Dark Fever
‘What…now?’ He looked round then, aghast. ‘You’re joking, Mum. I’ve got matches fixed every Saturday for weeks. I can’t go away. We’d lose if I wasn’t there.’
‘Big head,’ Vicky told him.
‘It’s true,’ he insisted indignantly. ‘I’m their best striker! Ask anyone. I get all the goals. I can’t go away during the season—they’d kill me.’
Vicky said casually, ‘I can’t go either, Mum. Actually, Drew and I were thinking of going to Majorca some time in the spring—’
‘Drew can come with us!’ Bianca interrupted.
Vicky’s look revealed first blank incredulity, then scornful amusement. ‘Drew and me.go away with you? Come off it, Mum! You don’t think I want my mother around, do you? Anyway, we were thinking of going on one of these under-thirty holidays. No old people can go on them.’
‘Old people?’ repeated Bianca, outraged.
Vicky gave her a quick, half-laughing look. ‘Well, you’re not old, of course; I didn’t mean you, I meant. Well, you know what I meant.’
Oh, yes, she knew what Vicky had meant. Her daughter did not want her around when she went on holiday; she was the wrong age group. Her son was too absorbed in his own life to want to go away at all. Her spirits sank. She had been looking forward to getting away to the sun, but she couldn’t go alone; she hadn’t had a holiday alone for. She stopped, frowning, realising with a shock of surprise that she had never had a holiday alone. Before she met Rob she had gone away with her parents, and then she had always gone with Rob and the children. She had never once gone anywhere alone.
Well, it’s time I did, she thought. Judy was rightshe had to start adjusting to the idea that Tom and Vicky were growing up, would one day leave home. She had to build a life which did not revolve around them.
‘I’ll go away alone, then,’ she said, and they both turned to stare at her, mouths wide open in disbelief.
‘Alone?’ Vicky repeated.
‘You mean you’re going to leave us on our own here?’ Tom’s eyes sparkled. ‘For two whole weeks?’
She could read his mind; he was looking forward to two weeks without supervision, without anyone nagging him to do his homework, do his daily chores. Tom hated doing housework, but Bianca insisted that he helped out, did as much as his sister. She had been determined not to bring up a useless boy who expected women to do everything for him. She had a brother like that. Jon had never had to lift a hand at home; their mother had waited on him hand and foot, and after Jon had married he’d expected his wife to do the same. Sara had resented it; the marriage had broken up after a few years, with Jon complaining that Sara was unreasonable, and Sara bitterly accusing him of being selfish. Jon had married again, but his second marriage was far from contented; it seemed to be drifting on to the rocks exactly the way the first one had.
Bianca didn’t want her son turning out like Jon. She had shared out work equally between her two children. In the kitchen was a computer-printed rota pinned up on the wall; Vicky and Tom each had jobs to do every day.
Bianca expected them to keep their own bedrooms tidy, and inspected them once a month to make sure they were actually doing the work, but they also had to help her keep the rest of the house tidy, do the shopping, help prepare meals for them all. Bianca, too, had a rota, which was pinned up next to theirs, so that they should know that she did twice as much as the two of them put together. Which was more or less what they expected, of course, but it put a stop to claims that she was asking them to do too much.
‘And while I’m away there are to be no wild parties, or hordes of your friends wrecking the house!’ she told Tom, who looked at her innocently, blue eyes wide as a child’s.
‘No, Mum.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Vicky said with suspicious sweetness.
‘It applies to you too, Vicky. I’ll hold you both responsible for anything that happens, remember.’
She had been encouraging them both to be responsible ever since their father died. Before she made any decision she had carefully asked their opinions, and listened to them seriously.
After Rob’s death she had had the choice of living, with difficulty, on a small fixed income for the rest of her life—or taking the risk of investing some of the money from Rob’s insurance in a business which might give them all a comfortable income.
After talking it over with Vicky and Tom, she had decided on the latter course. Judy, who was a close friend and long-time neighbour, had enthusiastically offered to put up fifty per cent of the money and share the work in running the business. She had recently inherited money from her father, and wanted to put it to work in a more interesting way than simply investing it in stocks and shares. Her husband, Roy, was a travelling salesman who was away a good deal, her children were grown-up, and Judy was tired of working in other people’s shops; she’d wanted to run her own.
