Body And Soul

There was no doubt about it. The man was potentially lethal. And she had a sinking feeling that Charles wouldn’t listen if she tried to warn him, would just laugh at her.

The head waiter came back, smiling. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Redmond...’

‘Shall we go in?’ suggested Charles, rising. Martine got to her feet. He put a hand under her arm in a gallant gesture, to which she submitted, smiling at him, her eyes affectionate. He was always chivalrous, an old-fashioned man in many ways; she liked that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Bruno Falcucci’s face: jet eyes watching her with sardonic amusement, mouth wry. Martine’s smile stiffened into anger. It was going to be an ordeal to sit through a meal with that man across the table. She wished she couldn’t read his mind so clearly, but it was as if his thoughts leapt across the table to her—or maybe he was actually allowing her, or willing her, to pick up what he was thinking!

Yet why should he? She frowned, letting Charles steer her into the dining-room. Her imagination was really working overtime, surely? She was building Bruno Falcucci up into some sort of bogeyman!

She was seated between the two men at the table, but from then on she turned all her attention, and her body, towards Charles, practically ignoring the other man except when she had no option.

Bruno Falcucci leaned back in his chair, a brooding presence, watching her out of narrowed eyes, physically dominating the circle they made: herself, Charles and him, around this table, with his wide black-clad shoulders, his deep chest and hard face.

Charles dominated the talking, though, and was too absorbed in his favourite subject, international finance, to be aware of the silent duel going on across the white-damask-covered table with its spray of dark red roses in the centre. The dining-room was shadowy, and a softly shaded lamp gave them exactly enough light in which the table glittered with crystal glass, silver cutlery and fine bone china and their faces glowed, now in shadow, now in light, like shifting masks.

It was towards the end of the meal that Charles finally asked Bruno Falcucci the question Martine knew he had been planning to put to him.

‘How would you feel about leaving your present job, Bruno, and coming to work for us in a rather more senior position?’

If Bruno was surprised he didn’t show it. There was a beat of time when he just sat there, as if absorbing the possibilities, then he calmly said, ‘That’s a very flattering offer, Charles. I would need to know precisely what you had in mind, of course, and I’d need time to think it over, but in principle I’m certainly interested.’

Charles beamed. ‘I hoped you would be. You wouldn’t regret the decision if you accepted, Bruno, I promise you that. You could have a splendid future with us, far more exciting than anything you have in prospect at the moment. Ours is a family bank and you are my only male relative.’

He shouldn’t be stating the situation quite so frankly. He was betraying the weakness of his position, Martine thought, watching Bruno Falcucci closely, her green eyes sharp and hostile.

He was watching Charles, and his face was a polite mask. Martine would have given a good deal to know what he was thinking, whether he was excited, triumphant, elated. He gave no clues.

‘I’ll get Martine to put together a proposition for you, setting out all the terms,’ Charles promised as he called for the bill. ‘And after you’ve had time to digest the contents, we can talk it over. I’m going to be frank with you—I think your mother should have been provided for in her father’s will; she should have had shares in the bank.’

Bruno nodded. ‘She should.’

There was a ruthless set to his jaw, the spark of anger in his black eyes. If Charles thought Bruno did not resent the way his mother had been treated, he was clearly wrong. Bruno resented it bitterly. Martine shivered. She hoped Charles hadn’t made a fatal mistake. Yet what threat could Bruno present to him? Charles owned a majority of the shares in the bank; Bruno couldn’t hurt him.

Charles smiled at him, apparently blithely unaware of the dark feeling in the younger man. ‘I want to make up for the past, Bruno. I want you in the family business, where you belong.’

Martine shifted restlessly, frowning. Haven’t you got eyes? she wanted to ask Charles. Can’t you see what he’s like under the good looks and the formal good manners?

Bruno flicked one of those brief, cold glances her way. Charles might not be picking up her agitation, but Bruno Falcucci was, and her dismay didn’t bother him. He looked into her eyes, then away, one black brow curling sardonically.

A hard spot of red burnt in her cheeks. She knew what that lifted eyebrow had said. She might oppose him but she wouldn’t be a problem, he could deal with her.

Well, that was what he thought! They would see about that.

