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‘I am,’ she insisted. ‘Very English.’
‘Is that a warning?’
She shrugged and didn’t answer.
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said drily. They were approaching the hotel complex, she was very relieved to see. He was forced to give all his attention to slowing down in order to make the right-hand turn into the grounds. They were very pretty at night, coloured fairy-lights in the trees facing the road, glowing globes of lamps standing on all the paths between the trees and beside the apartment blocks.
As they drew up outside the hotel they heard music from inside. The hotel was also brilliantly lit; through the plate-glass windows they saw a crowd of people in the piano bar, drinking at tables or dancing on the polished wood floor, or standing around the white piano listening to the man playing it.
Gil Marquez turned to face her, one arm draped over the steering-wheel, his lean body gracefully lounging against the seat, one knee brushing hers, making her even more aware of him.
‘It takes a while for shock to wear off, Mrs Fraser; our resident nurse should take a look at you before you go off to bed.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, sliding out of the car.
It was unfortunate that her foot skidded under her on the damp surface of the stone path—an automatic water spray was whirling among the flowerbeds near by, and some of the drops of water had fallen on the path, making it very slippery; she had to grab for the car to stay upright.
She heard Gil mutter in deep, angry Spanish, then he was out of the car and beside her, his arm going round her waist, his fingers just below her breast; she felt her body quiver in primitive arousal.
Drowning in sensation she thought, He mustn’t notice; he mustn’t realise what’s happening to me. Her knees had gone again; she could barely stand up, she was trembling so much, and she had to yield to his support, her body leaning on him.
He bent to look at her. ‘Are you going to faint? Don’t argue again—you’re going to see our nurse, whatever you say. Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can!’ she protested. She pushed his hand down and moved away from him to take the steps up to the hotel. They were marble and as slippery as the path; she had to move carefully.
Gil watched her for a few seconds, then said something in fierce Spanish under his breath. She didn’t know what he had said, but it made her nerves jump; his voice sounded like the crack of a whip.
He came up behind her, his arm going round her waist again, lifting her off her feet, apparently without effort. His other arm went under her legs and she found herself being carried against his chest; her head swam, and she let it fall against his arm, shutting her eyes, afraid to look at him for fear of what he might read in her face. She heard the curious buzz of voices in the hotel foyer, though, and felt her face burning. People would be staring. What on earth would they be thinking?
Someone spoke to Gil in Spanish and he answered without pausing in his stride across the foyer. A moment later she heard a door slide shut and then she knew they were in a lift which was rising smoothly.
Where was he taking her?
The lift stopped, he walked out, and Bianca lifted her lids enough to see that they were in a hotel corridor, deeply carpeted, calm, silent. He wasn’t taking her to his room, was he? Alarm bells rang inside her.
She opened her eyes fully and said huskily, ‘Please put me down, Senor Marquez. I’m OK now—I want to go to my own apartment, please.’
He had paused in front of a door. He looked at her, his mouth twisting. ‘No need to get agitated, Mrs Fraser. This is only the surgery. I haven’t brought you up to my room to make a pass at you.’
She went br
ight pink. ‘I didn’t think you had!’
‘Oh, yes, you did; that’s why you’re having palpitations and trembling like a leaf!’ he drawled.
Bianca wished the floor would open up and swallow her. Instead, the door opened and she hurriedly looked at the woman standing there—a small, thin, dark woman in a nurse’s uniform with a neat white cap. Behind her Bianca saw a sparcely furnished room with white walls, Venetian blinds on the windows, the usual paraphernalia of a doctor’s surgery—a desk, chairs, a tall screen on wheels, a high trolley with leather padding for a patient to lie down on.
The nurse smiled politely, spoke in Spanish to Gil and he answered in English, so that Bianca could understand him, which she thought was very thoughtful of him.
‘This is Mrs Fraser, Nurse Santos—she is staying in one of our apartment blocks. She was attacked in the street by a mugger—she doesn’t seem to be hurt, but I think she is in shock. Will you look after her while I go and ring the police?’
‘Si, of course, senor.’ Nurse Santos took Bianca’s arm firmly. ‘Please... come in, Mrs Fraser. How you feel?’
Gil vanished, closing the door behind him. Nurse Santos sat Bianca down on a chair and asked her a few questions, examined her, took her pulse and temperature, her blood-pressure, then smiled.
‘OK, no problem, Mrs Fraser.’ She had a much stronger Spanish accent than Gil Marquez. ‘Heartbeat a bit fast, not serious. You need sleep, to be quiet, quite OK in morning.’
There was a tap on the door and the nurse called out in Spanish. The door opened and Gil glanced in, raising his brows. Nurse Santos said something else in Spanish and he nodded. ‘Well, that’s good.’ He looked at Bianca. ‘Nurse Santos doesn’t think you’re going to die just yet.’
