Hell Or High Water

by Anne Mather

  ‘I want to look at you, too,’ she murmured, when his mouth found hers once again, and his response was huskily rueful.

  ‘I’m not half as interesting as you are,’ he protested, against the shell-like cavity of her ear. ‘But I can’t stop you.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ she agreed, equally huskily, and he crushed her under him with an increasing urgency.

  The sudden peal of the telephone bell was like a cold knife slicing between them. Its insistent ringing reacted on Helen like a sobering draught, and a feeling of intense confusion enfolded her in a wave of heat. It occurred to her how terrible it would have been if her mother had chosen to walk in on them with as little discrimination as the telephone bell had exhibited, and her awareness of her own state of undress filled her with hot embarrassment.

  ‘Let it ring,’ Jarret groaned, as she began to struggle beneath him, but Helen moved her head vigorously from side to side.

  ‘It—it must be Mummy,’ she exclaimed. ‘And she’ll know I must be home by this time—’

  ‘Pretend you’re asleep,’ muttered Jarret, against her throat. ‘Do you really want to leave me?’ he demanded, looking down at her with eyes darkened by emotion, and she knew that deep inside her, she didn’t.

  ‘I—I have to,’ she wailed, knowing her mother would demand a satisfactory explanation if she did not answer it, and also knowing that there must be some serious reason for her to ring so late.

  ‘All right.’ With an abrupt movement, Jarret levered himself up and away from her. ‘I’ll answer it.’ He snatched up his shirt and shrugged into the sleeves with evident impatience. ‘But don’t move, I’ll be right back.’

  Helen managed a tremulous nod, and with a gesture of frustration, he threw the library door open and strode across the hall. Struggling into a sitting position, Helen looked down at her swollen breasts without conceit. She felt charged with emotion, and her lips parted almost disbelievingly as she recalled the last hour in Jarret’s arms. She felt really alive for the first time in her life, alert to every nerve and sensation in her body, throbbing with expectation of what was still to come, and weak with the knowledge of her own sexuality. She had thought she might be frigid. How wrong she had been! It was Charles’s clumsy groping that had frozen her natural responses, and now she knew how it could be, she would never have that anxiety again.

  Through the mists of her sensually-induced lethargy, she became aware that Jarret was taking longer than he should have done, and the first faint twinges of alarm gripped her. What if something was wrong? What if there had been an accident? Surely Jarret should have let her know by now.

  Unwillingly, she slid her feet to the floor and stood up. Her legs felt incredibly unsteady, but she managed to slide her arms into her shirt and looked round blankly for her jacket. It was on the floor, where Jarret had pushed it from her shoulders, and she bent to pick it up as she walked towards the door.

  She heard his voice as she paused in the open doorway, and even in those confused seconds she realised he was not talking to her mother. He was too relaxed for that, and even as her brows drew together in anxious disbelief, she heard his low laugh.

  ‘No, nothing important,’ she heard him say, through a haze of shocked incredulity. ‘I’m glad you rang. It’s good to know you haven’t forgotten me. What? Oh, yes, in a couple of weeks, I hope. You have? That’s great! So why don’t you come down here? That would give us plenty of time to—’

  Helen’s whole body felt chilled. She could guess exactly who was on the other end of the line, and the whole episode the call had interrupted seemed suddenly incredibly sordid. Her behaviour was not without reproach, on the contrary, she felt almost sick with shame at the awareness of what she had done, but somehow she had believed that Jarret had been as emotionally involved as she had. Now it was obvioushe regarded her as just another in his long line of conquests, and she wanted to curl up and die when she recalled how close she had been to calling off her engagement.

  She had heard enough. Pressing the back of her hand to her lips, she fled across the hall and up the stairs, paying no heed to his abrupt ejaculation. She only wanted to get away from him, and his frustrated: ‘Helen, for God’s sake!’ did not halt her headlong flight. He need not interrupt his telephone call for her, she thought bitterly, almost running along the corridor to her room, and she blessed the heavy oak door and the key which she turned with trembling satisfaction.