Charles signed the bill, folded some notes into the leather wallet in which the bill had arrived, and stood up, yawning, looking suddenly drained and white.

‘I’m sorry, Martine,’ he said in a wearily apologetic voice. ‘I’d planned to drive you home myself, but I’m barely able to stay on my feet—will you be very cross if I just put you into a taxi back to Chelsea?’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she began, but Bruno interrupted.

‘I have my car parked outside; I’ll drop her off.’

‘I thought you said you were staying at the Savoy? There’s no need to drive out to Chelsea, I can easily get a taxi.’ Martine certainly didn’t want him driving her home. The very idea of being alone with the man even for five minutes sent shivers down her spine.

‘It’s still early. I would enjoy a drive along the river,’ he shrugged.

Charles beamed. ‘And you can get to know each other! That’s a wonderful idea, I should have thought of it myself. Martine is indispensable to me, Bruno. She can tell you all you need to know about the way the bank runs.’

His car was parked across the street. As he began to walk towards it Martine caught Bruno Falcucci’s secret smile, and tensed. If she hadn’t known how it would upset Charles she would have slapped his face.

Turning away, she walked with Charles to his car, watching him with concern.

‘You look quite ill, Charles. You’ve been working too hard for far too long. I think you need a long holiday. Why don’t you take a few days off work and get away?’

‘I will, soon,’ he said quietly, bent and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re my guardian angel—don’t think I’m not aware of it. Now, be nice to Bruno. I want him to join us, Martine, sell the bank to him. I’ve done some quiet research on him and he has quite a record, he’s pulled off some brilliant deals. Even if he wasn’t family, I’d want him, but as he is a Redmond, even though his name is different, I’m determined to get him by hook or by crook.’

‘Well, in that case I’ll do what I can,’ she promised as Charles got behind the wheel of his silver Rolls. She meant what she said, despite her private reservations about the man. She would certainly sell the bank to Bruno Falcucci, but she doubted if it would be necessary. She had the feeling no persuasion would be required to get him to join them. He had always planned to do so.

Charles smiled at her through the window as he started the softly purring engine.

‘I know I can always trust you. Goodnight, Martine, see you tomorrow.’

He drove off and she turned to find Bruno Falcucci right behind her, lounging against a long, sleek, vintage black Rolls-Bentley. It was one of the loveliest cars she had ever seen; her mouth watered at the sight of it. She loved old cars.

He opened the passenger door, his body graceful as he held the door for her. ‘Where am I to take you?’

‘Do you know Chelsea?’ she curtly asked, having already discovered that he had been to London a number of times.

He nodded. ‘Vaguely. I make for Parliament Square and head off along the Embankment, right?’

She nodded. ‘I live a stone’s throw from the Tate Gallery, I’ll guide you after we get to Millbank.’

She slid into the Bentley’s interior, instinctively stroking the soft, pale cream leather seats, giving the dashboard an appreciative inspection.

‘Is this yours, or have you borrowed or hired it?’ she asked as Bruno got in beside her.

His tanned hands lightly holding the wheel he turned his black head and gave her a long, cool look.

‘It’s mine. I just bought it.’

It must have cost a fortune; she wondered how much he earned a year to be able to afford a toy like this. Well, she would find out soon, when he and Charles began negotiations.

‘You aren’t married, Mr Falcucci?’

He shook his head, that sardonic smile in evidence again.

‘Have you ever been?’ she asked.

‘No, have you?’

‘No,’ she said tersely.

‘You’re a devoted secretary, though,’ he drawled. ‘Lucky Charles.’

He turned his head again, deliberately, to meet her stare and Martine let all her dislike and distrust of him show in her face.

‘If you hurt Charles in any way I’ll kill you!’ she told him.

His brows shot up and he gave her that cool, sardonic smile, then took her breath away by what he said next.

‘If he was going to marry you, he’d have done so long ago, you know. You’re wasting your time waiting for him; which seems a pity, looking the way you do.’ His dark eyes flicked down over her body and a wave of heat flowed through her. Softly he added, ‘I’m sure a lot of men would be only too happy to help you forget Charles. I might even volunteer myself!’

