Prelude To Enchantment. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ and rose to her feet, marching down the aisle between the typists’ desks towards Eduardo Tessile's office.

      Sancha watched her go, wishing she had the other girl's style and confidence. It was not that Eleanor was tall or willowy, or overpowering in that way. In fact she was small and dark and rather fiery, but she had absolute belief in herself and in her work, and for that Sancha felt envious.

      However, when Eleanor returned a few minutes later she looked more than a little put out. She flung the offending sheets of typescript on Sancha's desk and spat out:

      ‘You do them! It's your article! Your uncle has given the feature to you!'

      And with that she stormed away to her own office.

      Sancha picked up the typed sheets nervously, glancing over her shoulder apprehensively, but Eleanor had disappeared into her room and the door had been slammed behind her. Sancha stared at the sheets unseeingly. So Uncle Eduardo had not been intimidated; but what of her? How could she write a major article without Eleanor's advice and assistance, knowing as she did that the other girl would tear it to shreds if she dared to consult her? She sighed. She could take it to Uncle Eduardo, of course, he would help her, but did she really want that? Sancha sighed again. While Eleanor had been ill things had been so peaceful in the office, but now all was frustration and turmoil again.

      She thought longingly suddenly of London, and Helen Barclay. Helen was quite an elderly woman and she had treated Sancha like her daughter, helping and encouraging her whenever possible. She reminded Sancha of her own mother who had died nearly ten years ago now. Sancha's father had remarried and although Sancha got along with her new stepmother it was not the same. That was why she had jumped at this chance of a year in Italy. It would, too, give her father and his wife some time alone. Even so, life there had been less eventful and perhaps less nerve-racking.

      Tony passed her desk, a selection of cameras and meters hung round his neck. ‘Hi there, honey!’ he remarked, grinning. ‘Back to the grind today, eh?'

      ‘I'm afraid so!’ Sancha cupped her chin on one hand. ‘Are you off on another assignment?'

      Tony nodded. ‘There's a new car being road-tested this afternoon. They say it's a sensational piece of engineering. I'm to go and photograph it and so on. Wish you could come along.'

      Sancha wrinkled her nose at him. ‘So do I,’ she said fervently.

      ‘What's wrong? Is Eleanor back on form?'

      ‘You might say that.’ Sancha fingered the typescript. ‘I'm to write up the feature on Count Malatesta myself.'

      ‘No kidding! Well, that's great. Good luck, kid! I'm sure you'll make a damn good job of it.'

      Sancha grimaced. ‘I wish I had your confidence.'

      ‘Hey, don't be a fool! Of course you can do it. Anyone can write that kind of stuff. You want to research some of that old history about the palazzo—the more gory the better. You know how sweet old ladies love to read about violence!'

      Sancha chuckled. ‘Go on, you're cheering me up enormously.'

      Tony laughed. ‘No, I really must go. See you later, eh?'

      Sancha nodded and Tony walked off down the office. Then she heaved a sigh and cupped a chin on one hand. Maybe if she had another look at the book she would find inspiration …

      At lunchtime she emerged from the office feeling slightly drawn. She had been concentrating hard all morning on Count Malatesta's book, not helped at all by Eleanor's frequent instrusions on her privacy. The older girl seemed to take a delight in mocking her, and she did not pass her desk once without making some scathing comment and momentarily distracting Sancha's attention.

      Taking a deep breath, Sancha tucked her handbag under her arm and looked about her. It was a beautiful morning, the warmth lapping over her bare arms like so many rivulets of warm water. She was unaware of the attention she was attracting standing there, tall and slim and attractive, her corn-gold fairness accentuated by the silky curtain of hair which fell straightly to just below her shoulders. In a blue and white striped dress, and a blue suede waistcoat whose laces were hanging loosely, she was the very epitome of healthy young womanhood, and the man who was standing a few yards away watching her with narrowed blue eyes was not unaware of that fact.

      Sancha was unconscious of anyone's scrutiny. She was intent on deciding which of the small ristorantes she would have lunch in. Eating houses of every kind abounded in this area, but some were too expensive for her limited allowance. Occasionally she lunched with one of the girls she shared the flat with, but they were both secretaries in the building and often had different lunch hours from hers. But she didn't mind. She was accustomed by now to the slightly predatory glances cast in her direction by the young men of the city, and was quite capable of fending off passes. Italians seemed to consider it their duty to show interest in every attractive female should she be unaccompanied, but a cool stare from Sancha's grey eyes was usually sufficient to quell any would-be pursuer.

       ‘Buon giorno, signorina!'

      The deep attractive tones were vaguely familiar and Sancha swung round sharply to confront the man whose disturbing personality had occupied her thoughts all morning as she had pored laboriously over his book.

      ‘Count Malatesta,’ she murmured incredulously. ‘Buon giorno, signore.' She glanced about her hastily. ‘Were you—I mean—are you on your way to see my uncle?'

      The Count allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk humorously. ‘Now why should you imagine I might be coming to see your uncle?’ he queried.

      Sancha shook her head, her hair swinging curtain-like against her cheek. His unexpected appearance had startled her and she had said the first thing that came into her head. In a cream silk lounge suit and matching shirt he was devastatingly attractive and his eyes surveying her so thoroughly held a most disturbing glint.

      ‘If you'll excuse me——’ she began now, beginning to move away, but he stopped her, his long fingers curving coolly about the flesh of her upper arm.

      ‘Don't go, signorina,’ he commanded gently. ‘I came to see you!'

      Sancha quivered. ‘To see me, signore?'

      ‘Si, to see you, signorina. Now tell me, you will have lunch with me, will you not?'

      Sancha was flabbergasted. ‘Ha—have lunch with you?’ she echoed weakly.

      He half smiled. ‘Is it an English characteristic to repeat everything that is said to them?’ he enquired mockingly.

      ‘Yes—no—I mean—of course not!’ Sancha wished he would let go of her arm. His grip was not cruel and yet she sensed if she tried to pull away it would tighten painfully. For all his charm and gentility, she somehow knew that he demanded, and usually got, his own way. Wetting her dry lips with a rather unsteady tongue, she went on: ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, signore. I—I only have an hour and——'

      ‘I am not such a big eater that an hour will not suffice,’ the Count observed dryly.

      ‘I—I didn't think you were.’ Sancha bit her lip. ‘I—look, signore, there is absolutely no need for you to take me to lunch. If—if you had arrived a few moments later I would have been gone.'

      He СКАЧАТЬ