  She was still standing there, pressed against the inner panels, when she heard his footsteps pounding along the corridor to her door and presently the angry hammer of his fists.

  ‘Helen! Helen! For God’s sake, I know you’re in there. Open the door, there’s a good girl. I want to talk to you.’

  Helen said nothing, but her head moved from side to side in silent negation. What did he think she was? How could he go from one woman to another without the least compunction?

  ‘Helen!’ His voice was hardening now, and she could hear his impatience. ‘Helen, don’t let’s make a drama out of this. Open the door. I have something to tell you. Stop acting like a schoolgirl. This is important!’

  But still Helen made no response, and his anger exploded.

  ‘Helen, open this bloody door! I mean it. If you don’t I’ll break it down!’

  ‘Try it,’ she breathed, but her words were not audible to him, and at the other side of the panels she heard his savage oath.

  Seconds later there was the thud of someone’s shoulder being applied to the task, and then another string of oaths as the door resisted even the violent assault of his boot.

  ‘Helen—please!’

  When oaths produced no reaction, he tried pleading, but although her senses craved the reassurances only he could give, she kept her lips pressed tightly together. She heardhim shoulder the door once again, and this time she heard his groan of agony as the solid panels repelled his efforts. A sob of hysterical laughter rose in her throat at the farcical aspects of the situation, and if it hadn’t been so horribly serious she might have found it very amusing. As it was, she felt only sick remorse, and tears burned painfully at the back of her eyes.

  ‘Helen…’ He was getting tired, she could hear it, and there was a weary appeal in his voice. ‘Helen, who in God’s name do you think it was? At least let me explain.’

  Her shoulders sagged. She wanted to—oh, how she wanted to, she thought tremulously, but if she opened the door there would be no turning back, and could she live with herself after that?

  She hesitated, her lips parting to say something—anything, when she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. It had to be her mother. No one else would arrive at King’s Green at this time of night, and weariness overwhelmed her. It was too late now to do or say any of the things she had anticipated, and presently there was another sound—that of Jarret’s footsteps receding along the corridor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE morning light disturbed her, which might have been natural in ordinary circumstances, but after only a couple of hours of sleep Helen felt hardly confident to face the day. Her head felt muzzy, and her eyelids were sticky, and when she crawled out of bed to view her reflection in the mirror of the dressing table, she winced at the puffy swellings beneath them. Still, what could she expect after the storm of weeping she had indulged in? she asked herself miserably, and turned away to the bathroom to take a cold shower.

  It was a hazy June morning, the sun filtering through clouds that would presently clear to give another warm day. It was not a day for working, but Helen was looking forward to going in to the shop. At least it would get her out of the house, and if she could hide the ravages of the night before from Karen, time, too, to consider what she was going to do.

  She dressed in beige cotton pants, teaming them with a sleeveless cotton vest, whose warm apricot colour would, she hoped, distract from the pallor of her cheeks. Make-up had hidden the worst of the damage, and she was reasonably assured her mother would notice nothing amiss.
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br />   She was right. With the church fête only days away, Mrs Chase was too absorbed with the final arrangements she had to make to pay much attention to her daughter’s unnaturally withdrawn demeanour, and Helen carried her toast and coffee into the dining room with a sigh of relief.

  It was short-lived. She had only been sitting there about five minutes when a sound alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone, and looking up she saw Jarret had entered the room and closed the door behind him. He was leaning back against it, as she had leant against her door the night before, and the connotations were unmistakable.

  He was wearing a black leather suit—close-fitting pants that hugged his muscular thighs and a jerkin-length jacket which, with a matching silk shirt, added to his air of broodingvengefulness. In those first few minutes Helen gave no thought to his unshaven jawline, or the haggard hollowness of his eyes, only panic asserted itself, and the painful awareness of her own vulnerability. How could she handle him in her present state of nervous tension when she had fared no better the night before?

