'No?' His accent was very p.r.o.nounced suddenly. 'What time will he leave?'

The lounge door suddenly opened, and Victor's broad frame filled the aperture. 'What's going on?' he demanded, sniffing strongly. 'Is something burning?'

'Oh, heavens, the omelette!' Emma looked down at the phone helplessly, and Victor made an angry gesture.

'Who is it?'

Emma put the receiver to her ear. 'I can't talk any more now - J-Jennifer. C-could you ring tomorrow?'

Without waiting for Miguel's reply, she thrust the receiver down on the rest and fled into the kitchen, grabbing the smoking pan from the flame. The eggs were ruined, a brown and lumpy mess in the bottom of the pan.

Victor had followed her and looked over her shoulder critically.

Wrinkling his nose at the remains of the omelette, he said: "Who's Jennifer?'

'Jennifer?' Emma sought wildly for an explanation. "You remember Jennifer. She - she and I used to be great friends before she got married.'

'I thought that was Sheila.'

'I did have more than one friend,' retorted Emma, with an amazing amount of composure in the circ.u.mstances. She looked down into the pan. 'Go and sit down again, and I'll make another omelette.'

'No, thanks.' Victor stretched his arms tiredly. 'Quite honestly, after waiting so long my appet.i.te's somewhat diminished.'

Emma bit her lip. 'I'm sorry.'

'So'm I.' Victor turned and walked back into the hall. 'I'll just finish my drink and then I'l go. You look tired. Aren't you sleeping well?'

Emma moved her head helplessly. 'Reasonably well,' she answered.

She followed him into the lounge. 'At least let me get you another drink.'

'No, thanks. I've had enough. I have to drive home, remember?'

Emma nodded and stood uncertainly, twisting her hands together as he swallowed the remains of his Scotch.

'What did she want anyway?' Victor returned to the subject of the phone call and Emma who had thought that matter over made a deprecatory gesture.

'Oh, she'd tried to ring me earlier, and when I wasn't in, she decided to ring back.'

'Was it something important?'

Emma managed a smile, feeling the guilt burning in her cheeks.

'Not really. She's - expecting her first baby.' That was an inspiration and seemed to satisfy Victor at last.

'Oh, well, I must go.' He came towards her, taking her by the shoulders and holding her firmly as he bent to kiss her lips. It was meant to be a very chaste kiss, but Emma, disturbed and needing rea.s.surance, allowed her lips to part beneath his, pressing closer against him., Victor drew back at once, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth rather vigorously. 'I must go,' he said, his face flushed for once. 'Good night, Emma.'

'Good night, Victor.'

Emma pressed her lips together and accompanied him to the door. If only he showed a little more emotion! Heavens, they were to be married soon. What kind of a relationship were they going to have if he backed away from the most natural demonstrations of their love for one another?

Victor didn't kiss her again. He squeezed her hand warmly, and then went down the steps. Emma closed the door with a kind of suppressed violence, wishing for the first time in her life that she had a little more experience where men were concerned.

She had just finished cleaning up the kitchen when Mrs.

Cook returned. The housekeeper came into the room-looking in surprise at the scoured pan. 'What happened?' she asked. 'I thought you were eating out.'

Emma had not told Mrs. Cook they were going to the Salvaje concert.

It was easier that way.

'We were,' she answered her now. 'But I wasn't very hungry, so we came back here.'

'So I see.' Mrs. Cook took off her coat and went to hang it away.

Emma realized she had accepted the explanation without elaboration and decided to say no more. There was no point in relating the circ.u.mstances which had led up to the present state of affairs unless she wanted to make more explanations. Instead, she said good night, and went up to bed.

But although she was tired, sleep was elusive. She kept wondering what Miguel Salvaje had thought of her abrupt ending of their telephone conversation. She was half prepared to .believe that he might indeed come round to the house, but the dawn light was paling the sky when she at last fell into a deep slumber and no one had disturbed the silence of the night.

Mrs. Cook awoke her at ten with a cup of tea. Regarding Emma's pale face critically, she said: '.You look terrible! Didn't you sleep?'

Emma struggled up and took the cup of tea. 'Not very well,' she conceded, pushing back her heavy hair." 'What time is it?'

'Ten o'clock. Do you want breakfast in bed?"

Emma grimaced. 'No, nothing, thank you.'

Mrs. Cook shrugged and walked towards the door. Then she halted.

'By the way, there was a telephone call for you.'

Emma's nerves tightened. 'Already?'

'Yes. That Miss Harding from the agency. She said to ask you whether you could go in this afternoon. Apparently she's short-staffed again.'

'Oh!' Emma put down her cup and lay back against the pillows.

'Oh, yes, I suppose I could. Was that all?'

'What more did you expect?' Mrs. Cook was curious.

Emma shook her head. 'Oh, nothing.'

'Did you enjoy the concert last evening?'

Emma stared at her. 'How do you know we went to a concert?'

'Miss Harding told me. When I told her you were still in bed she asked whether you'd had a late evening.'

'I see.' Emma swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. 'Oh, well, it was no secret.'

'Then why didn't you tell me?' Mrs. Cook folded her arms. 'Does Mr.

