Bianca shed her black and white hound’s-tooth check jacket, took a quick, nervous glance at the mirror in the hall, wished she were wearing something more glamorous than an old blue sweater and back skirt. She smoothed a few strands back into her chignon, checked on her russet lipstick, took a deep breath, and went into the sitting-room.
Tom and Gil were standing in front of a row of family photographs on a table by the window. Laughing.
Bianca glared at their backs, opened her mouth to say something barbed—then Gil turned to look at her and she felt her body turn weak and tremble.
‘Hello,’ he said, and smiled, and her heart turned over and over like a tumbler turning somersaults.
She thought she wasn’t going to be able to say anything at first, and then she got out a husky, ‘Hello,’ and Tom turned round too.
Bianca couldn’t quite meet her son’s eyes. ‘Have you offered Mr Marquez a drink, Tom? Would you like some coffee, or something stronger? I think we may have some sherry somewhere.’
‘Coffee would be fine, thank you,’ Gil said, and his eyes had not moved from her for a second; she hoped Tom hadn’t noticed the way he was staring.
She flickered a look at Tom, and he was staring at her too, looking a bit pink; she knew he was upset because his ears were pink as well, and that was a sure sign with him. She had not shown a serious interest in a man since his father died and Tom was at that sensitive, half-boy, half-man stage where anything out of place or unexpected could embarrass; he was obviously taken aback to have a strange man arriving out of the blue to see his mother.
Tom still had a simple attitude to her. She was his mother! Why would she want another man, a life of her own? She had him, didn’t she?
‘Would you make the coffee, please, Tom, while I talk to Mr Marquez?’ she asked him, hoping he wouldn’t be difficult. She had to get him out of the room. She couldn’t talk frankly to Gil with her son there, listening to them.
Why had Gil come? She hadn’t thought he would do this; it had not entered her head that he would follow her. She had assumed he would just accept the fact that she had gone, and put her out of his mind.
‘Right,’ Tom said in his gruff, not quite grown-up voice, and stumbled out, making a lot of noise as he slammed the door behind him.
He’s angry with me! she thought, sighing, and then realised that the room was very still, yet reverberating with awareness. Her nerves prickled. She hurriedly looked at Gil and saw his eyes flash, the smile vanish from his face as if wiped off with an invisible hand. That was when she realised that Tom was not the only one who was angry with her. Gil was even angrier—his body was as taut as stretched wire, and his eyes glittered.
‘Did you really think I’d let you end it like that, without so much as a word?’
He took a step closer, and she felt her stomach sink as if she were in a lift which had suddenly gone out of control. Gil angry was frightening; he made the room seem suddenly very small. He looked oddly out of place here, in England; his tanned skin, black hair and light eyes made him look distinctly foreign under these cool grey English spring skies.
She fought to hide her nervousness; with men and dogs you had to pretend you were unconcerned and in control, especially when you weren’t. They were quick to pick up any uncertainty in you.
Lifting her chin, she defied him. ‘I wish you hadn’t come here,’ she said, and he laughed with bared teeth, taking another stride.
‘I bet you do! That’s why you ran away, isn’t it? You couldn’t actually face the thought of talking to me, admitting anything...’
‘There’s nothing to admit!’ she threw back, bristling like a frightened cat.
‘Liar,’ he said, moving closer again, and his grey eyes were violent—they seemed almost black. ‘You were scared so you ran away—don’t tell me there’s nothing to admit. I should have guessed you would try something like that, of course. I knew you were tied up in knots in your head.’
‘My head is none of your business!’ He had guessed how she felt, and that frightened her even more. She didn’t want him knowing what she was thinking or feeling. She needed the privacy of her own head; she didn’t want him invading it. It meant he knew too much about her.
‘Everything about you is my business,’ Gil said softly. ‘I’m in love with you.’
The blood seemed to drain out of her heart. She went white, then red, breathing fiercely.
She had never realised before how close to pain some joy could be; her body couldn’t sustain such anguish, she was afraid she would die of it, and yet she had never felt so alive.
‘I fell in love with you the minute I saw you on that balcony, staring down at me,’ she heard him say. The words seemed to come from a long way off; she gazed at him, fighting for breath. Gil reached out and framed her face in his hands, his palms warm against her skin. He looked passionately into her eyes and her own eyes darkened until she could scarcely see him.
She couldn’t fight it any more; she wanted him too much; just feeling his hands touching her sent her into a fever. She shut her eyes to shut out the world, reality, the fear which had been dominating her ever since that night in Spain. For one moment...just one moment...she had to give in to the way Gil made her feel. So she closed her eyes and sank into the darkness.
‘Oh, Bianca,’ Gil whispered, sending a shiver of desire down her spine. She was so afraid she was going to faint that she grabbed at his shirt to keep herself upright.
Touching him was a mistake. It was like lighting the fuse of a bomb; she felt the explosion right through her body, and so did Gil. She heard his intake of air, then his mouth hit hers.
Bianca shuddered, her palms flattening on his body, feeling the beating of his heart reverberating under her hands. She arched backwards, with his arm around her, kissing him back, her mouth parted, hungry. Her hands ran up his body and round his neck, closed on his nape, holding him. For the first time in days she felt real again, complete; Gil had somehow become necessary to her; without him she felt like someone who had had a limb amputated and was haunted by the absence of an essential part of herself.
But I’m forty! she thought with a pang of grief. I’m forty, and Gil’s only in his thirties. When he marries again he’ll want children, obviously; he hasn’t got any—