' For a moment the old familiar smile crinkled at her. 'The place next door is called Fairyland!' Then his expression resumed its dourness. 'Let's get inside.'
Libby followed him through the door and across a tiled hall, decorated with potted plants that would have turned an English florist green with envy. Swiss cheeses and castor oil plants reached to the high ceiling, while others she couldn't name stood in troughs. The effect was cool and exotic, enhanced by the view through the picture window of a deep valley running down to the sea.
'You can see the same thing better from my window,' Keir told her brusquely, and she followed him into a lift which took them up three floors. Libby couldn't repress a gasp of pure delight as she went into the big sitting room of the flat. As Keir had promised, the view was even better from here; she could see tiny coloured boats on the stretch of dancing blue water, and the valley was green, filled with small trees and bushes. There didn't seem to be any river in it-she remembered dimly that there were none on Malta-but presumably it filled with water when the rain came and so was just fertile enough to sustain a particularly tough kind of plant life.
'How long have you lived here?' she asked, looking round at the spacious room. 'Are you just on holiday?'
She glanced at Keir and caught him watching her with that strange, enigmatic expression again. Flushing uncomfortably, she hurried on: 'I'm afraid I haven't kept up much with what you've been doing.'
Immediately it was as if a shutter had come down over his face, yet what else could she have said? It was true, wasn't it? Did he expect her to have kept a scrap-book on his affairs, or something?'
Not that it wouldn't have been easy. Keir Salinger had been easy meat for the gossip columnists until he had virtually retired from the limelight a year or so ago. There had been no lack of girls in his life. Most of them had been merely transitory, just taken out once or twice. But there had been one or two who had lasted longer. The beautiful Italian countess for example-Pia, wasn't that her name? What had happened to her?
'No, I'm not on holiday," Keir said harshly. 'I'm working-writing a history of Malta. It's a long job there’s quite a lot of history to write about-and I've been here for three months so far.'
'It must be quite a big job,' Libby said politely. Once again they seemed to be trapped in this glass cage-or, rather, two glass cages with no way from one to the other. How could she reach Keir? Did she even want to? But if she didn't, there would be no point in her journey at all. And there must be some point-Keir never did anything without good reason.
'It is.' He didn't seem to want to talk about his work, so Libby said no more. She was tired of trying to break through anyway. Hadn't she done enough in simply dropping everything and flying out here to be with him? Perhaps he regretted the letter he had written her. The letter that had called her his sweet and begged her to make up for lost time . . .
Keir turned abruptly. 'You must be needing a drink,' he said. 'What'll it be? Martini, gin, or-' his lip curled faintly '-perhaps a nice cup of tea. Isn't that what English people always want the moment they set foot on foreign soil? Only I warn you, the water here has an odd effect on tea. It's desalinated and seems to do something to the flavour.'
'I'd like a cup of coffee, please,' Libby said steadily, and his glance flickered over her for a moment before he nodded and went through a door to the kitchen. Libby didn't follow him. She wandered over to the big window and stood looking out. The apartment was built at the head of the green valley and this room was evidently at the back of it. The kitchen would look over the road where Keir had parked the car. She noticed a long building on one side of the steep valley, and a road twining along the edge of the other.
Cars passed along it, but they were too far away to make any sound.
She wondered where Keir intended that she should stay. Here in his flat? She wasn't sure she liked that idea-not while there was still this glass wall between them. And even when-if-it was demolished; what then? Would they really be on their old footing, as the letter had suggested? Or would the quarrel that had split them apart prove too strong for any love that there might be left?
Keir came through from the kitchen carrying a tray of coffee, which he set down on a low table in front of the window. He sat down in the chair opposite Libby and gave her a quick glance from under hooded lids.
It was almost as if he were nervous of her, Libby thought in sudden astonishment. As if he were just as uncertain in this odd situation-as if he, too, were wondering what to say next.
Well, they couldn't go on like this! Someone had to make a start. Libby took a deep breath.
'Why did you ask me to come here, Keir? What is it you want? I-' But again he cut her short.
'Don't let's talk about that now, Libby. Let's just get to know each other again, shall we?' Again that strange look in his eyes. 'Let's talk about old times-the fun we had. Remember? Remember the day we went walking on Dartmoor, that first time I came down to see your family? We saw a foal being born to a wild pony, remember that? It was magic. And the day we went to Salcombe and hired a sailing dinghy.
You'd never told me you could sail and we said next time we'd have one each and have races. Only we never did, did we? We couldn't bear to be even that much apart.' , Libby's eyes misted with tears. What was he doing, bringing back these memories that were so sweet-and so painfully bitter? She had tried so hard to forget, knowing that the memory of such happiness could only make her loss more unbearable? Didn't he realise that by forcing her to remember he was practising what could only amount to refined torture?
'Keir. . .' she murmured, but he was oblivious to her voice and her pleading eyes, staring out of the huge window down the valley, his gaze remote on the sparkling waves and the dancing boats. Didn't he understand--or didn't he care?
Or maybe it was something else. Maybe he understood all too well. Maybe the letter he had sent, this nostalgic return to the past, were both part of some sinister scheme for revenge. Could that really be it?
Could Keir be that sadistic? Had she hurt him as badly as he had hurt her-so that two years later, when she had begun to rebuild her life, he could deliberately seek her out and open up all the old wounds, hurt her allover again?
It was a fantastic idea, surely too fantastic, but wouldn't it account for the strangeness she had sensed in him? Wouldn't it explain that odd, enigmatic expression she'd caught in his eyes and on his lean; brown face? The tautness round his eyes-the tension that kept his whole body as tightly wound as a spring?
