by Penny Jordan
‘I told you that I wasn’t involved with Eric,’ Debra couldn’t resist pointing out.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But you didn’t say that he was equally uninvolved with you. In my experience a man does not send a woman red roses simply to show her that he can grow them.’ Debra bit her lip.
‘I have been a bit concerned that he might...that he could be thinking... I’d already made it clear to him though that I couldn’t.. .that I wasn’t...’
‘That what? That you didn’t want him?’
He was, Debra realised, standing much closer to her. She could hear car doors slam and engines start as the others left. She could feel the cool evening breeze stirring her hair; she could feel the silence and the tension. She could feel her own overwhelming need to take that one step forward which would bring her so intimately close to him that her body would actually be touching Marsh’s. Out of the comer of her eye she saw his hand lift. A quiver of sharp sensation pierced through her as she remembered how she had felt to have his hand touching her face, his palm warm against her skin, his fingers stroking into her hair, the pads firm against her scalp, his thumb touching the corner of her mouth, his breath warm against her lips before he touched them with his tongue.
Somewhere further down the road a car backfired. Debra shuddered quickly, stepping back from him, thankful that it was dark and that he couldn’t see how flushed she was, how aroused her body. Thank goodness for the thickness of her sweat-shirt, disguising the tautness of her nipples as they pushed against her clothes.
Quickly she turned towards her own car, distancing herself from Marsh and the danger he represented. She heard him take a step as though he meant to follow her and then stop.
His goodnight was brief, curt almost.
Shakily Debra let herself into her car.
It had been the most extraordinary evening, and the most extraordinary part of all had been Marsh’s apologising to her. That was something she had not expected. Would he have done so, though, if Margaux hadn’t unwittingly substantiated her own statement that she was not personally involved with Eric Smethurst?
‘You haven’t forgotten that it’s Don’s birthday this weekend, have you?’
Debra smiled into the receiver. ‘No, Mum, I haven’t forgotten.’
Don’s card was in front of her on her desk. She had put it there this morning to remind her to write and post it.
She was due to visit Karen this evening. She still felt she wasn’t making any progress. Karen was still withdrawn from her. Was Marsh right? Was Karen testing her?
Marsh!
It was now two days since he had apologised to her, and since then his whole attitude to her had been different.. .warmer, gentler, more open.
She must not read something into that which did not exist, she warned herself. She had heard on the grapevine that he wasn’t involved with anyone and that his last serious relationship had ended while he was working in the States.
So there was no other woman in his life. That did not mean that...
That what? That there was a place for her? She knew that... of course she did. And besides, she would have to be an idiot to think that just because he had apologised to her, just because he was being pleasant to her, it meant anything more than that he was simply being pleasant to a colleague.
Even so... Rather like a child opening a forbidden drawer, she closed her eyes, remembering how she had felt when he kissed her, savouring each second of that memory, sharply aware of the frissons of sensation that it set off within her body.
That he had initially kissed her in anger, she chose not to allow into her memories. It was that other later kiss she recalled. Her eyes still closed, she leaned back in the chair, her body responding to the sensual messages of her thoughts. She squirmed voluptuously as she conjured up the physical sensation of Marsh’s body against her own.
‘Debra, are you all right?’
She shot upright, her eyes opening, her face hot, to find Marsh himself standing on the other side of her desk, watching her, a thoughtful expression in his eyes.
He couldn’t possibly know what she had been thinking, she assured herself, feeling thoroughly flustered and guilty as she fibbed that she had just been thinking about one of her cases.
Marsh was frowning, she discovered when she ventured a brief look at him. His head was turned away from her and he was looking down at her desk, at the birthday card she had bought Don.
‘It’s for my stepfather,’ she told him, half gabbling the words. ‘It’s his birthday this weekend. I put it there so I wouldn’t forget to post it.’
‘Your stepfather.’ Unexpectedly he smiled at her.
‘Yes, it’s a joke between us that he’s always been my favourite man.’
‘Always?’ The question was lightly delivered, but for some reason it made her flush. ‘Hasn’t there been anyone in your life who’s tempted you to change your mind?’
Debra gulped, her thoughts chaotic. In another man she might almost have suspected that the question cloaked a personal interest in her answer, but she hastily suppressed such a thought and answered lightly, ‘Not so far.’
‘Do your parents live locally?’
The mundanity of the question relaxed her taut muscles slightly.
‘Sort of. They live in Tarford. It’s about twenty miles away. Leigh, my stepsister, lives there as well. She moved there after her divorce. She wanted the girls to be close to their grandparents.’ ‘Leigh?’ Marsh questioned, and then nodded. ‘Ah, yes. The detective agency. An unusual career for a woman.’
‘Leigh and her partner felt there was a need... that other women would find it easier to consult a woman,’ Debra told him slightly defensively.
‘I wasn’t criticising,’ Marsh told her mildly. ‘I was just curious. And it was your stepsister you were standing in for when you and I—’
‘Yes,’ Debra interrupted him quickly. She still felt so uncomfortable about what had happened.
