Body And Soul

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

MARTINE was late, and in a hurry, so she leapt out of her taxi and ran across the pavement towards the Mayfair restaurant, too intent to notice the man in evening dress who got out of a parked car on the other side of the road and headed in the same direction.

There was a moment when either of them could have held back, but, although they glanced briefly at each other, neither of them stopped. Martine thought she was nearer and would get there first; but he moved faster.

They collided in the revolving door. Which promptly jammed—with them crushed together inside one section. Martine looked up, her eyes as stormily green as northern seas. The eyes that met hers were black, cold, irritated.

‘If you back out, that will free the door!’ said a deep, dark voice with a faint foreign accent which she couldn’t identify.

‘If you had had the manners to let me go first this wouldn’t have happened! You step back!’ she snapped.

It was all his fault, and Martine didn’t like his peremptory tone, or the fact that she had been forced so close to him. You couldn’t have got a sheet of paper between them, in fact—which meant that his body actually touched hers, making her very aware of his powerful build. He might be wearing civilised evening dress but underneath it was a distinctly primitive body: six feet of muscle and bone and smooth, tanned skin, a face that could have been carved out of granite.

‘There’s no point in arguing about whose fault it is!’ he bit out. ‘Just wriggle backwards.’

‘Any wriggling can be done by you,’ Martine informed him.

Just because she was almost a foot shorter than him, fine-boned and slender, he needn’t imagine that she was a helpless female and a pushover. She wasn’t backing down, even if it meant they stayed jammed in this door all night.

He stared down into her angry green eyes, and she bristled like a cat faced with danger, the hair standing up on the back of her neck.

Something about the arrogant tilt of his head, the sleek black hair, the cool eyes, reminded her of a man she had once loved, but who had walked out on her to marry a girl with rich parents. Three years had gone by since then, and Martine had dated other men, but never fallen in love like that again, and never meant to. She had been badly hurt once. She didn’t intend to repeat the experience.

‘Look, even an idiot should see that the easiest way of freeing the door would be for you to back out,’ he coldly pointed out.

‘Oh, very well,’ Martine said, shifting sideways to get into a better position for wriggling out. His foot was in the way. Her elegant little black shoes had thin, high heels, like stilettos. She felt one of them sink into the top of his polished shoe.

He started violently, took a sharp breath, and said something under that breath which she couldn’t quite hear but which sounded suspiciously like swearing.

‘Sorry,’ she said, and met glittering black eyes.

‘You did that deliberately!’ he accused.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I was simply trying to get out. How was I to know you would put your foot in the way?’

He eyed her with dislike. His nostrils flared, a white line of rage around his mouth.

‘I suppose I’ll have to get us out of here or we’ll be here all night,’ he muttered. ‘Just stand still, will you?’

Turning sideways, he began to slide past her, his body pressing against hers in the process, his long thigh pushing past, his arm brushing her breast. Despite herself she felt a sharp needle of sexual awareness stab through her and tensed in shock.

‘Hey! Watch it!’ she hissed, guessing that he was inflicting his intimacy on her deliberately in male revenge because she hadn’t been the one to back out.

It was a mistake to say anything. It made him stop, dead, looking down at her with those dark, narrowed eyes barely inches above her own, their bodies still touching. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he said through his teeth. ‘This isn’t giving me any thrill at all, I assure you.’

Martine reddened crossly. ‘Oh, just get a move on, will you?’ she muttered. ‘We’re attracting a crowd!’

There were people on the inside of the restaurant, trying to get out, and another couple on the pavement, trying to get in, all watching them and grinning. They were providing live entertainment and Martine felt very silly and very angry. She hid it, giving their audience helpless smiles and shrugs.

Her reluctant companion finally squeezed out backwards, and Martine immediately pushed the revolving door to emerge in the restaurant, murmured an apology to the people waiting, slid out of her silk evening jacket and handed it to a hovering waiter.

‘Is Mr Redmond here, yet?’

‘If he is, he’ll be in the bar, miss.’

