, no problem, Mrs Fraser.’ She had a much stronger Spanish accent than Gil Marquez. ‘Heartbeat a bit fast, not serious. You need sleep, to be quiet, quite OK in morning.’

  There was a tap on the door and the nurse called out in Spanish. The door opened and Gil glanced in, raising his brows. Nurse Santos said something else in Spanish and he nodded. ‘Well, that’s good.’ He looked at Bianca. ‘Nurse Santos doesn’t think you’re going to die just yet.’

  ‘I know, she told me,’ she said, very aware of him and trying to hide it. She turned to smile at the nurse. ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’

  ‘Not at all, my pleasure.’

  Bianca stood up. ‘Well, I’ll follow your instructions and go back to my apartment and get some sleep. Goodnight, Nurse Santos.’

  She walked out of the door and Gil came after her. ‘I’m afraid you can’t just yet.’

  She stopped and faced him, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The police have asked to talk to you tonight—don’t worry, they’re coming here to interview you. I told them you were in a state of shock and they won’t talk to you for long, but you must see them tonight. They have a pair of suspects picked up after another attempted mugging. This time they knocked the man out; he’s still unconscious so your evidence could be very helpful to them at this stage. You can talk to them in my office. It’s on this floor, at the far end of the corridor. Not far to walk!’

  She couldn’t refuse. Reluctantly she followed him to a door which bore a brass plate with the word ‘manager’ on it. Gil ushered her inside and followed, closing the door.

  She paused to look around, taking in the large, leather-topped mahogany desk, with its bank of telephones, a pile of papers on a leather-framed blotter, a silver-framed photograph and behind the desk a leather swivel chair.

  ‘This is where you work?’

  He nodded. ‘Would you like something to drink while we wait for the police?’ He gestured to a modern cream-covered couch on one side of the room. ‘We’ll be more comfortable over there.’

  She didn’t like the sound of that, but he took her elbow and steered her to it.

  ‘Would you like a brandy? It might calm you down.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’d much rather have some orange juice—if you have any.’

  He nodded and opened a cabinet on the wall, which held a mini bar; he got out glasses and poured her chilled orange juice, poured himself some whisky and added a dash of soda. ‘Ice?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘No, thank you; it waters the juice down.’

  He carried the glasses over and sat down beside her, handing her the juice.

  She sipped, anxiously watching out of the corner of her eye as he swallowed a mouthful of whisky. He was sitting far too close; his knee was touching hers. She could hear the clock ticking on the wall, hear the intake of her own fast breathing.

  She felt his eyes wandering over her and her alarmed glance shot to him and away again. She tried to think of something to say but her mind had frozen; her body was entirely in control of her.

  Any minute he was going to touch her. She knew it. She wanted it, which was worse. But she was terrified.

  When someone knocked on the door she almost jumped out of her skin. Her orange juice shot over the rim of her glass and fell on her skirt. She frantically rubbed at it, trembling.

  ‘My God, your nerves are shot to hell, aren’t they?’ Gil Marquez said, staring, then he called out something in Spanish and the door opened.

  Two Spanish policemen stood there. Gil got up and put down his glass, went over to shake hands with them, speaking to them in deep, grave Spanish. Bianca struggled to pull herself together, grateful for the fact that he stood between her and the policemen.

  By the time she had to face them she was more or less in control of herself again and was able to answer their questions calmly enough.

  They did not stay long. Clearly, her replies were disappointing to them; they had hoped she could give them a good description of the faces of the two men, but she had never seen their faces, and could only guess at their height and weight, and describe the bike they had been riding.

  After asking her to go down to the police station next morning to attend an identity parade, they left, and she immediately told Gil that she wanted to go back to her apartment.

  He didn’t argue this time; he walked her to the lift and took her down to the ground floor. As they went out of the exit into the garden they walked past the blonde German woman Bianca had met in the bar that evening. Freddie didn’t notice Bianca, but she did do a double-take as she spotted Gil Marquez.

  ‘Gil! There you are! We had just given you up. What happened to you? You were supposed to be having a drink with us. Did you forget?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ he said, kissing her lightly on both cheeks several times, French style, ‘Something urgent delayed me.’

  ‘Fine sort of brother-in-law you are!’ Freddie teased him. ‘Well, come on, let’s go into the bar now and have a nightcap, then I’m off to bed.’

  Bianca kept on walking, feeling faintly sick. Brother-in-law, Freddie had said. He was her brother-in-law. He couldn’t be Karl’s brother—Karl was German, and his surname was Schwartz. Gil was Spanish and his surname was Marquez. That could only mean he was married to either Freddie’s or Karl’s sister.

  He was married, that was the important fact. He was not free.

  ‘Bianca, wait!’ he called from behind her, but she didn’t look back, she merely walked faster, almost running.

  A couple of minutes later she was safely in her apartment and locked the door, leaning on it in the darkness, groaning.

  He was a married man. She put her hands over her darkly flushed face, humiliated and ashamed. If I’d known...

  Well, thank God he doesn’t know how I have felt ever since I first set eyes on him. And I’ll make sure he never does know, either...

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bianca found it hard to sleep that night; her mind was obsessed with images, contradictory and disturbing, filled with fear. However hard she tried she couldn’t banish memories of Gil Marquez climbing up from the pool outside her apartment, his golden skin dripping with water, his black hair slicked back on his seal-like head. She turned over and tried to think of something else; her mind simply conjured up another, darker memory— the dark street, the sound of the motorbike, the black-clad figure, the steel flash of the knife...

  She sat up and switched on the light, sipped some water, rubbed her scalp vigorously with both hands as if trying to erase the memory of those moments, then clicked off the light again and lay down.

  At once Gil’s face filled her mind—the har
d jawline, the powerful features, the direct, assured grey eyes.

  ‘Oh, go away!’ she said aloud angrily, and she finally fell asleep in the early hours.

  If she had dreams she didn’t remember them when she woke up next morning. Through the closed shutters sunlight carved bars of gold across her room and she heard the splashing of someone in the pool outside, children’s voices, the high morning calling of birds among the trees. She lay in bed staring at the wall, at the shifting shadows of branches cast there by the golden light, and felt as weary as if she hadn’t slept at all.

  Turning her head, she looked at the clock and was horrified to see that it was nearly ten. She hadn’t got up this late for so long that she couldn’t even remember the last time. There was always too much to do at home-six days a week she had to get up to open the shop, and on Sundays she had to get up early to clean the house from top to bottom and do her personal washing. Her life was too crowded for her to have time for the luxury of sleeping late.

  She could hear the hotel maids cleaning in the apartments above her: the drone of their vacuum cleaner, their voices, the slam of doors as they went in and out. They would want to clean her apartment next; she had to get up.

  She groaned and slid out of bed, went into the bathroom. She felt better when she had showered; she put on her swimsuit and over that a short yellow cotton tunic. She decided to skip breakfast and have a coffee down on the beach; there was a bar down there which served a continental breakfast of croissant, orange juice and coffee. Bare-legged and wearing white sandals, she walked down through the hotel grounds, under tropical palms and exotic trees, to the beach, and found it half-full already.

  Under striped blue and white umbrellas the matching loungers were laid out in rows. The young boy who was looking after the beach showed her to a place right at the front, near the sea, and put up an umbrella for her, adjusting the position to give her the right amount of shade over her mattress. Bianca asked him to bring her breakfast, tipped him, took off her tunic, folded it neatly, spread her towel over the striped cover of the mattress and sat down on top of it to smooth suntan lotion into her skin while she waited.