‘I suppose you must have thought when Lynn arrived with those papers for me that she and I...’ He stopped, and then told her wryly, ‘She works at the London office and she was bringing me some documents I needed.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Debra told him unhappily, and then added impulsively, ‘I wish the whole thing had never happened.’
‘Do you?’
The way he said it made her swing round. He was looking directly at her, his attention focused on her mouth.
Her pulse-rate ricocheted. She was gripped by a thrill of sharp sensation, a mixture of exhilaration and disbelief that shocked her body as intensely as though she had received a sudden burst of adrenalin.
Helplessly she looked back at him, knowing that her pupils were dilating, that her mouth was softening, her lips parting; knowing that he must be as aware as she was herself of all the small sensual signals her body was giving him, but either unable or unwilling to do anything to conceal them.
‘I don’t,’ he told her softly. ‘Not all of it.’ He paused, and then continued, ‘Look, there are a couple of points about Eric Smethurst’s affairs I wanted to go over with you. I was wondering if we could have a drink after work. I’d suggest dinner, but I’m seeing a client later.’
Almost choking on her disappointment, Debra shook her head.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ she told him. ‘Not tonight.’ She held her breath, praying that he would suggest another evening, but to her disappointment he merely said calmly, ‘Never mind.’ For far too long after he had gone Debra sat staring tensely into space.
Had she completely misread the situation? Had he been deliberately flirting with her, or had she simply imagined it? Had he been referring to the kiss they had shared when he said that he did not want to forget ‘all of it’, or had that simply been wishful thinking on her part?
And when he had suggested they discussed Eric’s tax problems after work over a drink, had it been because he wanted to spend time with her, or had it simply been an ordinary, mundane way of extendi
ng office hours? After all, it was hardly unusual for two colleagues to meet to discuss work over a drink.
But if he had wanted to see her for more personal reasons, was that what she wanted?
Physically she felt a compulsion towards him, a desire... a need she could neither explain nor ignore. But did she actually want him to recognise that desire or to reciprocate it?
She moved uneasily in her chair. One day she hoped that she would meet someone... a man for whom she felt the kind of deep, steady, mature love which she felt was essential for the kind of relationship she wanted; a relationship founded on mutual respect and liking, on shared interests and humour; on shared goals; but she had never envisaged a place in that relationship for the kind of high-voltage and far too intense sexual clamouring of her body and senses that she experienced when she was with Marsh.
That kind of high-risk physically based relationship was the last thing she wanted in her life. She had witnessed its effects on others, seen how all-consuming it could be, how potentially destructive, exhausting the emotions of its victims, burning them out until there was nothing left.
Leigh and Paul had had that kind of relationship. Leigh had never made any secret of the fact that sex was the prime motivating force between them. She had even, she had once told Debra, gone on wanting Paul sexually long, long after she had known that their relationship had nothing left in it of love.
‘I don’t love him,’ she had said. ‘But, God help me, I still want him,’ and Debra had heard the self-loathing in her voice and had shivered a little at the sound of it, promising herself that she would never fall into the same trap.
And she hadn’t done. Until now!
If she gave in to her desire for Marsh, if she encouraged it and he reciprocated, what would happen?
She gave a small shudder of apprehension. They might be lovers, but would they love, and if they did would it be a love that would endure...would she want it to endure? Wouldn’t she be safer, wiser, keeping to the path she had already mapped out for herself, establishing herself securely in her career and then thinking cautiously and sensibly about marriage and a family... finding someone who shared her ideals and her beliefs... someone who would be her friend and partner first, someone who, like her, would put the needs of their children above those of his own senses, his own body?
Highly sensual, highly sexual men were notoriously weak when it came to ignoring temptation. Good for a fling, but not for anything else, as Leigh had once said bitterly of Paul.
She had no evidence to suggest that Marsh was promiscuous—rather the opposite—but he was certainly not the safe, tame, low-sexed partner she had envisaged for herself, and, if she allowed herself to get involved with him, ultimately he would hurt her, or rather she would hurt herself through her own inability to control the intensity he aroused in her.
She didn’t want that intensity. It was a part of herself she rejected.
She remembered as a child her mother sigh and say softly, ‘Poor Leigh. She suffers so much when she loves because she’s so intense.’
Leigh had gone through a series of intense and volatile emotional relationships during her teenage years, and Debra had watched and sworn that she would not suffer as Leigh had done.
She resented her responsiveness to Marsh, she admitted, and she was obsessed by it, at the same time unable to resist reliving over and over again how she had felt when he kissed her. Her very compulsiveness frightened her, and yet she knew that if she had not been seeing Karen tonight she would have gone out with him.
She was glad that she had the weekend ahead of her to give her time to put things into perspective, to help her to clear her mind and to concentrate on reality rather than fantasy.
‘Hello, Karen. How are you?’
Debra smiled warmly, pretending not to notice Karen’s averted face and tense body.
‘Can we go out?’