Bianca had explained to Tom and Vicky that she could only manage to work six days a week if they were prepared to help in the house, and they had both agreed. They had more or less kept their bargain, too, even if reluctantly at times.
‘Are we going to the Chinese or not?’ she asked them both crossly now. ‘Or shall I make some beans on toast?’
They gave each other a silent but eloquent look, then smiled soothingly at her, getting up.
‘We’re ready, Mum!’
Now they were going to be indulgent, as if she were a half-wit. A pathetic old half-wit. Resentment churned inside Bianca as she drove them to the restaurant. Some birthday she had had! It had begun with depression in bed that morning and it was ending in much the same mood. And now I’m forty, she thought. Forty! She had a terrible feeling that from now on life was going downhill all the way.
* * *
A week later she landed at Málaga airport in very different weather. She came out of the airport building into a world of blue skies, sunlight and palm trees, and stood there for a moment feeling her winter-chilled skin quiver in disbelief. Then she hurried off to collect the hire car she had booked in advance before setting out on the motorway to Marbella. The drive took longer than she had expected, largely because of heavy traffic, but eventually she found the hotel.
Bianca would not be staying in the hotel itself; she had booked an apartment in the grounds, which were extensive, with large white adobe-style buildings scattered among trees and lawns intersected by winding narrow streams running under arched wooden bridges in something like the Chinese style. Each building contained half a dozen separate apartments, each with its own front door and a balcony looking over blue swimming-pools and gardens down to the sunlit blue sea.
The apartments were spacious; Bianca found she had a bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room, one corner of which was a tiny kitchen area, with everything you might need to prepare a meal.
She unpacked rapidly, explored her new domain, showered and put on a stylish green linen dress and white sandals. The hotel served a buffet lunch at one o’clock and it was just after twelve now. She would take a walk through the grounds before going to lunch. As she was on holiday she wouldn’t want to spend her time cooking—she was going to eat out a good deal.
She went out on to her balcony and leaned on the rail, staring down over a pool right below the building.
There was someone swimming in it. Through the blue glare of the light on the water Bianca saw a shape moving, a black seal’s head, a powerful, gold-skinned body cutting through the pool.
Shading her eyes, she watched as the swimmer slowed to a standstill, at the edge of the pool, before hauling himself out of the water. He stood on the blue and white tiles for a moment, raised his hands to slick back his dripping black hair. She stared at the wide, smoothly tanned shoulders, the deep, muscular chest, the slim waist and strong hips, the powerful thighs and long legs. His wet black swimming-trunks clung to him, almost transparent in the strong sunlight, so that he might as well have been naked.
She couldn’t look away. Her mouth went dry and her skin prickled with heat.
At that instant, as if some primitive instinct warned him that he was being watched, the stranger lifted his head to stare in her direction.
Her face burning, Bianca guiltily turned and almost ran back into her apartment.
CHAPTER TWO
BIANCA went into Marbella itself that evening, in the hotel courtesy coach, to tour the local tapas bars with a guide. The other guests in the party were all married couples, which made Bianca feel left out and kept reminding her of Rob, and what wonderful holidays they had once had. Even before they arrived at the first bar in the old town she was beginning to wish she hadn’t come, because nobody much spoke to her. It wasn’t until they moved on to another bar that she got into conversation with another of the party—a woman of about her own age with short blonde hair and blue eyes.
She was sitting on a bar stool beside Bianca studying the contents of a tapas saucer. ‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked Bianca, who peered at it too.
‘Squid?’
The bartender was watching them—he suddenly leaned over and grinned. ‘Calamares a la plancha!’ he explained, then went off to serve someone else.
‘You speak Spanish?’ the German woman asked Bianca, who shook her head.
‘But I think plancha means plate.’
They called out to their Spanish hotel guide for a translation.
