All the same, from time to time, she couldn't help pondering the identity of the man who had rescued her and brought her home. The certainty that she had seen him before had strengthened and it was a tantalizing puzzle which intrigued her. But as such thoughts were abortive she endeavoured to put all such speculation to the back of her mind.
On Friday evening it was late when Emma left the agency. They had had rather a panic on that afternoon, as several of the girls were away with ‘flu, and consequently they were inundated with work. Emma had volunteered to stay on as Victor was away in Brighton for the evening, attending a business dinner, and she did not expect to see him again until the following afternoon.
It was a cold, frosty evening when she emerged from the office building, but there was no fog, and she breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling of release. She walked the few yards to where the Mini was parked and drove home without incident, parking it in the drive before entering the house.
‘Mrs. Cook!’ she called. ‘I'm home!'
There was no immediate response and, shrugging, Emma crossed the hall to the lounge, unbuttoning her tweed overcoat, thrusting open the door to enter the comfortable lamplit room. As she did so, a man rose from his position on the couch, and she stepped back in alarm, a hand pressed to her lips. But as the man moved into the light, she said incredulously: ‘You! What are you doing here?'
The dark Spanish-American regarded her intently. ‘I came to see you,’ he replied simply, but his eyes were surveying her with a mixture of doubt and disbelief.
Emma put up a hand to her hair. It was as smooth and elegant as ever, her blue tweed suit beneath the matching coat beautifully tailored, but rather severe in style. She was conscious of feeling years older than he was as he stood there so dark and lean and attractive in a close-fitting cream suede suit that moulded every muscle of his thighs.
‘I – well – have you been waiting long?’ she asked nervously, unable to assimilate the situation with any degree of composure. ‘Did Mrs. Cook let you in?'
‘Your housekeeper?’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Yes, she let me in. She didn't want to, but when I explained who I was…’ His voice trailed away. ‘You've suffered no ill effects of your midnight ramblings, I see.'
‘Oh, no – no!’ Emma glanced over her shoulder uneasily. ‘I – I'm very grateful to you for helping me.'
The man inclined his head politely and she rubbed her finger tips together rather awkwardly. Why had he come? Had she left something in his car? But no, if she had, she would have missed whatever it was by now, wouldn't she?
Her eyes alighted on the drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘Er – did Mrs. Cook – that is – can I offer you a drink?’ she inquired, stepping forward again.
‘Thank you,’ he nodded, and she walked jerkily across the room to the cabinet, conscious of his eyes upon her the whole time.
‘Wh-what would you like?’ she asked, inspecting the bottles. ‘Scotch? Gin? Brandy?'
‘Scotch would be fine,’ he replied calmly, folding his hands behind his back. His jacket was unfastened and the lapels parted to reveal a dark blue shirt and matching tie beneath. Emma's eyes were drawn to him almost against her will, and she had to force herself to concentrate on what she was doing.
As it was the bottle jangled noisily against the glass, and he moved swiftly across to her with lithe grace and took it from her unresisting fingers. ‘I'll do it,’ he said, and she stood aside and let him. The Scotch poured smoothly into the glass, the bottle was put back in its place, and he raised the Scotch to his lips. ‘Salud!’ he said, and swallowed half of it at a gulp.
Emma moved uncomfortably. She was suddenly aware of the quiet intimacy of the room, of his nearness, and of the fact that were Victor to come upon them suddenly he could only assume the worst.
‘Won't you join me?’ he was asking now, but 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,