A Savage Beauty. Anne Mather
into her face and said, without warning: ‘Miguel Salvaje is a favourite of yours, isn't he?'
Emma's hands trembled and she thrust them on to her lap so that he should not see them, but she could not prevent the colour from leaving her cheeks. ‘Wh – what did you say?’ she asked weakly.
‘Miguel Salvaje. You like his playing, don't you?'
Emma tried to gather her scattered composure. ‘I – I – yes, I suppose so. Why – why?'
Victor shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I've got these.’ He put his hand into his inside pocket and drew out two tickets. ‘They're complimentary. You know the sort of thing they distribute to firms. Well, these came into my hands, and I thought we might go. But as they're for this evening, I thought I had better give you warning.'
Emma swallowed convulsively. The very last thing she wanted was to attend one of Miguel's concerts. She didn't want to see him again, to feel that awful, irritable, unsettled feeling he generated inside her.
‘Oh, I don't know, Victor,’ she temporized awkwardly. ‘I – we're awfully busy here at the agency. I don't know if I'll be able to get away in time…'
Victor frowned, and then swung round to face Fenella Harding. ‘Hey, Fenella,’ he said. ‘There's no reason why Emma should work late this evening, is there?'
Fenella looked surprised. ‘Of course not.’ Her delicately plucked brows drew together. ‘Did you say there was, Emma?'
Emma shook her head. ‘Not exactly.'
Victor turned back to her. ‘Don't you want to go or something? I thought you liked Salvaje! You have his records.'
‘I know I do.’ Emma felt desperate. What could she say? How could she convince him she didn't want to go without arousing his suspicions? Victor could be a very possessive man. ‘It's just such short notice, Victor.'
‘Oh, come on. It's not a première I'm taking you to. It's a concert. Go home, get changed, and I'll pick you up about seven. We'll have a drink beforehand and supper afterwards, right?'
‘All right.’ Emma nodded and shrugging again Victor slid off the desk.
‘Must go. Got an appointment in half an hour. See you later, then, my dear.'
‘Yes.'
Emma watched him go through the door, tall and immaculate in his city clothes. Then she looked down mutinously at her typewriter. She had not wanted to go to the concert, but that didn't matter to Victor. So far as he was concerned, any opposition she might raise to his plans was purely negligible.
She was ready when Victor arrived that evening, dressed in a plain gown of purple wool that did not enhance her colouring. But it was a dress Victor had brought back from Italy after a business trip and she knew he expected her to wear it whenever she could. The black cape she wore with it was more becoming, but as her hair was confined in a knot at the nape of her neck, she still managed to look staid and matronly. Was this to be her role in life? she had asked herself as her fingers trembled fastening the zip of her dress. Constantly aware of the age gap between herself and Victor and his obvious attempts to close it in this way?
The Festival Hall was almost full when they arrived and as Emma had not examined the tickets Victor had been given she was unaware that their seats would be in the front row until they were shown into them. Her heart pounded heavily. Surely Miguel could not fail to see her from this distance if he chose to look. She sighed. Why should Victor have been given such exceptionally good tickets? Surely they would have had no difficulty in selling these seats when almost all the hall was full. She moved uncomfortably. Had Victor in fact bought these tickets especially because he knew she liked the music and only pretended they were complimentary? She glanced at her fiancé uncertainly. If he had done so, then she should feel grateful and not resentful at all.
The orchestra leader came in to a loud burst of applause and after several minutes interval the conductor appeared. Emma waited tensely for the soloist. There was a grand piano waiting for him, a beautiful instrument, sleek and highly polished. Like the performer, thought Emma, with a rising sense of hysteria.
And then Miguel Salvaje came out and weakness flooded her being. Tall, lean; his immaculate evening clothes complemented his dark alien attractiveness, and Emma sank down in her seat, praying he would not notice her.
He seated himself at the piano, the applause died, and Miguel began the introduction to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto. There was absolute silence in the hall, and Emma found her initial nervousness dispersing under the pure delight of the music. It was obvious that Miguel was interested only in the instrument under his hands, and his mastery cast a spell over the audience so that when it was over there was a moment's spellbound silence before the applause broke out. Emma found herself applauding just as enthusiastically, and only when he rose from the piano stool to take his bow and his gaze flickered over the front row did she realize Miguel had known she was there all the time. There was no element of surprise in the depths of his dark eyes, but they moved away before she could register any acknowledgment of that brief appraisal.
However, afterwards she had reason to doubt the truth of her earlier beliefs. At no time during the remainder of the evening did his eyes turn in her direction, and she began to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. But she had not been mistaken, she told herself angrily. He had seen her, but whether he had actually been aware of her presence beforehand, she was less positive.
Victor enjoyed the concert without any of Emma's misgivings. Unaware of his fiancée's mental agitation, he could not understand the unusual pallor of her cheeks as they left the auditorium, and suggested that instead of having supper out they should go back to his service apartment and eat there.
But Emma felt that food of any kind would choke her. Forcing a polite smile, she said: ‘I don't think that's a very good idea, Victor. Perhaps if you took me home, Mrs. Cook could make us some sandwiches…'
Victor hesitated, his square face showing his perplexity. Exhaling his breath noisily, he eventually nodded. ‘Oh, very well, then. But I only had a sandwich before the concert, and I'm quite peckish.'
Emma tucked her skirts about her as she got into Victor's luxurious limousine. ‘I'm sure we can find something,’ she observed comfortingly, and Victor nodded without enthusiasm.
In fact, Mrs. Cook was out when they arrived back at the house. Emma realized the housekeeper would not have expected them back so early, and hiding her weariness she made Victor comfortable in the lounge with a drink and then went herself into the kitchen to prepare the food.
There was plenty to choose from: cold ham, plenty of bacon and eggs, salad, a cold meat pie. Deciding Victor would prefer something hot, Emma decided to make a cheese omelette, and she was beating eggs in the pan when the telephone rang.
Frowning, she waited a moment to see if Victor would answer it, and when he did not, she dried her fingers on a cloth and went out into the hall. Lifting the receiver, she gave her number, wondering who could possibly be ringing at this hour of the evening.
‘Hello, Emma!'
The deep accented male voice was instantly recognizable and she almost dropped the receiver from her nerveless fingers.
‘Y – yes, señor?’ she murmured huskily.
‘You enjoyed the concert, si?
Any doubts she had had about his possible recognition of her presence fled away. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, stiffly, politely. ‘You played brilliantly.'
‘Gracias, señorita!’ There was a trace of mockery in his tones. ‘I was sure your – fiancé – would use the tickets.'
‘You were sure – you mean—’ Emma broke off, breathing jerkily. ‘You sent Victor those tickets?'
‘But of course. Did you think otherwise?'
Emma glanced at the lounge door. It was closed, but she could not be sure that Victor could not overhear what she