Martine went dark red, her hands clenching, her teeth together, but she refused to play his game by answering or defending herself, explaining that he was wrong. Information was power, Charles had taught her long ago. Never give it away, use it for your own purposes and do so sparingly. So she let Bruno Falcucci imagine that he had hit on the truth, just gave him one icy glance, then said in a tight, brusque voice, ‘Take the next turn on the right, would you?’

The Bentley spun round the corner and began moving along the wide street of rather stately Victorian houses.

‘No comment, then?’ Bruno Falcucci asked her, watching her out of the corner of his eyes.

‘Stop here, please,’ was all Martine said.

He braked and turned towards her but she was already getting out of the car. She slammed the door then bent towards the window and he leaned over to wind it down to hear what she said.

Martine looked into his gleaming, dark eyes. ‘Remember, if you hurt Charles, I’ll make sure you pay for it,’ she said, then turned on her heel and walked away.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU have to admit,’ said Annie, one of the share analysts, some months later, ‘he’s an asset to the bank!’

‘Oh, please, no puns this early in the morning!’ winced Martine.

‘You’ve got no sense of humour where he’s concerned, that’s the trouble,’ complained Annie, who was a year younger, and very pretty: small, fair, bubbly, and very popular with the men. ‘And you’ve dodged my question! He’s the hottest thing we’ve acquired in years. Look at that Ambleham-Tring merger—I hear we’ve picked up a lot more business from that, and his client list has doubled since he arrived.’

‘Haven’t you got any work to do?’ Martine was staring at her VDU, frowning over the string of figures coming up. ‘Because if you haven’t, I have. With Charles ringing in to say he’s working at home today, and our trip to Rome starting tomorrow, I’ve got so much to do I’ll be working until very late tonight, so get off my desk and go away, Annie!’

‘In a minute,’ Annie said, wriggling like a child on the edge of the desk, her small feet swinging back and forth. ‘I wanted to ask you something...’

‘Well, what?’ Martine irritably asked, wondering how Annie could be so thick-skinned. What did you have to do to get rid of her?

‘Has he got a woman tucked away somewhere? I mean, he hasn’t dated anyone since he joined us, he says he isn’t married, and I can’t believe he’s gay, so is there someone in the background?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t care, and will you please shut up about Bruno Falcucci, get off my desk and let me get on with my work?’ Martine frequently wished she had never heard the man’s name, let alone met him. He had been here nearly four months and she sometimes felt as if the whole place revolved around him. It certainly did as far as the female staff were concerned. They couldn’t stop talking about him; half of them were in love with him and the others were simply fascinated.

Except Martine, of course. If anything, she disliked him more now than she had the first day she’d met him.

She had watched grimly while he became a director and immediately began to dominate board meetings, making himself the centre of power on the board, a voice to be reckoned with, pushing Charles further and further out of the picture.

It was what she had feared from the beginning, but Charles would not listen even now. He had smiled gently when she pointed out that Bruno had taken over some of his own clients, some of the most lucrative, at that.

‘At my suggestion, my dear girl!’ he had insisted. ‘I’m trying to shed some of my workload. You told me I was working too hard, remember!’

‘I didn’t tell you to hand some of your best clients over to Bruno Falcucci! And you never told me that was what you were planning!’

He had given her a wry, apologetic look. ‘I knew you’d get agitated and lecture me on your favourite subject!’

Eyes startled, she’d asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Bruno,’ Charles had said, laughing softly as she flushed dark red. ‘Now, don’t deny it—you’re paranoid where he’s concerned. You think he has horns and a forked tail!’

‘Yes,’ she had said then, soberly. ‘I don’t trust him, and I only hope you aren’t making a serious mistake, letting him get into such a position of power at the bank.’

Her uneasiness had not lifted a few weeks after this discussion with Charles, on the cool autumn morning when Annie sat on her desk and would not stop talking about Bruno Falcucci.

‘Shoo,’ she told Annie, pushing her off her desk, and Annie turned a laughing face to her.

‘Oh, come on, I bet you’re secretly crazy about Bruno too—you just won’t admit it!’

‘I’d rather date Dracula!’ Martine snapped just as her office door opened.