  After subjecting her to a moment’s appraisal, he straightened away from the door and came towards her. Now she began to see the ravages in his face, ravages that he could use no cosmetics to disguise, and her blood started to race wildly through her veins. He looked so pale, even the darkness of his skin seemed faintly transparent, and the blue eyes were bruised and sunken.

  ‘Helen,’ he greeted her flatly, pulling out a chair and straddling it. ‘How are you?’

  Helen’s tongue circled her lips. ‘How—how are you?’ she got out jerkily. ‘You—you look awful!’

  ‘Thanks.’ He flicked over the napkin beside him. ‘You don’t look so brilliant yourself.’ His eyes darted upward. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes.’ Helen’s response was automatic, but when he exposed her to another of those penetrating stares, she felt the hot colour run helplessly up her cheeks and he knew she was lying. ‘I—well, no,’ she conceded, unable to withstand his scathing contempt. ‘I slept very badly, as it happens. But that—that was hardly surprising in—in the circumstances, was it?’ she finished rather contentiously.

  ‘I’m not arguing, am I?’ he countered, folding his arms along the back of the chair and resting his chin on his sleeve. ‘I could say it served you right, but I won’t.’

  Helen gasped. ‘You could say it. But you know it’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ His eyes were narrowed and intent. ‘Or are you so naïve you don’t know what you did—to both of us?’

  Helen pushed back her chair and got to her feet. ‘I don’t intend to sit here and listen to—to that kind of—of abuse!’ she declared, and he tilted his head back to look at her.

  ‘Why not?’ His lips twisted. ‘Doesn’t it fit in with that totally unreal conception you have of the relationship between a man and a woman?’

  ‘You have no right to say that to—’

  ‘I have every right,’ he snapped, getting abruptly to his feet. ‘There’s a word to describe what you did, but I won’t use it because—God help me! I don’t think you realised exactly what you did do.’

  Helen held up her head. ‘And—and what did you do?’ she countered. ‘Leaving me to speak to—to some other female—’

  ‘I spoke to Jim Stanford!’ stated Jarret coldly ‘Jim Stanford,’ he repeated. ‘My publisher—who also happens to be my agent. Who the hell did you think I was talking to? Margot?’

  Helen was desperately trying to digest this. ‘Your—your publisher?’ she echoed. ‘At—at half past eleven at night? You can’t expect me to believe—’

  ‘It was only half past six in New York,’ stated Jarret harshly. ‘God Almighty, Helen, what do you take me for? Some kind of male nymphomaniac? Lord, don’t you know anything? I wanted you—you!’ His voice thickened abruptly. ‘I still do, damn you!’

  Helen trembled, linking and unlinking her fingers as she tried to absorb what he had just told her. He had not been speaking to a woman, after all. That split conversation she had heard had been with his publisher, and what she had taken for assignations were in effect business appointments.

  ‘Is—is that really true?’ she breathed at last, and he gave her an impatient look.

  ‘Is what true? That I want you?’ He moved his shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘I guess you got under my skin. I’ll get over it.’

  Helen pressed a hand to her churning stomach. ‘I meant—I meant—it really was your publisher?’

  ‘Oh—yes.’ He pushed his hands into the narrow pockets of his pants, unconsciously disrupting her efforts to remain detached. ‘He wanted to be the first to tell me that Devil’s Kitchen is going to be made into a film.’

  ‘Oh, Jarret!’ Helen couldn’t prevent the thrill of excitement that coursed through her. ‘That’s wonderful news! You must be very pleased.’

  ‘I was,’ he conceded with another offhand gesture, and Helen’s excitement died beneath a wave of remorse.

  ‘That—that was what you wanted to tell me,’ shebreathed, catching her lower lip between her teeth. ‘And I thought—’

  ‘I know what you thought,’ he interrupted shortly, and she was silent. ‘Anyway, I just thought I’d clear the matter up,’ he continued, nodding towards her untouched toast and coffee. ‘Get your breakfast. You look as though you need it.’

  Helen glanced down at the table and then up at him again. ‘Like I said, you don’t look so—so good yourself,’ she ventured, and his mouth took on a sardonic curve.

