by Sara Craven
From some whirling corner of her mind she realised that he could stretch out this waiting—this wanting—forever. He intended her to ask, to plead, this time.
Shall I make you beg me to take you? He’d asked her that once, some lifetime ago, and she had turned in scorn and panic from the very idea. Now she might be called on to pay for that rejection. And the price might cost her soul.
When at last—at long and screaming last—his fingers touched her lightly, almost questioningly, at the soft and pliant junction of her thighs, a moan of anticipation, almost of greed, burst from her taut throat.
She wanted suddenly to be free of the imprisoning denim which guarded her from him. She wanted to be free—to be naked in his arms.
Slowly he lifted her, steadied her so that she was no longer helpless in his embrace but standing facing him, a little way apart. Their eyes met in a strange, charged acknowledgement.
His asked. Hers answered. He moved, cancelling the space which separated them, as he took the loosened shirt and slipped it from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
She tried to speak, but he shook his head, laying a silencing finger on her lips, before allowing his hand to trail without haste down her throat and between her tumescent breasts, to the clasp of her jeans.
And paused, his eyes going past her to stare at the door with sharp and frowning attention.
He said, half to himself, ‘Someone’s there …’
Just as he spoke, there was a brisk rapping at the heavy panels, and a voice called, ‘Monsieur—Monsieur de Courcy! You are there? It is Madame Béthune. I have a message for you.’
The warm intensity of the past moments was shattered in a second.
Alain’s brows lifted, and his mouth twisted cynically. He said, ‘You must have a guardian angel, ma femme.’ He picked up Philippa’s shirt and tossed it to her. ‘Now cover yourself while I see what she wants.’
Philippa fled to the stairs. On the small dark landing, she dressed herself with shaky haste, hearing although she could not see Madame Béthune’s surge into the room.
‘Monsieur de Courcy?’ The good woman was clearly bewildered and a little indignant. ‘But how is this? I understood you to be Monsieur de Thiéry. When we spoke on the telephone, that was the name I was given.’
There was a pause, then Alain said slowly, ‘I am sorry if there has been a misunderstanding, madame. I am indeed Alain de Courcy, although it is true the original booking was made by—an associate of mine.’
‘And Mademoiselle Roscoe—where is she?’
‘I will call her.’ Alain raised his voice. ‘Philippa, come down, chérie. We have a visitor.
Philippa descended the stairs reluctantly. She had been trembling so much, she wasn’t sure whether she’d fastened all her buttons, or even united them with the correct buttonholes, and she was aware that her hair was tousled, and her breathing still flurried.
But she made herself smile as if she didn’t have a care in the world, tensely aware of Alain’s sardonic gaze. ‘Bonsoir, madame.’
‘The little Philippa!’ Madame’s chins dropped in amazement. ‘Oh, but you have changed so much, petite!’ I would hardly have known you.’ She flung her arms round her and embraced her warmly. ‘And how is your dear father?’
‘Very well. I hope he’ll be joining me here soon.’
‘Joining us, chérie,’ Alain corrected silkily. ‘Isn’t it time you told Madame Béthune your news—that you and I are married?’
Madame’s round dark eyes seemed to increase in diameter. ‘You are married?’ she exclaimed. ‘Then this is a honeymoon, enfin.’
Alain sent an ironic look in his wife’s rigid direction. ‘Hardly that,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It is more—a working holiday.’
Madame Béthune emitted a squeak of amusement. ‘Work, monsieur? But when a man and his young wife are alone together, they should think only of pleasure, isn’t it so? You should not allow her to work. If I were in her shoes, it would be very different, I promise you.’
‘You flatter me, madame.’ Alain grinned at her, flirting good-humouredly. ‘You wish to console me, perhaps?’
‘With so new a bride, you should not need consolation.’ Madame gave a gusty sigh. ‘But if I were twenty years younger …’ and she gave Alain a delicately ribald dig in the ribs with her elbow, and collapsed into a gale of mirth.