Behind her she heard the revolving door turning and was aware of a looming presence emerging.

She ignored him.

As she walked into the circular, discreetly lit bar, she saw a faint reflection swimming in the black glass lining the wall behind the bar counter. First herself, slender, in black georgette, her face thrown into odd prominence, a pale, shimmering oval, her neck long and slim, a white magnolia pinned just above her breasts, at the edge of her deep neckline, her dark auburn hair coiled low on her nape; and, walking behind her, a head taller than her, the black-haired foreigner in his stiff white shirt front and black jacket.

She had to admit they made an interesting composition in black and white; the only colour visible was the dark flame of her red hair.

She halted to look around the room. There were a few people in the bar, but there was no sign of Charles, which didn’t surprise her. He was often unpunctual, but then he had so much on his mind. Since the death of his wife he had buried himself in work; sometimes he didn’t seem quite sure which day of the week it was! She only hoped he would remember that he had asked her to have dinner here tonight.

He had just flown back from New York that morning and hadn’t been in to the office since landing; had stayed at home, resting after the trip.

He had made their date for tonight from New York. No doubt he wanted to talk to her out of the office; there was always too much going on there for any possibility of a private conversation, and since much of the information he needed to give her was very confidential they chose their meeting-places carefully.

She sat down at one of the empty tables. Immediately a waiter came over. ‘What will you have to drink, madam?’

‘Oh...just a glass of sparkling mineral water, please,’ she said, crossed one slender, shapely leg over the other, her fine, filmy skirt riding up a little so that she had to stroke it down over her knee. Casually glancing around the bar, she found herself looking into black eyes on the other side of the room, eyes that had been watching her smoothing down her skirt, had coldly assessed her legs, risen to give the same unimpressed speculation to her figure and face.

Martine gave him a glacial stare back. She never liked getting looks like that—as if she were an object, not a human being. Some men used it as a silent insult. She had the feeling this one did, especially remembering the way he had spoken to her while they were jammed in the revolving door.

He calmly detached his gaze, looked down, shot his cuff back to allow a glimpse of his gold wristwatch and frowned, then got to his feet. Martine stiffened, thinking for a few seconds that he was coming over here to her table.

Instead he walked out of the bar without giving her another look. Several women in the room watched him avidly.

OK, he had his points, especially when you saw him in a good light, thought Martine. She liked tall men, especially when they moved like that. The tan was striking, too. He probably stripped well; his body had interesting proportions: broad shoulders, slim hips, long, long legs.

Catching herself up, she grimaced. What was she thinking about? Men like him were nothing but a disaster. She hadn’t had a man in her life for almost a year, that was the trouble, and however hard she worked, however many hours she put into her job, she still felt pretty blue at times. Frustration and loneliness must be having a dire effect on her brains for her to look twice at that guy, though!

She crossly took a couple of salted almonds from the bowl in the middle of the table and popped them into her mouth while she, too, consulted her watch.

Where was Charles?

She had no sooner thought the question than she saw him hurrying towards her, a thin, slight, fair man in a well-cut dark suit.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised, sliding into the seat next to her. ‘Am I late, or were you early?’

‘I’ve only been here a moment,’ she lied, smiling at him, her eyes faintly anxious as she absorbed the air of weariness he habitually wore. She hadn’t seen him for a week and was struck by the way he was ageing. He was only forty-five, but he looked older; there were lines around his mouth and eyes, his skin had a grey tinge.

The waiter brought her drink, looked at Charles expectantly.

‘My usual, Jimmy,’ Charles told him with a smile.

‘Yes, Mr Redmond,’ said the waiter, beaming, pleased because Charles had remembered his name.

Charles ate here frequently. He lived in a luxurious penthouse flat a short walk away; this was his nearest local restaurant and he liked the place. He had a married couple who ran his home. Mr Wright was his chauffeur and handyman, and looked after his clothes; Mrs Wright cleaned and cooked in the flat. But Charles let them have three evenings a week free, and came here to eat.

The waiter walked away and Charles turned back to smile at Martine.