‘Squid cooked on a hotplate!’ he called over. ‘Don’t be scared. Try some! You don’t have to fight the bulls to be brave, you know!’
Bianca and the other woman laughed, tried the squid and had to agree it was good, if a little rubbery.
‘Too much garlic in it for me, though.’ The German turned to smile at Bianca. ‘We ought to introduce ourselves—I’m Friederike Schwartz; please call me Freddie—everyone does.’ ‘I’m Bianca Fraser.’
Freddie stared and laughed. ‘Bianca…that means white, doesn’t it? And Schwartz means black in German. How funny.’
‘Your English is amazing! I’m terribly impressed. I barely know six words of German.’
‘My husband works for a big German company—we travel the world with him, my children and I. He once spent two years in America, so we all learnt English.’
‘Is he here with you?’ Bianca glanced around the crowded little bar trying to guess which of the men belonged to Friederike.
‘He is the guy with a red tie, playing dominoes at that table,’ Freddie told her. Bianca inspected him, smiling.
‘He’s very attractive! Lucky you!’ He was clearly older than his wife, a man approaching fifty, bronzed and slim, brown-haired, brown-eyed, with a touch of silver at the temples, and still very good-looking.
‘Yes, I am, but he is cross tonight. He didn’t want to come on this bar cruise. Karl does not like to be out late. He wanted to stay in our suite looking after our children, but I talked him into coming.’
‘How old are your children?’
‘Teenagers. I keep telling him they don’t need babysitters any more. We have two sons, twins aged fourteen, Franz and Wolfgang, and my daughter Renata, who is seventeen and getting prettier all the time. When I walked around with her men used to stare at me—now they stare at her! I feel like the wicked queen in Snow White. I look into my mirror and grind my teeth every day.’
Bianca did not take her too seriously—she was laughing as she said it and was much too lovely to feel threatened even by a daughter who was half her age. Freddie was probably in her early forties but she looked ten years younger—her skin was smooth and unlined and her eyes were bright and clear. Her figure was slim and her clothes classy.
Karl looked up and saw them watching him and beckoned to his wife. Freddie groaned. ‘He’s going to ask when we can go back to the hotel! He’s bored already.’ She slid down from her bar stool and smiled at Bianca. ‘Nice talking to you. See you later.’
Bianca sipped her glass of red wine doubtfully—it tasted like red ink. She couldn’t help feeling that she sympathised with Freddie’s husband—she wasn’t enjoying this evening much either. But it would have been depressing to stay in her apartment by herself.
‘You are alone, señora?’ asked the Spanish guide, sliding into the seat beside her.
She gave him a wary look, nodding, hoping he was not going to make some sort of pass. A short, darkskinned man in his thirties with a distinct paunch, he was not her type. But all he said was, ‘Then please be careful not to leave the group. Keep with us at all times. I am afraid handbags have been snatched lately. There are some gangs in town, from other big towns—they work in pairs, going around on motorbikes, and they’re so quick—they come up behind you and snatch your bag, and they’ve gone before you know what is happening.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Bianca assured him, taking a piece of chorizo, the spicy red local sausage, from a little tapas saucer…
‘Enjoy, señora,’ he smiled, getting up to go and talk to some of the other guests.
They moved on a few minutes later to another bar, another selection of tapas—the other guests grazed eagerly on the food on offer while they drank their glasses of wine, discussing the various dishes with each other. Bianca noticed that Freddie and her husband had disappeared; perhaps they had taken a taxi back to the hotel.
The range of tapas was bewildering—artichokes in vinaigrette, baby clams served in a garlic sauce, fried whitebait, baby eels or squid, snails, mushrooms in a rich tomato sauce, chorizo, hard-boiled eggs stuffed with a variety of things. Everything was beautifully cooked but very rich.
The last bar they visited was the best—along with the tapas there was music and flamenco dancing, a blackjacketed man urgently drumming the heels of his highly polished shoes, his partner dancing with passion and invitation around him, her red skirts flaring.
The sexual tension in the music and dancing did something drastic to Bianca’s mood. She was flushed and feverish as she clapped along with the others and drummed her feet, as they were instructed—the rhythm of the music had got into her blood.