Harrison know that Salvaje brought you home the night of the fog and then visited here, a week later?'

Emma rose to her feet. 'No, why should he?'

'Strange that he should buy tickets for that particular performer, don't you think?,'

Emma gave an exasperated sigh. 'You're an inquisitive old woman, Mrs. Cook!'

'I know it. I also know that while your father's away I'm responsible for you.'

'I'm twenty-five, Mrs. Cook!'

'I know that. But you're still my responsibility. If you ask me, there's something peculiar about the whole thing.'

'n.o.body asked you, Mrs. Cook.'

The housekeeper sighed and her expression became anxious.

'Miss Emma! You wouldn't be thinking of doing anything silly now, would you?'

'I don't know what you mean.' Emma moved towards her. 'Make me some coffee, there's a love. I'm not hungry, but I could certainly enjoy some of your coffee.'

Mrs. Cook moved aside reluctantly. 'Oh, all right. Are you going to ring Miss Harding? She asked if you could ring her back.'

Emma nodded. 'Yes, I'll give her a ring.' She waited for Mrs.

Cook to move out on to the landing and then she pa.s.sed her on her way to the bathroom. She knew the housekeeper suspected there was more to this than she could possibly know, but now that she had learned about the concert what more could Emma tell her? There was' nothing more.

Emma was in her bedroom, brushing her hair, when the doorbell rang. There was nothing unusual in that. Tradespeople were always calling. But when Mrs. Cook came to the foot of the stairs and called up to her, her heart began to thump a little more vigorously. 'Miss Emma! There's someone here to see you.'

Emma rose to her feet, looking helplessly at her unbound hair. It would take ages to fold it into its pleat, so she hastily plaited it into-a thick braid and secured it with an elastic band. Her suit looked rather ridiculous with the childish hair-style, but it would have to do.

She hurried down the stairs and then came to an abrupt halt when she saw Miguel Salvaje standing below her. She wanted to turn and dash back up the stairs again, but he had heard her and swung round to face her.

'Good morning, senorita,' he greeted her, gallantly bowing his head, and Emma took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs.

'Good morning, senor.'

Not one would have recognized the elegantly attired soloist of the night before as this casually dressed stranger. Close-fitting denim jeans topped by a navy roll-necked sweater and a waist-length denim jerkin disguised him most effectively, and he could have been taken for a student.

'You are surprised to see me?' he inquired, in his lazy accented voice.

Emma shook her head slowly. 'N-not entirely,' she admitted.

'But-'

she glanced round to make sure Mrs. Cook was not hovering in the background, 'I thought you had a rehearsal today.'

He tipped his head on one side. 'I did. I do. But I am afraid I am,- how do you say it - playing truant? Si?'

'Si.' Emma made a helpless gesture. 'Why have you come?'

'Ah!' he shrugged. 'Are you going to offer me some of that excellent coffee I can smell from the kitchen?'

Emma hesitated. 'Well, I suppose so.' She crossed the hall and thrust open the lounge door with rather jerky movements. 'If - if you'll go in there and wait, I'll speak to Mrs. Cook.'

'Very well.' He did as she had suggested and with an exasperated shrug Emma hastened down the hall.

Mrs. Cook was busy at the sink and she looked up reprovingly as Emma entered the room. 'Well?' she said. 'Has he gone?'

'No.' Emma looked at the percolator bubbling on the stove. 'He - er - do you think we could have some coffee?' - Mrs. Cook dried her hands. 'I expect so.' But her tone was not encouraging.

Emma sighed. 'Don't look so - well, disapproving, Mrs. Cook.

Why shouldn't I offer him coffee?'

'Well, as you've asked me, I should have thought the reasons were obvious. Why is he here? What does he want?'

Emma set cups on a tray. 'I don't know,' she replied rather sharply.

'Perhaps he wants to ask me if I enjoyed the concert.'

Mrs. Cook gave her an old-fashioned look. 'Oh, yes! I suppose he visits all his patrons and asks them that!'

'All right, all .right. I suppose he wanted to see me.' Emma was resigned.

'Why?'

'I don't know.' "

'Don't you?' - 'No.' Emma picked up the tray. 'Is this everything?'

'Unless you want biscuits.'

'No, I don't think so. Thank you.'

Emma carried the tray along to the lounge and entering found Miguel seated at the piano, playing very softly. But he stopped when she came in, and rising to his feet took the tray from her hands and placed it on the low table in front of the fire.

Emma subsided rather thankfully on to the couch beside the table and trying to control her unsteady hands, asked: 'Cream and sugar?'

'No. Black, please.' He came to sit beside her on the couch, stretching out his long legs in front of him, resting his head back against the soft leather upholstery. 'Hmm, this is very nice. Much nicer than a cold concert hall.'

Emma placed his cup of coffee on the table near him and then busied herself pouring some for herself. But she was conscious of him only inches away from her, and of the lean brown hand with its carved gold ring lying on the couch between them. His fingers were long; artistic, and yet masculine, the silky dark hairs on the back of his hand signifying its strength.

Emma lifted her cup and swallowed a mouthful of coffee without thinking, almost scalding herself in the process. She coughed, apologized, and then replaced her cup on the tray.