by Anne Mather
But what chance was there anyway? He despised her, he had even had her investigated; if ever she did see him again it would only cause her more humiliation and she didn’t think she could stand that.
She hardly slept that night. She wanted to confide in someone, but there was no one she could confide in. She thought of Paul, and then dismissed the idea. He was making a new life for himself. It was no use her dragging him back into her old one out of a selfish desire to confide in him. There was Annette, of course, but she knew so little of what had gone on that Rebecca could not contemplate confessing her past to her.
So she lay, in solitary indecision, wondering whether she was a fool to consider throwing Adele’s money aside to achieve a posthumous revenge. But as the dawn light filtered into her bedroom she was forced to accept that there was nothing she could do to change what was past and she would be a fool to refuse what was being offered. Whatever Adele’s motives she could never be really certain what she had intended.
Mr. Broome seemed extremely satisfied with her decision to accept and she told him she intended flying out to Fiji at the end of the following week only three days before Christmas. It seemed fitting somehow that she should be going to spend Christmas in her new home, although she had not entirely decided whether she would live there or not. Maybe it would be possible to compromise, but in any case she needed more time to decide definitely.
She came out of the solicitor’s office feeling almost lighthearted. In ten days she would be on her way and she no longer had the prospect of a lonely Christmas at the flat ahead of her…
* * *
Rebecca rolled on to her stomach, digging her fingers deeply into the sand, loving the revitalising heat of the sun on her bare back and shoulders. She had just swum in the warm depths of the Pacific, and now she lay prone on her own beach, soaking up the rays of the sun. Her hair was a wild disorder of gold silk about her and she didn’t care. There was no one to see her. Apart from Rosa, of course, and she took little notice of Rebecca’s appearance.
It was two days since Rebecca had arrived in Fiji, and tomorrow was Christmas Day. It seemed incredible that London should be having such cold, damp weather when here there was so much warmth and colour. For two days she had done nothing but swim and laze in the sun and already a faint golden tan was covering her pale skin. She was still painfully thin, but she knew that several weeks of Rosa’s delicious cooking would put that right. The middle-aged Fijian had been absolutely delighted to see her, and although they had not fully discussed Adele’s reasons for leaving Rebecca the villa it would come later. For the present, it was enough to be here, to exchange casual gossip and to know that they understood one another.
Now she glanced up and saw Rosa crossing the sand towards her carrying a white envelope. Pushing herself up on her arms, she sat back on her knees and said: ‘What is it, Rosa?’
Rosa halted beside her, handing her the envelope. ‘It’s a letter, miss. It came just a few minutes ago and I thought you would like to see it.’
Rebecca frowned, taking the envelope and turning it over curiously in her hands. It had been redirected from her London address so that whoever had written to her did not yet know she had left the country. She had given her new address to her neighbour at the flat and obviously it was she who had redirected it.
Rosa smiled and saying something about leaving her oven walked away leaving Rebecca to open the envelope with slightly unsteady fingers. She couldn’t imagine who could be writing to her and a faint sense of impending disaster touched her. It was ridiculous to feel this way, she thought impatiently, drawing out the letter she found inside, and yet she was still not immune from the finger of apprehension. Who would want to contact her and not know she had left her flat?
It was not a long letter, and glancing to the end she found with a prick of unease that Sheila Stephens had written it. Crossing her legs, she began to read and as she did so all her newfound sense of contentment began to disappear…
Dear Rebecca, it began. By the time you read this you will have heard that you have inherited Adele’s villa, but as a friend I felt I should inform you that Adele St. Cloud did not leave you anything. On the contrary she died without making any will whatsoever.
Rebecca’s fingers trembled and she had to steady them before she could read on, the writing became so blurred.