When the dancing ended the bar seemed even noisier; as the evening went on and more and more people piled inside until there was hardly room to move. Bianca began to get a faint headache. She needed some fresh air so she wriggled through the crowded bar and went outside into the cool Spanish night.
She had no intention of going far; she would just wait in the street for her companions to come and join her. They would be leaving soon, she imagined—it was getting very late.
The cool air was delicious on her overheated skin; she stood there breathing in for a minute, sighing with pleasure, feeling her headache easing off, and then, across the narrow street, she saw a small boutique and was struck by a dress displayed in the window. It reminded Bianca of the dress the flamenco dancer had worn—low-necked, tight-waisted, full in the skirt, and a vivid red. She walked over to take a closer look. It was stunning on the window dummy—she wasn’t sure she had the nerve to wear it in public, it was so dramatic and eye-catching; her children were bound to laugh at her. But she was tempted. She had the right colouring and she was slim enough to wear a dress like that.
She frowned, trying to work out the price in English money, and was vaguely aware of a motorbike roaring round the corner from the main square and heading towards her.
It slowed as it reached her, someone jumped off it, and she saw another reflection move in the glass window of the boutique beside her own reflection. A small, slim figure in black leather, the face hidden by a black helmet, was running up behind her. The motorbike had skidded to a stop a few yards on along the street.
With a start, Bianca remembered the guide’s warning about motorbike thieves. Her nerves jumping, she swung round, just as the black-clad figure grabbed for her handbag. She instinctively opened her mouth wide and began to yell, holding on to her bag like grim death. The fact that she couldn’t see the face of her attacker made the whole thing more frightening.
After trying to yank her bag away the boy let go and pushed his hand into his black leather jacket—the hand came out holding something. In the street-light’s yellow gleam she saw steel glittering and her throat closed in shock. He was holding a knife.
Everything seemed to go into slow motion. She stared at the long, razor-edged blade, frozen, saw the black-gloved hand holding it, the black leather cuff of the boy’s jacket not quite meeting the glove.
Between them there was a red line etched in the tanned flesh—a knife-cut, she thought dumbly, and somehow the sight of the scar made the knife real. She went into panic, backing away, so scared that she had even stopped screaming. The knife slashed downwards. For a second she thought he was stabbing her—then she realised what he intended. He was trying to cut the straps of her handbag.
Her fear subsided a little, but, because she had been really scared, now she got angry. She had once been to a short self-defence class at the local evening school; she remembered what she had been taught, and brought her knee up into his groin, hard.
He gave a gasp of pain and staggered backwards, then recovered and came at her again with the knife, muttering in Spanish. She didn’t know what he said—his voice was muffled by his helmet—but it sounded very unpleasant, and she knew that this time he was not trying to cut her handbag straps—he wanted to hurt her. The air throbbed with hatred.
A second later a car came round the corner. The yellow beam of its headlights lit them as if they were on a stage. She turned to face it, waving urgently, shouting, ‘Help! Help!’
The black-clad figure on the motorbike shouted out in Spanish and turned the bike to come back towards them. Snarling, the other boy climbed on to the pillion, made a very rude gesture at Bianca with his black-gloved hand, then they rode off at high speed and disappeared.
Bianca sagged against the wall, her knees turning to jelly, trembling violently now that the adrenalin had gone and reaction had set in.
The car screeched to a stop and a man got out and strode towards her, saying something in Spanish. She weakly lifted her head and the light of the street-lamp fell on her face and showed her his—they recognised each other in that instant. He was the man she had seen swimming that morning.
‘Are you OK? Did he hurt you?’ he asked in a deep, husky voice, his grey eyes moving over her in search of some visible sign of injury.
She shook her head, feeling even more like fainting. Why did it have to be him who came along just at this moment? It seemed less like a coincidence than a punishment. He was the last man she wanted to see right now.
‘He wanted my handbag,’ she whispered.
‘Did he get it?’ His English was very good, but she heard the faint note of a foreign accent. Presumably he was Spanish. He was certainly very dark, with olive skin and black hair which was glossy and very thick.