‘But I forgot my errand,’ she said at last, still shaking with laughter. ‘I have had a telephone call from Monsieur Bartran at the garage. His brother has returned this evening from Bordeaux with the part for your car, monsieur. It will be fitted tomorrow.’
‘Merveilleux!’ Alain’s smile flicked at Philippa. ‘That’s what we’ve been waiting to hear, isn’t it, chérie?’
From some icy deep inside her, Philippa heard herself answer, ‘Yes.’
‘That is good.’ Madame beamed at them both. ‘And now I shall intrude no longer,’ she added firmly, declining Alain’s offers of coffee and wine. She embraced Philippa again. ‘Be happy, my little one,’ she commanded, and departed on a wave of goodwill.
Her departure was succeeded by a profound silence.
Alain broke it at last. ‘You said a while ago that you were going to your room. Perhaps you should do so.’ There was no emotion at all in his voice, or, when she dared look at him, his face.
‘Is that—what you want?’ She couldn’t believe she had actually said that. Had she really so little pride, so little self-respect?
He shrugged again. ‘What I want,’ he said with cool and deadly emphasis, ‘is to drive away from here tomorrow as soon as my car is fixed.’ The green eyes grazed her mockingly. ‘After all, ma belle, it was—only a kiss.’
She whispered, ‘Yes—of course.’ Then she turned and went away from him, back upstairs into the darkness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DARKNESS WAS everywhere. It swirled around her, suffocating her. And it was within her, consuming her in pain and loneliness.
Only a kiss. The words seemed to be etched on her mind in letters of fire. That was how little it had meant to Alain. She had been on the verge of giving herself completely, and without reservation, for the first time—but even so, he would still have driven away tomorrow without a backward glance.
And it was no use reminding herself that Alain’s departure was what she’d wanted—what she’d urged on him. By coming here, she had intended to separate herself from Alain once and for all. Now he was prepared to gratify her wish.
It had to be, she told herself vehemently, over and over again. She couldn’t accept a continuation of their marriage on the terms he was offering. She wasn’t prepared to occupy the fringe of his attention, waiting to be noticed when he could spare the time like—Patient Griselda or some other wimp.
And when they parted, she would have nothing to reproach herself for. Nothing to remember with shame. That had to be her comfort.
There was no sign of him when she eventually ventured downstairs in the morning. For a moment she thought, stunned, that he had already gone without even a goodbye, but a swift check in his room revealed that his clothes and toilet articles were still there, half packed. He must be down in Montascaux standing impatiently over the mechanics.
She took her coffee to the studio, and made her preparations for the day. She looked long and critically at Alain’s portrait. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it seemed to her to be the best thing she had ever done. But perhaps that was because she was seeing it with the eyes of love, she thought wistfully.
An hour later, she heard the sound of the car. Her heart jolted and she began to alter a highlight with savage concentration. Eventually he came up the stairs and stood in the doorway.
She said, too brightly, ‘Is the car fixed?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Then I suppose you’ll be off now.’ She made a business of altering the position of the easel.
‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I thought you wanted me to give another sitting.�
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Philippa shrugged. ‘I don’t want to cause you any inconvenience.’
‘You won’t.’ He walked to her side and looked at the canvas. ‘Is there much else to do?’
‘Not with this one,’ she said. ‘I can finish the rest from memory, if necessary.’ God how achingly true that was!
‘I see.’ Alain’s face was quizzical. ‘I did you an injustice, ma femme, when I tried to dissuade you from continuing your studies. You have real talent. I hope that you develop it to its full.’ His smile was friendly, but it contained an element of dismissal—set her at a distance, and she knew it. ‘Will you sell me this painting?’
She shook her head. ‘Not this one. With this, I came of age as a painter. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I don’t think that understanding has ever played a great part in our relationship,’ he said gravely. ‘But I promise to try.’ He paused. ‘So—what about this final sitting? Do you want me to strip for you?’
Philippa swallowed. It sounded deafeningly loud in the sudden quiet of the studio. She tried to smile. ‘You—you don’t mean it, surely?’