In fact, the villa did not belong to her, but to Piers St. Clair. He bought it from her on her return to England and it has remained his ever since. The reason it has been transferred to you is quite simple. For some reason Piers feels guilty about the way he has treated you and consequently he has chosen this way of salving his conscience. Besides, maybe he feels that it is a very satisfactory way of getting you out of the country and therefore out of his, and Paul’s, hair. Anyway, as an old friend of yours I thought you deserved to know what you were letting yourself in for by accepting. Sincerely yours, Sheila.
Rebecca thrust the letter aside, and sat for a few minutes just staring blindly out to sea. The sea was at its most beautiful at that hour of the morning, deepening from palest turquoise to richest blue, fringed by the lacy fragility of the coral sand. Along the shoreline palms moved their fronds in the gentle breeze, while their slender trunks provided avenues of shade. The sound of the surf thundering on the reef came to her ears and she thought how unbelievably beautiful it all was. For almost two weeks now she had considered it hers, but suddenly with the advent of this letter it had all been taken away from her. It was no friendly gesture on Sheila’s part that had caused her to write that letter. It had been a spiteful attempt to destroy Rebecca’s happiness and it had succeeded. Sheila knew as well as anyone else that Rebecca would never find herself able to accept the gift of the villa from Piers St. Clair, whatever his motives, and it had been supposed to arrive before her departure and thus prevent her from ever leaving London. But owing to the irregularity of the postal services, inundated as they were with the Christmas rush, it had been delayed and consequently she had spent all her money coming here needlessly.
She got slowly to her feet and stepped across the turf and entered the villa. Looking about her with newly awakened eyes, she tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, but of course it did. It was the cruellest possible action on Sheila’s part and convinced Rebecca finally that the girl had never forgiven her for attracting Peter Feldman. As for Piers St. Clair and his reasons for giving her the villa, she could not possibly understand them. Unless he did, as Sheila intimated, want her out of the way.
After a shower, dressed in cotton pants and a sleeveless blouse, she went into the lounge and flung herself into a chair to read the letter again. When Rosa came in Rebecca handed her the letter, saying: ‘Read that, Rosa,’ in a thoroughly dejected voice.
Rosa wiped her hands on her apron and then picked up the letter and began to read it silently. When she had finished she looked up, her face showing her puzzlement. ‘What does it mean?’
Rebecca slid off her chair. ‘It means the villa isn’t mine after all. It belongs to Monsieur Piers St. Clair.’
Rosa stared at her disbelievingly. ‘You mean—you mean you won’t be living here!’
‘That’s right.’ Rebecca compressed her lips to prevent them from trembling. ‘I—I shall be going back to London as soon as I can.’
‘Oh, Miss Lindsay!’ Rosa pressed her hands together at her breast, her black face revealing her disappointment. ‘But why? The villa has been given to you. Does it matter by whom?’
Rebecca sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. I—I couldn’t accept such a gift. Not from—from Monsieur St. Clair.’
Rosa moved her head from side to side in a swaying motion. ‘But that’s terrible! Tomorrow it’s Christmas! You can’t mean to leave on Christmas Day!’
Rebecca gathered her thoughts. Of course, she had forgotten. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. She could not leave then. She would have to wait until the Bank Holiday was over. It was ridiculous to feel this sense of relief at the realisatio
n. She had not realised before how much of a retreat the villa had become. To contemplate leaving it was anathema to her.
That night she cried herself to sleep, her pillow soaked with her tears. It was the only time she would cry, she determined, but for the moment the heartbreak could not be denied.
There was a gift for her from Rosa on Christmas morning and when she opened it she found it was a pair of ear-rings made of shells, long and dangling, and thoroughly exotic in design. She had bought a gift for Rosa and the woman was delighted with the blouse she had brought her from England. She insisted on wearing it straight away and to please her Rebecca put on the shell ear-rings, feeling them touch her shoulder as they swung and swayed languidly. They looked rather incongruous with the white bikini which was her only garment, but Rosa was pleased and there was no one else to see them.
They had a light lunch and in the early evening they ate a roast turkey which Rosa had got especially to please Rebecca. Rebecca insisted that they should eat together on this special day, and afterwards she went down to the beach for a final swim.