She and Annie both looked round, both froze in confusion. Bruno stood in the doorway, his dark eyes hooded and unreadable, his powerful body briefly at rest, which she already knew was rare for him since he was perpetually in motion, a man with burning energy always racing against the clock, or himself, or the world, she wasn’t sure which.

‘What’s Dracula got that I haven’t?’ he drawled, and Annie began to giggle, half in relief because he didn’t seem angry, half with embarrassment because she didn’t know how much of the earlier conversation he had overheard.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Martine said, and Bruno looked into her eyes, his mouth twisting.

‘Could I?’

Annie’s eyes grew enormous, fascinated. She looked from one to the other and waited to hear more.

‘No,’ Martine said through her teeth.

Bruno held the door open. ‘Weren’t you just going, Annie?’ he asked in a bland voice. She hesitated, wanting to stay and eavesdrop, but Bruno’s eyes were hypnotic. Reluctantly she swayed her way across the room towards him. Martine watched Bruno watch Annie. There was a distinct gleam in the dark eyes. Annie was a pocket-sized blonde Venus—high breasts, tiny waist, rounded hips—and she knew how to move to make men stare. Bruno was staring now.

Annie paused to smile up at him; Martine couldn’t see her face but she saw the way Bruno smiled down at her.

‘Dracula hasn’t got anything you haven’t got,’ Annie said, and giggled.

‘Then why aren’t you scared?’ Bruno asked and bent towards her, lip curling to show his teeth, pretending to be about to sink his fangs into her throat.

Annie shrieked in delight and fled.

Bruno straightened and looked across the room. Martine coldly met his laughing gaze and the laughter stopped; his face tightened and turned cold. He walked towards her, letting the door slam behind him.

Her nerve-ends quivered in alarm at something in his stare. He stopped beside her desk, and for an instant of panic she was afraid he was going to touch her, kiss her.

She went crimson, then white, shrinking back from him.

He watched her inexorably.

‘One of these days I’m going to tell you why you can’t stand the sight of me,’ he said softly. ‘And then you’ll really hate me.’

‘I already do!’

It came out before she could stop it, and she bit her lip in shock. She hadn’t meant to be so up-front about her real feelings; she was horrified that she should have lost control like that. In her work she often came up against men she loathed and despised, but she knew better than to let her view of them show!

‘I’m sorry,’ she said edgily, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I lost my temper, please forget I said that.’

If he told Charles she knew the reaction she would get. Charles would be appalled. He was aware she didn’t trust his cousin but he expected her to have a little self-control and to keep her private opinions to herself. And, in fact, so did she. She was angry with herself for losing her cool.

‘I never forget anything,’ Bruno murmured, and she believed him. She had already discovered what a fantastic memory he had; he seemed to know everything about every public company and many in private hands. The tiniest detail was retained in his mind and could be conjured up out of nowhere when he needed it. They used state-of-the-art computers to do work Bruno could do in his head and seemed to find child’s play.

‘That’s up to you,’ she said, trying to hide her faint dismay. No doubt one day she would pay for having lost her temper. She suspected him to be a man who took his revenge for past wounds. That was why it worried her that Charles seemed to trust him so implicitly. She was afraid that one day Bruno Falcucci would make Charles pay for the way the Redmond family had treated Bruno’s mother.

She swallowed, looked at the screen in front of her and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the latest Japanese figures?’

‘More or less as I predicted,’ he shrugged.

‘Yes, right again, as usual!’ Martine said with saccharine sweetness.

He laughed. She couldn’t even make him angry. It was infuriating. She wished he would go away, he was ruining her morning.

‘I am rather busy,’ she told him coldly. ‘So unless you wanted to tell me something important...?’

‘Charles just rang me from his home,’ he said. ‘About the Rome conference...’

‘Yes?’ She was flying to Rome with Charles the following day for an international banking conference, and was rather looking forward to the trip. It was ages since she had been anywhere interesting, and it would mean getting away from the office and Bruno Falcucci for a little while.

‘His doctor has advised him to stay in bed for a week, so he won’t be able to go,’ Bruno coolly said.

‘What’s wrong? Is he ill?’ Martine anxiously asked but Bruno shook his head.

‘Just tired, I gather. A touch of flu, too, maybe. Nothing serious, but his doctor thinks he needs complete rest. He asked me to explain to you, and say how sorry he is to miss the Rome trip.’

