“What a delightful sight first thing in the morning.” His face was a fleshy mass of ruddy skin and broken veins, with neatly clipped sideburns and mustache, and a full head of thick white hair. His eyes may have been as small as raisins, but his sight was perfect and he swept them over her as if appraising a pretty mare. “You’re a picture of loveliness, Marina.”
“Thank you,” she said, sitting down.
“Grey lent me a very interesting book yesterday. I started reading it last night and couldn’t put it down.”
“Which one is it?”
“Andrew Roberts’s Masters and Commanders. Great read. Beautifully written. Pure pleasure. Sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back. Best days of my life.”
“I’m very glad we can’t do that.”
“Call me an old fool, but my life had purpose then. I had a cause to fight for, and nothing has been as good in my life since. I’m like an old train in the junkyard, remembering happier times.”
“You have purpose, Brigadier. You have children, grandchildren, and your great-grandson, Albert. You are certainly not in the junkyard.”
He chuckled. “Ah, yes. Children are a blessing. One doesn’t really feel one’s left one’s imprint on the world if one doesn’t produce off-spring. I’ll die knowing my bloodline continues. We didn’t fight for nothing, although most young people don’t appreciate what we did for them. If it wasn’t for us, they’d be speaking German and kowtowing to a load of Huns! Goddamn it!” He choked on his laughter, coughed loudly, then cleared his throat of phlegm. “Speaking of children, how are yours? That Jake gets taller every time I see him.” Marina didn’t have the heart to remind him that they weren’t hers.
Talking to the brigadier had distracted her from the imminent arrival of her ten o’clock interview. When Jake strode across the room, she had almost forgotten about it altogether. “Ah, speak of the devil,” said the brigadier.
Marina noticed the strange expression on Jake’s face. It was a mixture of amusement and delight.
“Morning, Brigadier. Marina, the Biscuit has arrived,” he said.
“Why the funny look?” she asked, her stomach churning with anxiety.
“What funny look? He’s in your office.”
“And? Is he … normal?”
“I’d say he’s not normal at all.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“Just go and meet him.”
“What’s this about a biscuit?” interrupted the brigadier. “Sounds good to me, especially if it has a little milk chocolate on the top.”
Marina reached the hall to find Shane, Jennifer, Rose, Heather, and Bertha standing in a huddle by the reception desk, giggling like a group of silly schoolchildren. When they saw Marina, they sprang apart guiltily. The air was charged with excitement, as if Father Christmas had come seven months early and was waiting in her study.
“Would you like me to bring you some coffee?” asked Heather, her cheeks aflame.
Marina narrowed her eyes. “Well, let’s see what he wants.”
“Looks like a coffee drinker to me,” said Bertha.
“And what brings you into the hotel, Bertha?” asked Marina.
“Run out of Cif,” she replied with a snigger. “Timing couldn’t be better.”
“Then why don’t you go and get some from the cupboard. Heather, come with me, and the rest of you can get back to work.”
It was with some optimism that Marina walked into her office. By the blushes glowing on the faces of her staff it was obvious that the artist was attractive. That didn’t surprise her: Argentine men were notoriously good-looking. However, she was not prepared for the quiet magnetism of Rafael Santoro.
He stood by the window, looking out over the sea, hands in pockets, lost in thought. In a pale suede jacket, blue shirt, and faded denim jeans, he was of average height, broad-shouldered, and athletic. She guessed he was in his thirties, for his face was weathered, his chin bristly, his light brown hair falling slightly over a forehead that was broad and creased with frown lines. When he heard her at the door, he seemed to hesitate a moment before turning, as if collecting himself. She took in his patrician nose and the strength of his jawline, and felt her spirits swell with admiration. He was undoubtedly handsome. He turned and looked at her, and she was immediately struck by his eyes. They were brown like fudge, and deep set, but it was the expression in them that made her catch her breath. It was almost familiar, and she stumbled on her words.
“It’s … it’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, too,” he said, extending his hand. His accent was as soft and warm as caramelized milk. She took his hand and felt the warmth of his skin travel all the way up her arm.