She lay for a while on the warm sand, wondering what she would do when she got back to London. She could not go back to work and she had spent most of her money coming here. The most sensible thing to do would be to remain here for a couple of weeks and return as though she had indeed taken a holiday, but she could not do that. She would not accept anything from Piers St. Clair, not his money or his pity.
It was very peaceful there on the sand. Somewhere along the shoreline she could hear the sound of music and guessed that a beach party was taking place at one of the other villas. No doubt there would be lots of people there, she thought, all drinking and talking and laughing and… making love… Tears pricked her eyes, but she would not give in to them. Self-pity helped no one, least of all herself, and she would not be such a fool again…
The crackling of a twig behind her caused her to thrust herself up on her arms abruptly. It was dark behind her, the melting blackness of the swaying palms capable of concealing anything. She tried to convince herself that she had been mistaken, but it was no good, the feeling persisted, and even as she stared round with wide apprehensive eyes she saw a man emerge from the trees and walk down the beach towards her.
With an exclamation, she scrambled to her feet, but then she halted as the moonlight fell full on the man’s face, illuminating the lean attractiveness of Piers St. Clair.
At once she was intensely conscious of the scarcity of her attire, and the tumbled silkiness of her hair. As before, he had her at a disadvantage.
‘Hello, Rebecca,’ he murmured, his dark eyes veiled and enigmatic. ‘I am sorry it is so late, but I had some difficulty in obtaining a flight from Canberra.’
Rebecca stared at him disbelievingly, almost as though she expected him to disappear as unexpectedly as he had appeared. Then, she gathered herself and said: ‘But it’s Christmas Day! There are no flights on Christmas Day.’
‘I know. I chartered a plane.’ He glanced round abruptly. ‘Do you suppose we could go up to the house? Rosa knows I have come down here and quite frankly she does not approve, for some reason. In fact I received quite a cool welcome from that lady.’
His words brought back to Rebecca all the contents of the letter which had arrived the previous day, and she realised why Rosa had behaved so strangely.
‘I imagine Rosa was as shocked to see you as I am,’ she said stiffly. ‘Particularly as I don’t recall inviting you. Or is it simply a case of you knowing that the villa is yours and I can’t turn you away?’ she finished fiercely, taking refuge in anger.
Piers stared at her for a long moment, and then he sighed. ‘So you know,’ he said expressionlessly.
Rebecca turned away to walk up to the villa. ‘Yes, I know.’ She managed to keep her voice calm. ‘Excuse me, I must go and change—’
‘Just a minute!’
Piers’ hard fingers curved round the flesh of her upper arm, preventing her progress effortlessly. He brought her swinging round to face him and she saw that she had angered him. His expression was tense and unyielding from the way he looked at her she thought he wanted to wreak some terrible revenge upon her.
‘I came here intending to follow a strict code of ethics,’ he said harshly. ‘I intended speaking with you formally in the light and civilised atmosphere of the villa with Rosa within calling distance, but when you speak to me like that you make me lose patience with you!’
Rebecca glared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Exactly why have you come here?’ she demanded, trying not to sound shaken. ‘Has your—your bloodhound come up with some other terrible deed I’ve committed? Or have you changed your mind about giving me the villa? You needn’t worry. I don’t intend to stay here. I prefer my independence—I’m not a charitable institution!’
‘Why do you do this?’ he bit out angrily. ‘Why do you speak to me thus? As though you hated me! Because I know you do not.’
Rebecca tried to wrench herself away from him. ‘How do you know that?’ she taunted him. ‘Did Halliday tell you?’
‘Rebecca, listen to me—’
‘No! You listen—to me! I don’t want your villa, your charity, anything to do with you, do you understand?’