He was very casually dressed, in cream linen trousers and a chocolate-brown shirt, worn without a tie, the collar open at the throat to give her a glimpse of the bronzed skin she had stared at that morning when he’d climbed out of the pool. The very memory of that moment sent a wave of heat through her whole body. From a distance she had found him devastating—at such close proximity he had an even deeper impact on her.
‘No,’ she said unsteadily, showing him her handbag which she still clutched in one hand. Then she broke out in a voice that shook, ‘He had a knife!’
She still couldn’t believe it. It would be a long time before she got over the shock of seeing the knife shining in the lamplight. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before; she had always led a rather quiet, peaceful existence; violence was something she had only read about in newspapers. She had never imagined it happening to her.
‘I saw it. As I was driving towards you I saw the knife he held and I thought he was trying to kill you—you’re sure you aren’t hurt?’
She was wearing a little black jacket over a white dress printed with lilacs. He reached out to touch her shoulders and arms lightly, his fingertips gliding over the material of the jacket in exploration.
She quivered helplessly, shaken to her depths by what she instantly felt—his fingertips left a trail of fire on her skin through the layers of material under them.
‘No, I…I’m not…He didn’t hurt me.’ she stammered.
‘You’re cold,’ he said, his frown even deeper. ‘That’s shock. Come and sit in my car. I’ll call the police.’
She urgently said, ‘No, please don’t—I don’t want to spend hours talking to policemen; he didn’t get anything, or hurt me, so…I couldn’t even describe him; he was wearing a helmet that made it impossible to see his face; he looked like a spaceman.’
His face tightened in disapproval. ‘You ought to tell the police about it—he’s dangerous; he might use that knife on someone else and they might not be as lucky as you were.’
She knew he was absolutely right; it was what she would have said herself to anyone who had been attacked like that. How different a situation looked when it was you, yourself, who was experiencing it. Her common sense and reason told her one thing, she felt another.
Sighing, she said, ‘Well…could you ask if I could talk to them tomorrow? I really don’t feel up to it tonight.’
He stared down at her, his face still hard. ‘Very well, I’ll get in touch, explain what happened; I shall have to give evidence too, because I witnessed the attack. I’ll ask if you can talk to them tomorrow. Come along, I’ll drive you back to the hotel.’
She resisted the hand that tried to lead her away. ‘I’m with a group from the hotel—they’re in that bar; they’ll come out looking for me any minute.’
He shrugged her refusal away coolly. ‘I’ll go in and speak to the guide—it’s Ramon tonight, isn’t it?’
Startled, she nodded. ‘Yes.’ How had he known that? Had he been on this tour himself? Or did he work at the hotel?
He had such a marvellous tan—he must surely live here to have got so brown at this time of year. That tan was not the product of a week or two in Spain. It spoke of months of exposure to the sun.
‘Sit in my car and I’ll have a word with him, then I’ll drive you back.’
Bianca was so shaken by what had happened that she didn’t argue, although in other circumstances she might have done. She was too independent and used to running her own life and taking care of herself and her children to enjoy being ordered around by some strange man. But tonight she was quite relieved to be able to let him take charge; she let him lead her to his car and slide her into the front passenger seat.
He left the door open, but instead of going straight into the bar he went round to the back of his car and was back a moment later with a warm woollen tartan car rug which he gently wrapped around her.
‘It gets quite cold at night at this time of year,’ he said as she looked up, startled, her blue eyes wide, the pupils dilated as she felt his hands moving over her. ‘And you’re probably still in shock. Just sit here and rest. It will only take me a minute to find Ramón and explain.’
He closed the car door and she watched him walk rapidly over to the bar; the light from it spilled out around him as he opened the door and went in, his black hair gleaming and his face in sharp profile, his nose long and straight, his mouth a ruthless slash, his jawline determined.
Not a man you would want to argue with, and few people probably ever dared—which accounted for his cool assumption that she would obey him.
That could get annoying! she thought wryly, her mouth twisting. If she weren’t feeling so weak at the knees just now she would probably have resented being ordered around like that.