Dark Fever Read online

  ‘I’d love to,’ Bianca said, sitting down opposite her. She looked round to wave at the waiter. He had already noticed her change of place, and came over at once with her wine. ‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling at him, and he gave her a polite, grave bow.

  ‘Will you have some of this?’ Bianca asked Freddie who shook her head, smiling.

  ‘I had a glass with my lunch, thank you; that’s more than enough for me. I get a headache if I drink much wine in the middle of the day.’ She gestured at Bianca’s plate. ‘Do eat your lunch. Ah, here comes my coffee.’

  Bianca began to eat her poached salmon, which was dressed with hollandaise sauce, beautifully made, smooth and cool with a light lemon flavour. It was the perfect accompaniment to the fresh, crisp salad to which she had added a spoon of home-made vinaigrette at the buffet table.

  Freddie sipped her coffee and sighed. ‘Ah, I do love good coffee, and they know how to make it here! That’s Gil, of course—he insists on his kitchens turning out good coffee as well as the best possible food.’

  ‘Has he always worked in hotels?’

  Freddie looked up and grinned at her. ‘His family have been in the hotel business for generations; he trained in some of the best hotels in Europe. It came naturally to him, the business. He is like all hoteliers—a fanatic about detail. They have to be. Nothing escapes Gil’s eye; he notices everything. He had a hotel in Madrid when he met my sister but he sold it after their divorce, bought this place and moved down here.’

  ‘He owns this hotel?’

  Nodding, Freddie said, ‘He wanted a change of scene. He’s not a man who likes to fail, and the failure of their marriage depressed him for a long time. For the first couple of years he was very angry, but I’m glad to find he is over that now. He has realised that Mady was the wrong woman for him—and he was the wrong man for her. Their divorce was inevitable, and you can’t fight inevitability.’

  ‘Is she happy with her second husband?’ asked Bianca, remembering what Gil had told her about the German millionaire his ex-wife had chosen.

  ‘Oh, idyllic’ Freddie met her incredulous eyes and gave her a dry, amused smile. ‘Yes, I am serious! Gil has told you about them? Look, I love Gil, Karl and I are most fond of him, but he is bitter about Mady now. She hurt him, he is over it now, but it has left him cynical about her; he is hard towards her. OK, you can understand it—he is a man, very much a man, and Mady behaved badly to him—but still, do not believe everything he says about my sister.’

  ‘I imagine divorce does warp the way someone feels about their ex-partner,’ Bianca murmured, pushing away her plate as she tired of her salad. She felt curiously depressed herself. When Gil had talked about his ex-wife he had not sounded as if his heart was broken, but what Freddie had said made sense. Mady had hurt him when she’d left him. Maybe under the cynicism he still loved her? He must have done once or he would never have married her in the first place, and love didn’t die just because someone walked out on you. Or died, she thought, suppressing a sigh.

  Gil Marquez did not give her the impression of being the sort of man who recovered easily or quickly from a wound like that, any more than she had. She, of all people, knew what it felt like—she still missed Rob every day. His absence from her life was like a hole in the heart. Was that how it was for Gil?

  ‘Mady was wise to get out of a marriage that had been a mistake,’ said Freddie flatly. ‘Gil believes she left him because she wanted a richer man, but it is not true. Oh, Gustav is very, very rich, but that is not why Mady needed him. Gustav is old enough to be her father—that is true too—she is thirty, Gustav is sixty-five and already has two sons who are older than Mady. It is easy to see why Gil is cynical about what happened, but he does not see them together. Gustav makes her happy; he takes care of her, looks after her.’

  Frowning, Bianca said, ‘I’d have said Gil was the sort of man to do that too.’

  Freddie shrugged, spread her hands and leaned towards Bianca. ‘In some ways, that’s true, but...Mady was the last child my parents had, you see. They adored her, and they spoiled her—we all did—and in some ways she is still a little girl. Mady is not very bright, not strong-minded—oh, she is not mentally retarded, but she is childish, to be honest. Spoilt and childish, but she can be very sweet, and she is beautiful. She made a big mistake marrying Gil. They got married too quickly, before they knew each other. They both soon realised it was not working, but Gil probably wouldn’t have given up so soon; he is the sort of man who hates to admit a mistake; he would have gone on trying to change her, make her into the sort of wife he wanted and needed. He never asked himself what Mady wanted and needed. Gil scared her, made her feel inadequate; she got more and more unhappy.’