‘That’s my favourite dress, you always look lovely in it,’ he said, and a faint flush crept into her face. She had put on the black georgette because whenever she wore it Charles told her how much he liked it.

Working for him meant a constant succession of important social gatherings for which she required a large and very expensive wardrobe, so she had plenty of clothes to choose from. She got a special allowance for clothes and Charles encouraged her to buy from good designers because as his personal assistant she was always representing the bank and Charles felt she should look expensive and elegant at all times. It was the image he wished the bank to convey: moneyed, sophisticated, cool.

‘Thank you, Charles, you look very elegant yourself tonight,’ she murmured, and he gave her a rueful little quirk of the mouth.

‘Why, thank you.’ He didn’t sound convinced. No doubt he knew his suit no longer fitted perfectly, revealed how thin he was getting, emphasised the fact that he had lost even more weight since she last saw him.

Charles had never been heavily built, but after his wife’s death two years ago he had lost weight as if his flesh was melting away. That hadn’t been the only change in him. His hair had been a lovely pale gold; the shock of Elizabeth’s death had left him with a sprinkling of silver hairs and a haunted look in his blue eyes.

He had been driving and had emerged unscathed himself with a few minor bruises and cuts and a slight head injury. Elizabeth had been killed instantly; Charles had never quite got over it. He blamed himself and was guilty because he had not died too. If they had had children it might have been easier for him to recover from the shock, but he and Elizabeth hadn’t yet got around to a family.

‘Thanks, Jimmy,’ he told the waiter as the man appeared with a double whisky and soda on a silver tray. ‘I’m expecting another guest to join us—would you keep an eye open for him? His name’s Falcucci, Bruno Falcucci.’

‘An Italian gentleman, would he be, sir? There’s a gentleman making a telephone call in the foyer who’s talking in Italian. I’ll check if it’s Mr Falcucci, shall I?’

‘Thanks, Jimmy,’ Charles said, smiling at him again.

Ice clinked in the glass as Charles took a swallow of whisky.

‘Who’s joining us?’ Martine asked, faintly disappointed because she had been looking forward to dinner alone with him, but not taken entirely by surprise because Charles often used social occasions to smooth a business deal, and she was frequently included in the party, whether it was lunch or dinner or a cocktail party.

‘A cousin of mine,’ Charles said with a glint of mischief in his blue eyes.

As startled as he had obviously expected her to be, Martine said, ‘You’ve never mentioned having any close relatives.’

Charles had, from time to time, told her something about himself and his background, and other members of staff at the bank had dropped the odd crumb of gossip. She had gained the impression that Charles had no near family, and very few close friends. He had always been so wrapped up in his work, even while his wife was alive, and since her death he had cut his social life almost to nil.

His friends were largely colleagues or business acquaintances, most of them married, with family commitments, making Charles an odd man out on most social occasions. That was why he had fallen into the habit lately of taking Martine along with him to any private gathering to which he was invited.

They weren’t romantically involved, simply very good friends as well as close colleagues; it suited them both to have an escort for an evening now and then, and they were both deeply involved in their work.

Charles had told her that he had been an afterthought by his parents, both of whom, apparently, had been in their late forties when he was born, their first and only child, a much loved and indulged one. Perhaps having old parents had made him so serious, so tied to duty and work?

They had died long ago, when he was a young man, leaving Charles an enormous fortune and the major interest in the family merchant bank. Charles had once said that he had begun to work as soon as he left university, and hadn’t noticed much about the world outside banking until he was nearly forty himself. That year he had been in Paris at an international conference and met a beautiful French model half his age, Elizabeth, raven-haired, tiny, exquisite. Charles fell like a ton of bricks, married her just weeks later, only to lose her again within two years, a tragedy which made him, for Martine, a deeply romantic, star-crossed figure.

She felt highly protective towards Charles, as well as liking him.

‘Bruno is the only close relative I have,’ Charles said now, giving her a smiling, rueful shrug. ‘And I’ve only met him a couple of times; he lives in Switzerland.’

