Anne Mather - The Night Of The Bulls

‘Hello, Dionne,’ he said, his voice, with its unmistakable accent, lacerating her with incisive harshness. ‘Might one ask why you are here and why you wish to speak with me?’

DIONNE stared at him disbelievingly, unable to accept for a moment that this was not some crazy hallucination brought on by her intense longing to see Manoel St. Salvador again, a longing which until this moment had existed only in her subconscious.

But this was not the Manoel she remembered. Her recollections of him were acute, and this cold-eyed stranger bore little resemblance to the warm-blooded man she had known and loved. The features were the same, and yet not the same. They were arranged in the same order, grey eyes below dark brows, arrogantly carved cheekbones, a full and sensual mouth, dark side-bums growing down to his firm jawline. But he was leaner than she remembered, and the grey eyes were more deeply set in their sockets and tinged with bitterness. Deep lines etched nose and mouth, and he had a slightly bored and jaded air. His body was leaner, too, although the muscles of his chest rippled beneath the soft suede of his short jacket, and the strong thighs strained against his taut-fitting trousers.

Now she shook her head helplessly, aware that this moment had come upon her unannounced and unprepared and she could not cope with it. What possible hope of compassion could she expect from the cruel-looking man who was regarding her with something like hatred in his eyes? How could she begin to believe that she might ask anything of him? How could she have imagined so foolishly that the passing of the years should not have laid as much experience at his door as at hers?

‘Well, mademoiselle ?’

It was the cold detached voice of a stranger, and Dionne turned away, unable to stand the accusation in his eyes. But what was he accusing her off? Why did he regard her with such obvious distrust, such aversion? Was the memory of the past so distasteful to him?

‘I – I – how did you find me?’ Dionne’s words were scarcely audible.

Manoel uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘Is that important? Why are you here? What do you want of me now?’ He stepped towards her, swinging her round to face him, his hand a cruel pain on her shoulder. ‘So! Do not turn away, Dionne! Or is the sight of me so repugnant to you?’

Dionne quivered in his grasp and his gaze raked her face grimly and then travelled down the slim length of her body in the chunky green sweater and cream pants. His hand on her shoulder softened and his thumb probed the fragile bones at her throat before his jaw tightened and his hand fell away.

‘Well?’ he said again. ‘I repeat – why are you here?’

Dionne swallowed a choking breath. ‘I – I came to see you. I – I didn’t know – who else to turn to.’

Manoel’s eyes darkened. ‘You are in trouble?’ He glanced round impatiently. ‘We cannot talk here. You have a room?’ And at her nod, he said: ‘We will go there!’

‘No!’ The word was tom from her and she faltered desperately, ‘No – I mean – we couldn’t go there. It’s small – a bedroom, no more!’

‘So? And what do you imagine I intend to do in this room of yours? Swing you about, little cat?’ His mouth twisted harshly.

Dionne shook her head helplessly. How could she explain that she wanted no remembrance of his presence in that small bare room to haunt her through the long lonely reaches of the night?

‘There – there’s a lounge here,’ she stammered. ‘If – if it’s not occupied …’

She thrust open the door on to darkness that enveloped her like a shroud. She moved quickly into the room, switching on the lamps, illuminating the emptiness.

Manoel’s expression was grim. ‘Very well, it will do. Now—’ He followed her into the quiet room, closing the door and leaning back against it, his whole being emanating the kind of strength that she had only begun to remember could annihilate any defence she might erect. ‘Now, Dionne, what is it? What is wrong? Why do you need my help?’

Dionne moved about the room restlessly, unable to stand still under that piercing examination, unable to find words to say what she wanted to say. And presently he tired of her restiveness and said intensely: ‘ Pour l’amour de Dieu , Dionne, I am not a patient man! Say what you have to say and be done with it!’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What is it you want? Money?’

Dionne halted abruptly and stared at him, her lips quivering. ‘Why should you imagine I want money?’ She was stung by the cynicism of his tone.

‘Is that not what everybody wants?’ he inquired carelessly. He snapped his fingers. ‘If that is what this elaborate charade is about, then continue with it no longer. Such performances bore me!’ He straightened, looking at her contemptuously. ‘What puzzles me is why you should imagine I might give you money!’

Dionne stared at him, her tongue straying to the comer of her mouth. ‘Am I to take it from your remarks that you refuse to help me?’ she inquired tersely, summoning all her composure to confront him squarely.

Manoel returned her gaze insolently, forcing her lids to fall defensively over the jade green eyes. She found it incredibly difficult even after all this time to sustain a measure of confidence with him, and she was afraid her eyes might mirror a little of what she was feeling. There was a poignant kind of pleasure in just looking at him, but with the looking came memories which she had previously never allowed to enter her conscious mind. She knew every facet of that lean strong face intimately, she had kissed the firm skin of his cheek and felt the sensual curve of his mouth against her body, driving all coherent thought from her mind. Despite the passage of years it was impossible not to be affected by such recollections.

He hooked his thumbs into the belt of his pants which circled his narrow hips. Without bothering to answer her question he said: ‘Tell me something, why do you need money?’

Dionne squared her shoulders. ‘It’s a personal matter,’ she said. ‘Besides, as you so obviously are opposed to helping me, I don’t see that it matters.’

‘I do not recall stating categorically that I would not help you,’ he drawled, his eyes watchful. ‘You are too quick to take offence, Dionne. You cannot expect to come back here after three years and expect things and people to be the same now as they were then.’