  ‘Haven’t you ever seen a hangover before?’ he queried, his tone vaguely scornful, and she shifted rather uncomfortably. ‘I got—stoned,’ he added, changing the word he had been about to use at the last moment. ‘You know—as in out of my mind.’

  ‘Oh, Jarret!’ There seemed nothing else she could say, and he lifted his shoulders and let them fall again in a dismissive shrug. ‘At least I lost consciousness,’ he mused, his gaze flickering over her swollen lids. ‘You look as if you had a rough time.’

  ‘I did.’ She made no attempt to deny it, but although he acknowledged her husky confession, he made no move towards her. Instead he turned and strolled towards the door, and she realised that so far as he was concerned, the matter was closed.

  ‘Jarret!’ She could not let him go like that, but when he turned she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was going to say to him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I—well, I’m sorry about—about last night,’ she offered.

  ‘Yes. So am I,’ he conceded with a wry smile, and without another word he left her.

  Helen sank down into her chair again rather heavily. Her legs seemed to have lost the power to support her, and with a sense of anguished frustration she realised the last few minutes had also robbed her of what little appetite she had had.

  Reaching for the coffee pot, she poured a measure of the strong black liquid, and then holding the cup between her cold hands, she tried to assimilate her reactions. It was crazy, this feeling of raw vulnerability, this painful achingvoid inside her that craved a fulfilment it could never attain. No matter how guilty Jarret made her feel, she had to remember that everything that had happened last night had been at his instigation—and it was all wrong! She was engaged to Charles. She owed him everything, and Jarret nothing. The way Jarret had treated her, she should be despising him this morning, not secretly regretting the interruption which had saved her from making an even bigger fool of herself.

  Finishing the coffee, she left the table and went to tell her mother she was leaving, and then reversed her Alfa out of the stable yard. The air was sweet with the scent of lilac blossom, and breathing deeply, she determined to put all thoughts of Jarret Manning out of her head.

  But as she drove across the forecourt she was visibly reminded that it would not be easy. Jarret himself was watching her manoeuvrings, seated on the back of one of the most beautiful animals Helen had ever seen. The night before she had been unable to distinguish its colouring, but now
she saw it was a warm reddish-gold colour, with a white star on its nose, and the lean muscled lines of a thoroughbred.

  She was obliged to halt. The horse was standing squarely in her way, and even as she stood rather reluctantly on her brakes, it shifted with evident nervousness. Jarret controlled it easily, running his long brown fingers over its ears before dismounting. He swung himself to the ground with the minimum amount of effort, as lean and muscled in the tight-fitting leather outfit as the powerful animal beside him, and Helen felt the familiar tightness in her chest that his nearness promoted.

  Tossing the horse’s reins over the pommel, Jarret strolled towards the car, bending to her open window with lazy indolence. ‘Come and meet Horatio,’ he said, and she knew from his tone that that was not really the animal’s name. ‘Come and apologise for frightening him half to death last night.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Helen’s response was abrupt. ‘I—I’m late. I have to get to the shop—’

  ‘I’m sure your worthy assistant can cope for a few extra minutes,’ Jarret retorted, ignoring her palpitating breath.‘Come on. He’s very gentle with ladies.’

  ‘No.’ Helen shook her head. ‘No, I can’t. I’m sorry, Jarret. He—he’s a lovely animal, I can see that, but I—I can’t—’

  ‘Of course you can.’ He was immovable. ‘He’ll be most offended if you turn him down.’

  ‘Oh, stop this!’ Helen’s fine control was wearing thin. ‘I don’t want to meet your—your animal. I have to get to work, and that’s where I’m going—’

  ‘I think not.’ Without asking her permission, Jarret opened her door, and the cooler air flooded in around her bare ankles. ‘Come along. We’re waiting.’

  ‘No!’ Anger came tremulously to her rescue. ‘You have no right to do this, Jarret. I’m not a child, and I have no intention of being treated like one. If—and I say if—I ever do decide I need a closer relationship with a horse, then I’ll ask Charles to arrange it.’