‘Of course; I understand, though,’ Martine said, deeply disappointed, her face falling. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, he has looked quite exhausted the last few days. He really needs a long holiday, but a week in bed would be a good start. Well, I’d better cancel everything, but I don’t think we’ll be able to reclaim the price of the air tickets. The hotel can be cancelled without a problem, of course.’

She put out a hand to the phone but Bruno caught hold of her wrist, his fingers cool and light, yet making her aware of their potential strength.

‘No, don’t cancel anything. The trip is still on, it’s just that I’ll be taking Charles’s place.’

Martine stiffened. ‘You?’

His mouth curled. ‘Sorry, I know I’m no substitute for Charles in your eyes, but you’ll have to put up with my company for a few days, I’m afraid. Charles wants the bank represented. He was making a speech on the pros and cons of monetarist policy and he wants me to read it to the conference.’

Martine knew all about that speech; Charles had discussed it with her at great length. She could have delivered that speech for him, if he’d asked her, but Charles hadn’t even considered that, she realised, her mouth taut.

Bruno considered her expression, his brows crooked. ‘Charles has a rather old-fashioned view of women’s place in banking, doesn’t he?’

‘Which you share?’ she bitterly suggested.

‘You do enjoy thinking the worst of me, don’t you? No, as it happens, I don’t, but Charles was obviously ill and I couldn’t very well argue with him. Have you got all his documentation, by the way? Tickets, etcetera?’

She nodded and began to get up. Bruno moved back just enough to let her pass; she picked up the scent of his aftershave and decided she didn’t like it.

She found the folder containing all the travel documents for Charles, and handed it to Bruno.

‘The name on the tickets will have to be changed. I’ll do that.’

‘Don’t worry, my secretary will deal with it,’ he said, turning to walk out. ‘See you tomorrow, on the plane.’

She glared after him, half inclined not to turn up. Only her loyalty to Charles made her decide to go. Someone had to keep an eye on Bruno Falcucci.

They met at Heathrow, in fact, in a chaotic, overcrowded terminal building. All planes were delayed by fog in the London area. Bruno and Martine bought piles of newspapers and magazines, drank lots of bitter black coffee, tried to ignore screaming babies, restless children, the whine of the Tannoy, the discomfort of the seats they sat on.

At last the fog lifted and planes began to take off. They were two hours late in leaving for Rome, in the end.

The chauffeur-driven car they had ordered was not waiting to meet them when they arrived. They had to take a taxi, there were long queues and a black, relentless rain was falling. Rome sulked under sagging clouds and grey skies. Looking up, Martine felt very depressed.

By the time they got to their hotel, which sat near the top of the Spanish Steps, she was barely able to stand, and very fed up. She collected her key and went straight to her room, which turned out to be charming: beautifully furnished and with a magnificent view over the huddled roofs, towers and cupolas of the city.

The rain was still teeming down, lashing along streets, trickling down windows, spilling from the gargoyles on churches, splashing in gutters, forming rivers down the Spanish Steps.

Martine leaned on the window for a while, gazing out. There was a magnificent desolation about the scene spread out below her, and her eyes wandered from building to building, absorbing the atmosphere. Even in the rain Rome was noisy, bustling, over-full of people and vehicles. She heard the blare of horns, police whistles, people shouting to each other, people quarrelling loudly, the clatter of feet on old pavements.

Sitting there with the window open made her shiver after a while. She stood up, closed the window and went into her modern bathroom to take a long, warm, fragrant bath, pouring deliciously scented bath oils into the water before she climbed gratefully into it.

Bruno had suggested that they meet for dinner at eight o’clock in the bar. The first gathering of the conference was at nine o’clock the following day, and was scheduled to take place at another hotel, the Excelsior, which was a popular conference centre with efficient modern facilities, next door to the United States embassy and close to the via Veneto. Most of the delegates were also staying at the Excelsior, but Charles had wanted to have a peaceful bolthole to make for when conference politics grew too hectic. It often helped to be able to escape for a while. The lobbying began at breakfast and went on until well into the night, and if you could get away you had a better chance of preserving your sanity, Charles said.