‘Why not? It would be a new experience for me—as for most men—to take my clothes off for a woman who has no interest in me except as a composition of light and shade, of planes and angles.’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘Isn’t that how it is, ma chère?’
‘Well—yes.’ Her heart was hammering.
‘So why don’t you ask me, then?’ He paused. ‘Or is my body not interesting enough for you? You feel, maybe, that you know me too well?’
She lifted the canvas carefully off the easel, not looking at him. ‘It—isn’t that.’
Dear God, she thought, almost hysterically, she didn’t know him at all. Not in that way.
She managed a ghost of a laugh. ‘You’ve—rather taken me by surprise. But if this is a serious offer, Alain, then of course I’d like to make some drawings of you. I—I do need the practice,’ she added lamely.
‘We seem to be surprising each other,’ he said. He glanced round. ‘I presume you wish to alter the setting?’
They moved the table away, and arranged a makeshift platform with boxes and some old gold brocade curtains Philippa had discovered in a packing case the previous day. She spent some time over the brocade, pulling at its folds, making it fall just as she wanted, aware of a feeling of total unreality.
Oh, God, she thought, I shouldn’t be doing this—I shouldn’t be allowing it to happen. Because I can’t be objective. I can’t just treat it as a useful exercise.
She turned away and picked up her sketching block, her hands trembling. She’d never, she thought, actually looked at Alain naked before. Not really. That first time, she had been too embarrassed and angry—and since then their few encounters had been in the dark. This would be a moment of truth for her.
And it had arrived, she realised, as he said, ‘I’m ready.’
Philippa turned slowly to face him. He was—magnificent. There was no other word for it. Hands on hips, head slightly thrown back, he endured her fascinated, almost obsessive scrutiny.
‘Are you going to draw me, ma belle, or commit me to memory?’
She started, faint colour flaring in her face. ‘Oh, will you sit, please—and turn sideways a little? Drop your shoulder. No, that’s too much.’
‘It would be simpler if you showed me.’
She hesitated momentarily, then went over to him, putting her hands on his warm shoulders and manipulating him into the position she wanted, savouring as she did so the silken smoothness of his skin, and the firm play of muscle in his back and arms.
She said, ‘Now this time you must tell me if you get tired—or cold.’
‘Or even too warm, perhaps.’ His tone was laconic. ‘Do you know something, chérie? I think this is the first time you’ve ever touched me of your own accord.’
Philippa snatched her hands away. ‘Remember the pose, please,’ she said, and went back to her drawing board.
She made a number of false starts, crumpling sheet after sheet and throwing them away.
‘Is something wrong?’ Alain asked at last. ‘You seem disturbed. Shall I get dressed and find you a nice safe vase of flowers instead?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘No, thanks. Maybe the pose is wrong—too forced.’
Alain sat up, shrugging. ‘Then that is easily remedied.’ He turned on his side, propping himself on his elbow, one long leg bent, and slightly drawn up. He smiled at her. ‘Is that better?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted unwillingly. He looked totally relaxed, as much at ease as if he’d been posing nude all his life.
I wish I could be equally casual, she thought.
She tried to assume a clinical detachment as she studied him, observing how the lean, elegant lines of his body had gained a new grace, bone and muscle flowing in total harmony.
At the same time, she realised, there was something watchful about the position he had taken up—something anticipatory, even predatory. It was reflected in the smile which still played about his mouth, and in his hooded eyes. It was intriguing—almost mysterious.
Shaken by sudden excitement, she thought, My God, if I can only capture this!
This time she didn’t fumble or fudge the lines. Her pencil seemed to sing across the paper, her hand and eye working in perfect co-ordination. She had to do this, she thought feverishly. She couldn’t lose it. Not now.
‘May I rest a little?’ Her consent taken for granted, Alain sat up and reached for his trousers.
Unwillingly Philippa put down her pencil, aware of the tension in her own shoulder and neck muscles, of the trickle of perspiration between her breasts.