The curt question startled her, but Debra quickly covered her shock. Karen had never actually addressed any comment directly to her before, and she had certainly never asked her anything like this.
Cautiously warning herself not to read too much into this breakthrough, Debra nodded and said as casually as she could, ‘Yes, I should think so. Where did you have in mind?’
The thin shoulders shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter... anywhere. I just want to get out of here.’
Debra felt a small frisson of anxiety. Karen looked thinner than when she had last seen her. She had very pretty curly hair, which she normally kept scrupulously clean, but today it looked lank and dull.
Karen’s social worker had told Debra that Karen had once had very long hair but that she herself had cut it off.
‘She had literally hacked it off in chunks. That was what first alerted her form teacher to what might be going on. Victims of incest, particularly once they reach their teens and become more aware, often try to mutilate themselves in some way, partially out of self-punishment and partially to deter their abuser.’
‘How about McDonald’s?’ she suggested, thinking quickly. ‘I’ve got my car. We can drive into Chester.’
She held her breath, only releasing it when Karen nodded.
She had to obtain permission to take Karen out, of course, but it was readily given. Karen was not, as some of the children were, an absconder.
She sat silently in the car as Debra drove into the city and parked.
It was a pleasant evening, the sun still out, the city busy with locals and tourists alike.
Karen was wearing a pair of jeans that seemed too big for her and an oversized sweater, not an unusual outfit for a girl of her age, but Debra knew that Karen had a stronger motive than most for concealing, if not rejecting, her sexuality, and she saw the disparaging, bitter looks the girl gave a small group of her peers dressed in mini-skirts, standing chattering outside one of the shops.
‘Tarts,’ she muttered under her breath as they walked past them.
Debra knew better than to chastise her. It was no wonder that Karen felt resentful of them, resentful of their ability to enjoy their growing up, their womanliness... a right which had been ruthlessly taken from her.
McDonald’s wasn’t over-full. They had arrived during the lull between the early- and late-evening business. They collected their food, Debra trying not to wince at the sticky milkshake Karen ordered to go with her burger.
She would never understand the appeal of such food, but she could not deny that it did have an appeal. Her two nieces loved it, despite Leigh’s complaints that it was loaded with sugar.
Karen ate her food in silence. She was sitting facing the window. Suddenly she tensed, the blood leaving her face.
‘It’s him,’ she told Debra in panic. ‘He’s followed me. He’s coming in.’
Shocked, Debra turned her head, thinking that Karen must have seen her stepfather, but all she could see was a sullen-looking teenage boy.
‘Karen,’ she said gently, ‘it’s all right.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Karen told her.
She was shaking, and Debra could see panic in her eyes. Karen stood up, pushing her chair away from her, her milkshake carton falling on the floor as she stumbled into the table.
Debra stood up as well, terrified that she might lose her as Karen rushed out into the street.
The boy, Debra noticed, was watching them, a knowing and somehow rather intimidating look in his eyes.
As she hurried past him, intent on catching up with Karen, she heard him say tauntingly, ‘Great tits.’
She stiffened instinctively, stunned not so much by his comment, but by his self-assurance. He couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen at the most, but, despite that, there had been something in the way he looked at her that told her that he wasn’t simply repeating parrot-fashion a comment he had heard made by someone older.
She caught up with Karen just as the girl was about to dart across the road in front of an oncoming car.
Grabbing hold of her, Debra hauled her back. Tears
were pouring down Karen’s face. She was shaking... not trembling, but shaking.
Instinctively Debra wrapped her arms around her, holding her as tightly as she could, rocking her as she held her, not knowing what had happened, just knowing that she needed her comfort, her help.
When she felt she was calm enough she walked her back to the car, but then, instead of taking her back to the home, she took her to her own house.
Once they were inside she poured Karen a glass of milk and made herself a cup of coffee.
‘What is it? What’s wrong, Karen?’ she asked gently.
It was like floodgates opening, forced apart by the weight of emotion and despair behind them.
It was him, the boy, Karen told her. He had started following her round, saying things to her, calling her names. He called her a slag, and said that she was a prostitute. He had followed her into her room one afternoon. He had had a knife. He had told her that he would use it on her if she didn’t do everything he told her.
Someone had come in and he had gone away, but she was frightened of him, Karen told her. Frightened of the way he kept looking at her.
Debra didn’t make the mistake of disbelieving her. Even if she hadn’t been able to hear the loathing and terror in her voice, what she had seen in the boy’s eyes, despite his youth, confirmed everything that Karen was saying to her.
‘I’ll have to tell the superintendent, you know that, don’t you?’ she told Karen gently. ‘Not just because of you, Karen. Think... if he’s threatening you he could be threatening other girls as well.’
‘If he finds out I’ve told you...’
‘He won’t,’ Debra assured her.
The superintendent heard her out in silence when she asked to speak to him alone and told him what had happened.
‘I was afraid of something like this happening. He’s got a record of bullying and worse. He shouldn’t really be here—or rather children like Karen shouldn’t be here. And we call it taking them into care.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that Karen is properly protected.’