  ‘You’re making Gil sound very unlikeable,’ Bianca commented slowly, frowning.

  ‘No, no, I’m very fond of Gil—it wasn’t his fault any more than it was Mady’s. It was just a mistake for both of them. Luckily Mady met Gustav and ran away with him, and ever since she has been happy.’

  ‘Is he?’ asked Bianca drily. It sounded such an odd marriage—a spoilt young woman and a man old enough to be her father!

  ‘Gustav? Very happy; he’s proud of having a beautiful young wife, and he enjoys taking care of her, spoiling her. He never had a daughter, only two sons—I think Mady is the daughter he never had, and far more than that. He really loves her.’

  ‘Didn’t Gil?’

  Bianca felt almost angry on Gil’s behalf—Freddie had just said that Gil had been hurt, so he must have loved his wife, and it must have been humiliating to lose a wife to a man old enough to be her father. People had probably laughed at Gil behind his back—they wouldn’t dare laugh at him face to face. He must have been very angry for a long time; she had picked up the echoes of that anger when he’d spoken to her about his wife and her new husband.

  Freddie gave her a searching glance as if guessing that Gil must have talked about her sister. ‘Yes, of course he thought he did,’ she said defensively. ‘But I don’t think he ever really knew her. The Mady he fell in love with didn’t exist. You see, Mady is beautiful and she has style, she knows how to dress, she looks sophisticated and worldly-wise, but she isn’t. He thought what he saw was what Mady was like, but he didn’t know enough about her, and he never really understood her. You see, she has the mind and heart of a child, a very vain child; she spends a lot of time in front of her mirror, she loves clothes and jewellery, anything that makes her look even prettier, but she is never spiteful or mean; she has a sweet nature, she is kind, and loving to anyone who is loving to her. It is just that you cannot expect her to be an adult; you can never lean on Mady or rely on her.’

  ‘You can’t blame Gil for feeling cheated,’ protested Bianca. ‘Didn’t he only want what most men want from a wife? It was certainly what Rob... what my husband expected from me—a partner to share life with, have children with...’

  ‘I know,’ said Freddie, smiling with faint sadness. ‘I know it’s what Karl expects. But then I am not my sister. Mady can’t help being the way she is—there is something missing in poor little Mady; she is stuck at about twelve years old. Lucky for her that she finally met the perfect man for her: Gustav adores her.’

  ‘And what do his sons think of her?’

  ‘They love her too. Oh, if she tried to take their mother’s place they might have resented her, but Mady never could, never thought of trying. They can see that she’s genuinely sweet and rather helpless. They’re pleased that their father has someone in his life, someone to look after. Gustav is the sort of man who likes to take care of people.’

  ‘Are his sons married?’

  Freddie gave her a dry look. ‘You’re so sharp! No, neither of them is married yet. If they were, it might be another story.’

  ‘I expect it would be, if Gustav is very rich,’ said Bianca. ‘If his sons had wives and children of their own, I imagine they would be afraid that your sister might have children. Then Gustav would probably leave
some of his money to his new family. Money is what families usually quarrel about.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ agreed Freddie, laughing. ‘You are good about human nature, aren’t you? But I don’t think Mady will ever have a baby. I know she doesn’t want one. Oh, she likes children, but she is too much a child herself; she couldn’t take the responsibility of having a baby.’

  The more she heard about Mady, the more Bianca sympathised with Gil; his marriage must have been a disaster. She could not imagine him being happy with a wife like that.

  After lunch she and Freddie walked back through the gardens together and parted outside Bianca’s apartment. She was glad to notice a security man in a blue uniform walking past them on the path; it made her feel safer.

