The Japanese Screen. Anne Mather

would have known that, señor.’

      He smiled, the kind of smile that caused her heart to quicken its beat rather dramatically. ‘Please,’ he said appealingly. ‘Would you disappoint a lonely man? A stranger to your country? I promise not to compromise you in any way.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Come. I have a car this evening – I hired it specially for the occasion. I do not care for taxi drivers to listen to all my conversations with you.’

      Susannah’s resolve was weakening by the second. Her head was swimming, and she wondered if he could feel the throbbing rate of her pulses through his fingers gripping her arm. She thought it was entirely possible. There was a certainty of purpose about him now which was not completely due to his own self-confidence. Slowly but surely he was drawing her with him, off the pavement and on to the road and across to where a gold-coloured Ford Granada was parked, the reason why she had not observed him earlier.

      ‘You see,’ he said, unlocking the door with his key. ‘Is this not a most attractive vehicle I have chosen for us?’

      Susannah looked into his face, so disturbingly close to her own. ‘Where are you taking me?’

      ‘Get in and you will find out,’ he advised quietly.

      She hesitated for a moment and then with a resigned shrug she allowed him to assist her into the car and close the door behind her. He walked round the bonnet and slid in beside her, giving her a slight smile as he did so, and she thought with a sense of self-betrayal that for once she was allowing a man to call the tune.

      Fernando said nothing as he threaded his way expertly through the busy traffic and on to the Hammersmith flyover. She had expected him to be uncertain of his way about London, but it seemed obvious that he was used to driving through its maze of one-way streets and box junctions. Susannah sat in the comfortable leather seat, separated from him by the console fixture of the gear lever, and wondered exactly where they were going.

      As the traffic thinned, he had more time to look about him, and settling himself more comfortably in his seat, he said: ‘How old are you, Miss King?’

      Susannah was taken aback. ‘That’s a very pointed question, isn’t it?’

      ‘Hmm. I suppose it is. Are you going to tell me?’ He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, and she found herself becoming warm under his gaze.

      ‘As a matter of fact I’m twenty-four,’ she declared shortly. ‘How old are you?’

      He chuckled. ‘Much older than that, Miss King.’

      ‘That’s not an answer,’ she exclaimed indignantly.

      ‘How old do you think I am?’

      She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Thirty-five, thirty-six?’

      ‘You’re too kind.’ His expression was wry. ‘I am forty, Miss King. Almost old enough to be your father, si?’

      She bent her head. ‘Why did you want to know how old I was?’ He shrugged, resting his arm on the ledge of his window. ‘I had the distinct suspicion that you were much younger than twenty-four. Were it not for that ridiculous hairstyle, I would say you were twenty at most.’

      ‘Ridiculous hairstyle!’ she echoed, putting a hand to her head. ‘What’s ridiculous about it?’

      He cast her a sardonic glance. ‘You look like a small girl trying to look like an adult. I liked it better in the elastic bands, untidy though it was.’

      Susannah caught her breath. ‘I don’t think you should make personal comments about my appearance, señor.’

      ‘No. I agree, I should not. But you did ask me, and I was merely being truthful.’ He slowed behind a lumbering wagon. ‘And as I am so much older than you are, perhaps it would not be too presumptuous of me to suggest that I might call you Susannah, si?’

      She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Do I have any choice?’

      ‘You make me sound very rude. I’m sorry.’

      She sighed. ‘I didn’t mean to do so. Of course you may call me Susannah if you wish.’

      His lean brown fingers slid round the wheel. ‘So. As that is disposed of, I suggest we talk about something else. For example – do you like shellfish?’

      ‘Shellfish, señor?’ She sounded as perplexed as she felt.

      ‘Si. Is that not how you say it – lobster, crab, that kind of thing?’

      ‘Oh, I see. Shellfish.’ She nodded apologetically. ‘Yes, I like it.’

      ‘That is good. The place where we are to dine serves the most delicious lobster you have ever tasted. It is cooked in a sauce of cream and white wine, and melts in the mouth. You must try it.’

      Susannah managed a smile, but in truth she was wondering whether she would be able to eat anything at all. His presence unnerved her. She felt the restraint between them like a tangible thing. And yet there was no reason for it.

      To her surprise, their destination was a rather exclusive golf club, overlooking the Thames near Kingston. Although on this Wednesday evening there appeared to be no rule about formality, many of the diners were wearing dinner jackets, or lounge suits with bow ties, and as their female counterparts all looked elegant and soignée to Susannah’s uneasy eyes, she felt terribly self-conscious in her old velvet pants and cream sweater.

      It was better once they were seated at table and Fernando was studying the wine list. What small interest their arrival had aroused had mostly been concentrated on him, but now that he was patently ignoring it the conversation around them resumed its normal level.

      The meal was as delicious as he had said it would be, and under his surveillance she agreed to try the lobster. A certain amount of good wine loosened her reserve and while they ate she talked quite happily about her work, relating one or two amusing anecdotes she had collected over the years. He was a good listener. He lay back in his seat watching her closely, and it was not until they reached the coffee stage that she realized she still knew absolutely nothing about him, other than that he was a friend of the Castanas. He wore three rings, two very broad silver ones and a meshed gold one, but none of them occupied the third finger of his left hand. Even so, he could be married for all she knew. And she had no idea how to bring the conversation round to his personal affairs.

      They left the restaurant at about ten o’clock and walked back to the gold Granada. It was parked beneath a willow tree that dipped its branches towards the river. It was cooler now than it had been when they left London a couple of hours ago, and Susannah shivered.

      ‘You are cold,’ he said at once, unlocking her door. ‘Do get in. I should not like you to catch a chill, Susannah.’

      She climbed inside obediently and watched him through the rear-view mirror as he walked round the back of the car to reach his door. He levered himself in beside her, checked that she was comfortable, and then reversed smoothly out of the parking area.

      It seemed no time at all before they were running through the suburbs, dark now with street lamps casting pools of light on the pavements. He drove through the mass of side streets to reach Lorrimer Terrace, and brought the big car to a halt only a few feet from the door of the Castana house.

      Susannah glanced doubtfully up at the windows, wondering whether their return had been observed. It was unlikely. Lucie Castana slept at the back of the building and the sound of a car drawing up in the street outside was a common enough occurrence for it not to attract any especial interest.

      She suddenly realized that she was making no attempt to get out of the car and turning to Fernando Cuevas, she said: ‘Thank you very much, señor. I have enjoyed myself.’

      The dark Spaniard gave her a slight smile, his fingers tapping somewhat impatiently on the wheel. ‘That is good,’ he replied. ‘So have I. Good night, Susannah.’

      ‘Good