Piers stared down into her upturned face for a long aching minute and then with a groan he shook his head and grasping the back of her neck he bent and put his mouth to hers, lips parted and demandingly passionate. Rebecca resisted for only a moment and then the pressure of his mouth and the seeking caressing strength of his hands destroyed all her defences, showing her more powerfully than words how hopeless it was for her to attempt to defy his mastery. The kiss went on for a long time and when he lifted his head it was but to seek the curving warmth of her shoulders and her breast. His fingers sought the securing fastener of the bikini top, but when she made no attempt to stop him his hands slid across her back and gripped her slender waist instead.
‘You see!’ he said, rather thickly, ‘you don’t hate me, Rebecca.’
Rebecca dragged herself away feeling humiliated by his demonstration of his power over her, but he caught her wrist, pulling her close to him again. ‘If it’s any consolation to you, I want you too,’ he told her in slightly uneven tones. ‘And that is why I am here.’
Rebecca’s legs felt like jelly and she stared up at him appealingly. ‘Piers, what do you want of me?’ she whispered brokenly.
He regarded her troubled face with disturbingly penetrating eyes. ‘Your face is so thin,’ he observed huskily, tracing the line from the curve of her eye to her jawline with his fingers. ‘You must believe me when I tell you I had no idea you had been so ill.’
Rebecca trembled against him. ‘It—it was ‘flu, that’s all,’ she said, trying to make light of it.
He shook his head. ‘Paul told me. It was much more serious than that. But I was unable to come and see you for the simple reason that my arm was poisoned. You remember the accident, do you not?’
Rebecca looked at him closely. ‘Of course I remember. You mean—the wound did not heal?’
Piers gave a faint smile. ‘I would say that was an English understatement,’ he remarked dryly. ‘But it is of no importance now. There are other matters to discuss. The villa, for example.’
Rebecca swallowed hard and now when she drew away he let her go. ‘Why did you do it?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why did you let me think this was mine when—’ She bent her head.
Piers studied her intently. ‘It is all yours. The lease was made over to you several weeks ago.’
Rebecca looked up quickly. ‘But why? Why? Why let me think Adele had willed it to me?’
‘It was the only way I could see to give it to you. I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to come here and get well again.’
Rebecca turned away. ‘But you knew when I found out—’
Piers’ eyes narrowed. ‘You were not meant to find out. You never would have found out without someone’s interference! As it is, you have already t
old me you will not accept it. What can I do? What can I say to convince you that I have no—what would you say?—ulterior motives?’ He smote his fist into his palm suddenly. ‘Of course, this is not the way, I know that. Coming here, being angry with you, making love to you! This is not the way to convince you that my motives are altruistic.’ He straightened his shoulders and indicated the lights of the villa. ‘Come!’ he said. ‘You must not get cold. We will continue our conversation over a drink if you will be so kind as to offer me your hospitality.’
‘How could I refuse?’ Rebecca could not prevent the taunt which rose to her lips and she was surprised by the expression of pain that crossed his face.
‘Please,’ he said heavily. ‘Let us go inside.’
Rebecca shrugged and without another word ran ahead of him across the grass and into the villa. On her way to her room she encountered Rosa. ‘Monsieur St. Clair?’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you see him?’
Rebecca halted and nodded. ‘Y—yes,’ she replied almost reluctantly. ‘He—he’s coming in for a drink.’
Rosa frowned. ‘I see. And you are still leaving tomorrow?’
Rebecca bent her head. ‘Oh, yes, Rosa,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I think so.’
In her room she stripped off the bikini and as she had not bathed it was a simple matter to put on her underclothes and a simple white cotton shift that went well with her golden skin. She was thin, she thought inconsequently, and wondered if his reasons for observing this were an attempt to make her think twice before refusing the villa. She shook her head helplessly. With Piers St. Clair there could be no anticipation of his actions. He was unpredictable.
When she entered the lounge she found he was already there, standing by the window, not attempting to help himself from the comprehensive array of spirits that were contained in the cabinet. With an involuntary gesture she walked across to the cabinet and said: ‘What will you drink?’ in a tight, controlled little voice.