  She closed her shutters, took off her dress and, wearing only her bra and panties and a thin silk slip, lay down on her bed in the shadowy half-light. Outside birds called in the trees; there was the far-off sound of the sea, and children’s voices as they played on the beach. Bianca lay still, listening, trying not to think; she had barely slept last night and was mentally and emotionally exhausted; sleep crept up on her within minutes.

  She called in at the reception desk later that afternoon and booked herself on a coach trip to Granada and the Alhambra Palace the following day, then she walked over to the hotel shop and bought a range of food—salad, eggs, cheese, fruit, bread, coffee and tea, breakfast cereal, orange juice and marmalade. She carried two heavy shopping bags back to her apartment and put all her purchases away, reflecting that she had no need to eat in the hotel dining-room for some days now. She could have light meals in her own apartment and keep out of Gil’s way. She hadn’t wanted to cook while she was here on holiday, but preparing a salad was no problem.

  That evening she ate a boiled egg with toast followed by some fruit, and went to bed early. In spite of having had a siesta that afternoon she slept well; she must have been even more tired than she realised.

  She woke very early, though, and showered, dressed in a full, flared dark green cotton skirt and a very pale green T-shirt, put sandals on her bare feet, brushed her hair and put on a light make-up, then ate breakfast on her balcony in a pale primrose light. The early morning was cool, the birds calling as they flew from tree to tree across the hotel grounds, the black shadows of cypress and cedar diminishing as the sun rose higher, the blue sea veiled in a haze of mist. A few people came out to swim in the pool below her apartment and she watched them dreamily, deciding she would get up early tomorrow morning and swim there herself.

  At eight-thirty she was on a coach en route to Granada through the Sierra Nevada, the mountains rising behind the coastal strip of the Costa del Sol. The road through the dramatic, rough grey slopes of the bare mountains was tortuous, winding, often badly maintained. Bianca’s heart was in her mouth as they climbed higher and higher, sometimes so close to the edge that she found herself looking down into steep, plunging valleys, the coach turning a bend so sharp that the end of it would stick out over the edge. Several times she just shut her eyes, tensely twisting her fingers together, and prayed.

  The Alhambra stood on a mountain overlooking the city of Granada. It was an enormous complex set in magnificent gardens known as the Generalife.

  Both fortress and palace, a place of power and strength, but of beauty too, the Alhambra was the home of the Nasrid royal family, Islamic kings who fought the Spanish Christians throughout the thirteenth century. The Moorish palace was a maze of courtyards and rooms, austerely sensuous, rich with mosaic arches and walls—geometric designs where every single shape had a symbolic meaning... this wavy line water, that triangle a tree... their colours often as bright as day because the tiny stones set in the mosaic had not faded with time—they were pin-sharp. Stone fountains in the courtyards filled the air with the sound of water, flowers in the gardens scented the morning, great stone columns and windows filtered misty light into the shadowy rooms where once beautiful women had lain on silken cushions, bathed together, sung, or men fiercely argued for peace or war, or haggled over trade. They were all silent now, and empty, those great echoing rooms, except when the tide of tourists washed through them during daylight hours.

  Bianca wandered dreamily after the coach party, half listening to their guide, her eyes and ears intent on the beauty of everything she saw and heard, both in the palace and in the gardens, with their spring flowers and scented roses and the great black shadows of the cedars and cypress trees.

  She was one of the first to emerge through the gates and walk down towards the hotel coach.

  As she wandered over the broken cobbles she heard a motorbike engine idling, and started. She looked around the crowded car park and saw the bike at once— two men sat on it, both in black leather, both wearing helmets with black glass in the visor, which hid then-faces. She couldn’t see their eyes, yet she was certain they were staring at her.

  Bianca stopped dead, her nerves jumping. She knew that the men who had attacked her were safely locked up, back in Marbella, many miles away—it couldn’t be the same men.

  All the same, she couldn’t move; she was paralysed for a minute, her blood beating in her ear. As she stared, the rider kick-started the motorbike and it roared into life and shot forward, straight for her.

  Bianca turned to run back up the hill towards the Alhambra, and met a group of her fellow passengers from the coach coming downwards. They stared at her, exclaiming.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked a middle-aged man she had seen get on the coach at the hotel.