‘Switzerland? And he’s in banking, of course,’ she said with a wry expression.

Charles looked amused suddenly. ‘You think that follows naturally? Well, you’re right, he is in banking, I suppose it was in his genes. Or perhaps his mother talked him into joining a bank? Anyway, he works for the Swiss Bank Corporation at the moment, but tonight I intend to ask him to join us.’

Martine’s green eyes widened. ‘Oh, I see.’ Now what did that mean? she wondered, startled.

Charles went on quietly, ‘I don’t want anyone else to know this, Martine; I’m telling you because I trust you completely. I want you to know, I’ve just made a new will, leaving my shares in the bank to him. There’s nobody else for me to leave them to.’

Martine felt cold suddenly. ‘You’re talking as if...good heavens, you’re only forty-odd. You’ll marry again, Charles. Oh, I know you still miss Elizabeth, and it isn’t easy to get over things like that, but you sound as if you’ve given up on life, and you mustn’t! There’s plenty of time to think about making wills!’

Charles gave a faint, wry smile. ‘After working in banking for years, Martine, I’d have thought you knew better than that! It is never wise to put off making a will.’

Frowning, she shrugged. ‘In principle, no, but...’

‘In practice, too. You should make one yourself. One never knows what’s around the next corner.’ His blue eyes had that haunted look again; he was thinking about Elizabeth and that crash.

Martine put a hand on his arm, comforting silently, and he gave her a quick, crooked smile, coming back to the present moment.

‘Anyway, I’ve made my will. Actually, Bruno should have had shares in the bank long ago; his mother was my father’s only sister! But my grandfather refused to leave anything at all to his daughter, Una, because she married against his will—a Swiss doctor she met on a holiday at Lake Como. Her parents disapproved violently. First, Frederick was a foreigner, and secondly he was not in banking. Worst of all, he had very little money, but he was apparently a delightful man, a good man and a good doctor. Una was very happy with him, but her father never forgave her for marrying him, so he left all his money to my father.’

‘That does seem unfair,’ Martine agreed. ‘It must have made your aunt very unhappy.’

‘I’m sure it did.’

‘And it led to a family feud!’ Martine murmured, and Charles laughed.

‘You have a disconcerting streak of romanticism!’

She blushed. She always tried to hide it; it didn’t go down well in banking circles, for one thing, and, for another, it had led her into a painful love-affair and left her with a broken heart and bitter disillusion.

‘I suppose it was something along those lines, though,’ Charles shrugged. ‘My parents exchanged Christmas cards with Aunt Una but they never visited Switzerland, and Aunt Una never came back to England. This big gulf opened up between them.’

‘How sad!’ It seemed pretty childish to Martine, but the things people did to each other often were, she thought.

Charles sighed. ‘It is really, isn’t it? Sad and very stupid. When my parents died I lost contact with Aunt Una altogether, but she died a few years ago, and Bruno wrote to tell me. I happened to be going to Switzerland on that banking commission tour so I looked him up while I was there, and I liked him.’

‘Does he know you’ve made him your main beneficiary?’ Martine shrewdly asked.

Charles gave her an amused look. ‘Not yet.’

Martine’s eyes narrowed speculatively. This Bruno Falcucci might not know yet that Charles had left the Redmond share of the bank to him, but he would know that Charles was unmarried and had no other heir, and, if he was shrewd, as he probably was if he was a senior bank executive, he would probably have worked out that he had a chance of persuading Charles to leave him some money.

‘Did you invite him to come to London, or is he here off his own bat?’

‘He rang me last week to say he had to come to London on business,’ Charles informed her, still looking amused. ‘What a suspicious little mind you’ve got!’

‘I didn’t say a word!’

‘You don’t need to! I can read your thoughts—after all, I know you very well, Martine.’ He looked down into her green eyes and they exchanged an intimate, laughing look.

At that instant somebody strolled up to the table and Charles glanced round, exclaimed, stood up, holding out his hand, his drawn and tired face lighting up.

‘Ah, there you are, Bruno! I was beginning to think you had forgotten all about tonight!’

