One afternoon when they were lying in each other’s arms, exhausted by their passion, Paul said, ‘You won’t mind if I go out for a little while, will you, darling? I have a few things I must attend to.’
‘Not if you promise to hurry back,’ Emma replied, brushing her lips against his chest.
‘Nothing could keep me away from you for longer than an hour. I’ll be back by four,’ he said, kissing the strands of her hair. He released his hold of her and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later freshly shaven, his black hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around his waist. From her position on the bed Emma observed him stealthily like a cat, her intent green gaze riveted on him, and she discovered she derived enormous pleasure from watching him occupied in so simple a task as dressing. He picked up his shirt from the chair and the muscles on his wide back rippled and she had to suppress the impulse to run to him and enfold him in her arms. She thought: He has become my whole world.
He buckled the Sam Browne belt on over his army jacket and strode over to the bed. He bent down and kissed her and her arms went around his neck. He removed her arms gently after a moment. ‘I have to go, sweetheart.’
‘And I wonder just where you are going,’ Emma said, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. ‘Shaved and groomed and scented to high heaven. Why, Major McGill, if you have a rendezvous with another woman I’ll scratch your eyes out. I swear I will! And hers, too!’
He grinned and touched the tip of her nose playfully. ‘O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!’
‘Waxing poetic, Major?’ she teased.
‘Stolen from Shakespeare, I must confess. Henry VI.’ Paul kissed her fingertips, his hand tightening, his eyes penetrating. ‘And if you ever so much as look at another man I will kill you.’ He stood up. ‘Be a good girl. I won’t be long.’
After he had left, Emma busied herself with telephone calls to her secretary at the store and to her housekeeper, anxious to reassure herself that all was well in Yorkshire during her absence. Relieved that everything was still under control since yesterday’s calls, she then spoke to Frank at the Chronicle.
‘Good Lord! No wonder it’s snowing!’ Frank exclaimed on hearing her voice. ‘So he’s let you out of his clutches long enough for you to ring me.’ He laughed. ‘I’m only joking. I’m happy for you, Emma.’
‘Oh, Frank, I’m happy, too. So very happy I can’t believe it. And you’re wrong for once. I’m the one who’s let Paul out of my clutches for an hour.’
‘Mmmmm! I see! Well, I must say, he’s apparently very good for you. I’ve never heard you sound better. But why didn’t you tell me who he actually is?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That he is the only son, the only child, of the Bruce McGill. A millionaire and one of the most powerful men in Australia. I suppose you know Paul stands to inherit a fortune. A vast sheep ranch. Mineral rights and mining. Coal fields, and God knows what else.’
‘He’s mentioned the family’s various business interests, of course. But how do you know so much all of a sudden?’
‘I was with Dolly Mosten the other day and she was telling me a few things about Paul—’
‘What else did she tell you?’ Emma asked suspiciously, her heart sinking.
‘Nothing. That was all. She simply remarked that the McGill family was extremely rich and powerful. What’s wrong? You sound edgy.’
‘No, I don’t.’ She laughed. ‘How are you, Frank? Are you all right, dear?’ she inquired, quickly changing the subject.
‘Yes, everything is fine. But I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time, Emma. I can’t really talk right now. I have to go into an editorial conference. Can you call me tomorrow so we can chat longer, love?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Take care now. Give my best to Paul. Bye.’
‘Goodbye, Frank.’
Emma put the telephone down and stared at it, her face brooding, her thoughts weaving a tortuous web in her head as she contemplated the McGill family, or, more precisely, the mysterious Mrs Paul McGill. The wife he had never referred to again and about whom she had not dared to question him; had not wanted to know about. But now Emma was unexpectedly eaten up with curiosity. What did she look like? Was she beautiful? How old was she? Why had the marriage gone awry? Did they have children? Was that the reason Paul had never divorced, in spite of his long separation? Emma closed her eyes, crushing the questions flaring in her mind. She would not open Pandora’s box. He would tell her everything eventually, she was certain of that, and she did not want anything to mar the time they had left together. This very precious time.
She looked at the clock on the mantelshelf and to her surprise she realized Paul had been absent for over two hours. It was already five-thirty. For no logical reason she was seized by panic. This feeling was irrational, but none the less, her nervousness increased, and she had the sudden premonition that Paul would be leaving her imminently. He had carefully refrained from mentioning the date of his departure, but she was aware that two weeks had flown by. In Yorkshire he had told her time was running out. Has it now done so? she asked herself, dismay trickling through her.
To still her disquieting thoughts, Emma hurried into the bathroom and preoccupied herself with her toilet. She took a hot bath, towelled herself dry, sprayed her body with perfume, and went into the bedroom. She put on a long powder-blue panne velvet housecoat she had designed herself and which Paul admired on her. It was in the French Empire style with a high waist, tight bodice, long sleeves, and frogging from the low square neckline to the hem, and it gave her the air of an ingénue. She brushed her long hair and left it hanging loose the way he preferred it, and after she had added a little lip rouge and the emerald earrings she drifted through into the sitting room to wait. By seven o’clock agitation swamped her, and the panic began to disintegrate into real fear. Where was he? Had he had an accident? She clenched her hands in her lap, every muscle tense. And then instinctively she knew. Paul was at the War Office receiving his orders. He was leaving. She was positive this was so. The war! Forgotten for days whilst they had lived blindly in their ecstasy. He might be killed … he might never come back … She pressed her hands to her aching eyes.
‘Here I am, my sweet,’ he said, coming through the door that linked his suite to hers.
Emma dropped her hands, jumped up, and ran to him, her face taut. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’ she gasped, grabbing the lapels of his trench coat.
‘Nothing is going to happen to me,’ he reassured her. ‘I have a guardian angel. And anyway, my time’s not up yet. There are all those years earmarked for me. Years to be spent with you. You haven’t forgotten that you are my destiny, have you? It hasn’t been fulfilled, yet, my love.’
Her heart began to beat more normally. She looked up at him, smiled, and pulled away. ‘Your coat is wet through,’ she said. ‘You’d better take your clothes off before you catch your death.’
His eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter. ‘That’s the best proposition I’ve had in the last four hours, madame.’ He winked suggestively.
‘Oh, you know what I mean, you wretch!’
‘I hope I do,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ve already ordered dinner for nine o’clock, and there’s a bottle of champagne cooling in my suite. Excuse me, angel, I’ll be right back,’ he called over his shoulder.
When Paul returned he had changed into civilian clothes. He wore a white silk shirt, a pair of black worsted trousers, and a silk smoking jacket striped in burgundy and black. He looked casually elegant as he carried the champagne bucket to the console. ‘I think it’s cold enough,’ he said, opening the bottle of Dom Pérignon.
Once