  ‘She’s as white as a ghost,’ his wife said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘Aren’t you well, dear?’

  The motorbike swerved away and the male passenger stared after it, then looked at Bianca. ‘Was it them? Did they try to grab your bag? That happened the other night, you know; one of our people from the hotel was mugged in Marbella. That’s their technique... they ride around town on motorbikes and snatch handbags from tourists.’

  Bianca mumbled something. ‘I thought they might... Stupid of me, but I was nervous.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ said the Scottish woman. ‘You never know, do you, these days? You’re not safe anywhere.’

  Bianca shivered.

  ‘You’re scaring the life out of her!’ scolded the man. ‘Come along, my dear; get into the coach; you need to sit down quietly for a while.’

  She gratefully sank into the front seat on the coach. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, waiting for the coach to drive back down the mountain to Granada itself.

  Of course it had not been the same two men on the motorbike; it was just a coincidence. All the same, the shock still reverberated through her.

  The coach finally set off and bumped down winding, traffic-filled roads until it reached the city, where everyone climbed out again to filter into a large Spanish restaurant with traditional wood flooring and heavy oak furniture.

  People immediately rushed off to use the lavatories; Bianca had been first off the coach and was therefore first in the queue. The tour of the Alhambra had been tiring; her skin was damp with perspiration after all that walking and then the shock of seeing the men on the motorbike. As well as wanting to use the lavatory she was dying to wash her hands and face.

  The ladies’ powder-room was not simply clean and modern, it was beautifully decorated, with blue and yellow traditional Spanish designs on white tiles, yellow basins and dark wood everywhere.

  She washed her hands and face, sighing with pleasure at the splash of cold water on her hot, dusty skin. She combed her hair, put on a little lipstick, a film of foundation, dusted powder over her skin, then went back into the restaurant, stopping in her tracks in disbelief as she saw Gil.

  She almost thought she was seeing things for a minute; that she had conjured him up; he was a figment of her imagination.

  But if she had imagined him would she have dressed him in a smooth dark suit of formal cut and design, with a stiff white shirt and pale grey tie?

  That
was what he was wearing, anyway—and he was really there; he wasn’t a dream. He was sitting at a table, talking to the guide who had shown them round the Alhambra.

  He saw her a second later; he smiled and she felt her heart pause in its beating. Involuntarily she smiled back, then was frightened by the depth of her pleasure at seeing him. This was madness; she had only known the man a couple of days. Why was she so happy suddenly that she could almost burst into song like a bird?

  Oh, grow up! she told herself angrily.

  Gil got up and walked away from the guide towards her; she moved towards him as if pulled on a rope, helpless to fight that tug of inevitability. They met in the middle of the large restaurant and she felt as if they were alone in an empty landscape. The other people around them, the room itself, dissolved, and there was only her and Gil. Nothing else existed.

  Looking down at her, he said, ‘I thought you agreed that you wouldn’t leave the hotel grounds for the next day or two?’

  The accusing tone made her stiffen resentfully. ‘I am on holiday! I wanted to see something of this part of Spain, and I thought I’d be safe enough on a coach trip so long as I made sure I was never left alone. This time I kept with everyone else wherever we went.’

  ‘At least you’ve had that much sense!’ he muttered, frowning darkly.

  ‘Well, the police have got those two men locked up; I’m in no danger, am I?’ Bianca said. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? You didn’t follow just because you found out I had come on this coach trip?’

  His face was tense, sombre. ‘No. I came because the police rang me to say that they have had to release the two muggers.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bianca’s face paled. ‘I knew it! I thought I was imagining things, but all the time my unconscious was right—it was him!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Gil stared at her, frowning.

  Huskily she told him. ‘While we were coming out of the Alhambra, I saw two men on a motorbike sitting watching the gates. I was walking on my own, in front of the others, and the bike suddenly started and drove straight at me. It was deliberate—and it was them! I knew it was, the minute I saw them; I panicked—I turned round and ran back towards the rest of the coach party, who weren’t far behind me, and then they swerved away and drove off.’