‘I’ve been looking forward to the evening all week,’ a deep, cool voice drawled.

Martine sat there transfixed, her mouth open and her nerves in shreds. It would be him, wouldn’t it?

Of all the men in the world, she had had to pick on Bruno Falcucci to take an instant dislike to! It hadn’t occurred to her for an instant that the man she had got stuck in the revolving door with might be the man she and Charles were waiting for.

Charles was smiling, gesturing to include her in the circle. ‘Bruno, I want you to meet my right hand—Martine Archer, my personal assistant for the last four years.’

Martine numbly held out her hand.

Bruno Falcucci took it, his powerful tanned fingers swallowing up her small, pale ones.

She risked a glance upwards. His black eyes coldly mocked her. He said something polite and distant. She answered with equal remoteness. He released her hand.

‘Sit down, have a drink; their whisky is very good,’ Charles told him.

‘I don’t drink spirits.’ He looked at Martine’s glass. ‘Is that mineral water? I’ll have the same, thank you.’

‘I’d forgotten you don’t drink,’ Charles said, made a face.

‘Like your assistant here, I like to keep a cool head,’ Bruno Falcucci drawled, and Martine gave him a flicking glance. Oh, very funny! she thought.

Charles ordered the drink, adding, ‘And bring the menus, Jimmy, will you? Now, Bruno, what sort of business brings you to London?’

‘Banking,’ the answer smoothly came.

Charles laughed. ‘Of course. Is it confidential? Shall we change the subject?’

‘I can’t talk in detail about it, I’m afraid. You may read about it in the financial Press some time, but not yet.’

‘Well, how long do you plan to stay? Can you tell us that?’

‘A week, maybe two. Then I might take a holiday—fly on to Greece, perhaps, or even as far as the Caribbean. I want to relax for a while, unwind, get some sun before I go back to work.’

‘You have an amazing tan already!’ said Charles. ‘Don’t you think so, Martine?’

She gave another brief glance in Bruno Falcucci’s direction; let her lids droop indifferently over her eyes again. ‘Amazing,’ she said offhandedly.

She felt Bruno looking at her closely, considering her rich auburn hair, the fine-boned face with the warm, curved mouth and fierce green eyes, before running his gaze down over her body in arrogant appraisal.

Her flush deepened and she felt the back of her neck prickle.

‘Where do you go for a holiday?’ he asked her.

She shrugged, reluctant to answer.

‘Oh, Martine doesn’t like hot countries,’ Charles answered for her. ‘Like most redheads, her wonderful skin doesn’t like too much sun. But we had a terrific time in Sweden last summer, didn’t we, Martine? And Switzerland was fun a couple of years ago.’

‘Especially the après-ski, no doubt,’ Bruno drawled.

He was making no attempt to hide what he was thinking, his gaze flicking from her to Charles and back again, glinting with cynicism.

He suspected her of having an affair with Charles, she realised. He couldn’t be serious! Charles was almost old enough to be her father!

Oh, he was still very good-looking in a weary way, but he had no energy, his hair was thinning and turning silver, his elegant, fine-cut features had a distinct look of strain. She was deeply fond of Charles, she felt sorry for him; but that was all. She resented Bruno Falcucci’s speculative stare, the cool cynicism in his eyes.

The head waiter arrived. ‘Have you chosen yet, sir?’ he asked Charles, who looked at the others.

‘I’m ready to order—how about you two?’

Martine nodded. So did Bruno.

She chose melon and sole with a salad; Bruno chose melon, too, with prosciutto, followed by a steak, also with a salad; and Charles ordered melon followed by an omelette with a salad. He ate almost nothing these days. He would probably just pick at his food.

While they waited to be told their table was ready Charles and Bruno talked about the international banking situation. Martine listened intently, absorbing with a faint dismay the fact of Bruno Falcucci’s swift, hard intelligence. Charles knew what he was talking about, but he was like a machine running on half-power lately—he kept fading, losing interest, missing vital points. She began to suspect that Bruno could run rings around him.