‘Am I permitted to look?’ Alain came to stand behind her.
‘When it’s finished,’ she said huskily. His hands were resting lightly on her shoulders, but the touch seemed to scorch her to the bone. It was too reminiscent of the previous night, she thought restively.
‘It is time you took a break too.’ His fingers moved, testing, exploring. ‘You’re tied up in knots.’
Gently at first, then more forcefully, he began to massage the aching muscles at the base of her neck.
She tried to pull away. ‘I’m all right, really.’
‘Tais-toi,’ he said. ‘Let me do this for you.’
With a sigh of capitulation, Philippa gave herself up to his ministrations. His touch was magic, she thought wonderingly, intimate yet impersonal at the same time in some strange way.
But, healing though his hands undoubtedly were, the stroking, kneading movements were creating other strains, other tensions elsewhere in her body.
‘Relax,’ he ordered softly.
But how could she, when, once more, her entire being was responding—coming alive under his touch.
She felt his fingers move over her shoulder, and feather along her collarbones, before sliding down to release the buttons on her shirt.
‘No!’ She put up a hand to stop him.
‘Sois tranquille,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’
The shirt slipped off her shoulders, and down to her waist. His fingers were on her naked spine, and the muscles which flanked it, stroking and smoothing.
Her bared skin flushed and tingled under the play of his hands. Her body began to arch in pleasure, her small breasts swelling with sharp sensitivity. Tiny sparks danced behind her closed eyelids.
Trust him, he’d said, but the betrayal was coming once more from herself. From the savage urgency of her unfulfilled body.
Then, with stark suddenness, it was over. The warm fingers stopped stroking her body, and moved almost briskly to pull her shirt back into place.
‘Voilà.’ His tone was almost casual. He picked up her drawing block and pencil and handed them to her. ‘Shall we continue?’
He walked back to the makeshift dais, pausing only to shed his trousers, and lay down again, effortlessly assuming his former position.
Philippa stared at the drawing in front of her until
the lines blurred. She was shaking so much that she could hardly hold the pencil, and her mouth felt dry. She was running a fever—burning up. The ache deep inside her had expanded into pain—into a hunger she could no longer deny—a hunger which demanded assuagement, no matter what it might cost.
She let the drawing board fall and stood up, tugging at the buttons on her shirt until they gave way. One of them tore. Unheeding, she shrugged off the garment and let it drop to the ground.
Alain did not speak or move, but in the hectic silence, she heard the rasp of a suddenly indrawn breath as he watched her.
She kicked off her sandals and trod barefoot across the space that divided them.
The green eyes were watchful, guarded as he looked up at her. He said softly, ‘Et alors, madame?’
Her hands fumbled with the fastening of her jeans. The material clung, encumbering her, and she thought she would never be rid of it. But at last it was done. Her remaining covering was little more than a brief lacy triangle, but she stripped that away too.
Then she dropped to her knees beside him, her hand reaching to touch, shyly, tentatively, the muscular sweep of his bare thigh. ‘Alain?’ Her voice trembled into life. ‘Alain, je t’en prie—je t’implore!’
Shall I make you beg me to take you? His mocking question was now being answered at last by her total surrender.
He said harshly, ‘Ah, Dieu!’ and his hands took her fiercely, drawing her down beside him on to the folds of gold brocade.
His mouth was a flame, consuming her, and she yielded deliriously to its demands, her body pressed against the length of his, savouring the intimate delight of the contact.
He lifted himself away from her slightly, his hands stroking down her body, lingering on each curve and contour as if he was learning her through his fingertips. Then the dark head bent so that his lips could caress her breasts. The flick of his tongue across the roused, rosy peaks sent needle-points of white-hot sensation shafting through her inmost being.
She moaned with pleasure, running her own hands in turn down his back, across the taut, flat buttocks to his narrow flanks.
His response was urgent and immediate, his mouth returning to hers, his hand sliding down to part her thighs, and seek the secret places of her womanhood, so long denied to him.