Questions, questions, Libby thought wearily. She was sick of them, sick of not knowing, of wondering . . .
Why couldn't everything be straightforward, cut and dried? Why did it all have to be so complicated? That time Keir was remembering as he stared out to sea with that hooded gaze-it hadn't been complicated then. It had all seemed so beautifully simple; an easy matter of loving and living, with no doubts or uncertainties. Hadn't that been the way things ought to be? Or had it been some cruel joke?
'It was like being back in a golden childhood, with all the advantages of being adult,' Keir was saying softly. 'We put care and responsibility behind us for those few weeks, didn't we, Libby? We sailed and swam and rode and walked, and never gave a thought to what came next. And why should we?
Everyone deserves a holiday from the world at some time in their lives, and what better time than when we fall in love? But it has to end, doesn't it? We have to come back-face reality. We have to be able to cope when things go wrong.' He paused and his gaze came back to rest on Libby's face, shocking her with the dark pain that lurked behind his eyes. 'What went wrong for us, Libby?' he murmured. 'What was our reality?'
Libby couldn't speak. She sat staring at him, almost mesmerised by that magnetic gaze, shaken by the torture that she sensed in the taut body. There was something here she couldn't begin to understand. . .
But why was he asking this? How could he ask her what had gone wrong between them? How could he be so insensitive? He had k
nown-surely he had known!
Before she could speak, Keir's expression changed again, the pain wiped from his eyes to leave them curiously blank before he leapt to his feet. 'I'm sorry, Libby-forget it. I'm being morbid, and on the first day of your holiday, too! Now what would you like to do? I thought we'd eat in Valletta tonight, there are one or two rather good restaurants there, and perhaps you'd like to look around the town first. It really comes to life in the early evening, after the siesta-all the shops open and it seems as if the whole of Malta comes to gossip!' He stood over her, big and broad, the sun glinting through the window on his burnished hair.
'Why don't you go along and have a shower and change, and then we'll go? Nothing elaborate-just a pretty dress or skirt, whatever you like.'
Libby followed him through the flat in a daze. His mood changed so quickly, she couldn't keep up with him. And that wasn't the Keir she remembered-she had always been the volatile one. And why had he talked as if she were here on holiday? Was he indeed regretting having sent for her? Or had she been right in thinking about revenge-was this another subtle part of that?
Well., she would find out sooner or later. Things couldn't go on like this, there would have to be a show-down, but she wasn't at all sure she could cope with it tonight. Tonight! She stood in the bedroom Keir had shown her to and looked round at the cool walls, the light cane furniture, the big, white-covered bed that stood near the shuttered windows. Was she being foolish to stay here, alone with Keir and especially Keir in this strange mood? But she couldn't face the idea of going to find somewhere else. Going out for a meal was just about all she could manage tonight.
Valletta was all that Keir had promised, and more. He parked the car near the centre and they walked across a big square, lined with shops selling all manner of goods-Libby had never seen such a selection in a small city before. Keir didn't seem to be in any hurry and his tension had relaxed a little as they wandered through the arcades, looking in the windows at the array of Maltese crafts-golden-brown pottery, delicate filigree silver jewellery, mysterious blue glass and exquisite lace. Malta could claim expertise in all these crafts, Keir told her, and you could see them all in action; many of them in the villages where women sat at their cottage doors making the lace with traditional skill or potters worked in small sheds. Or all together in the craft village just outside Rabat, a collection of buildings on a disused airfield that housed the Medina glassworks as well as a host of other craftworks.
The shopping area was all new, recently built, but as soon as they passed out of it the scene changed dramatically and Libby found herself staring in amazement at the ruined pillars of the old Opera House.
The older part of the city lay on its far side and Keir led her round it, pausing to let her take in the devastation.
‘A relic of the war,' he said briefly. 'All this part was bombed heavily over several months-it's a wonder there was any left. As you can see, there's-been a lot of rebuilding and expansion, but this has been left deliberately, so that people will remember.'
'I think I would want to forget,' Libby said slowly, staring at the desolation of the ruins. 'After all, that happened a long time ago now-a generation ago. It doesn't do any good to keep hatred alive-to hold old grudges.'
She was aware of Keir's quick glance then and bit her lip, wondering if he was applying those words to their own situation. But he merely said, 'I don't think it's hatred they're remembering, necessarily. It's courage. Malta was awarded the George Cross for the way she suffered and held firm during the war, Libby. That's something nobody need forget. Something they deserve to be proud of.'
They crossed the road and walked into Valletta's main street. There was no traffic here, but the warm evening air was filled with the hubbub of voices as a crowd of shoppers and sightseers mingled on the pavements, thronging the shop doorways, gossiping in little groups: their voices loud and unintelligible as they chattered and laughed in the strange Maltese language, a mixture it seemed of every language that this island had been forced to learn during its long history of occupation by one race and another. Again, the shops were bright with sparkling lights, each one an Aladdin's cave; Libby saw glass and china of a quality she had only previously seen in Bond Street stores, and the jewellery and perfumes made her gasp.
The street seemed to have been built along the spine of a ridge that ran eventually down to the sea, enclosing the famous Valletta harbour, and as they passed narrow streets on either side Libby could see the water below. The streets were more accurately described as stairways, she thought, with wide, shallow steps taking them down the steep sides of the ridge, and people were moving about below, evidently along other, lesser thoroughfares.
But she wasn't really taking all this in. She was too acutely aware of the man at her side, the man who walked close but without touching her except when their arms, loosely swinging, brushed and that tingle, so exciting and so dangerous, prickled its way through Libby's body. And she was too aware of' all those questions that had not yet been answered. Or even asked.
Keir took her to a small, dimly-lit restaurant in a side street. Their table was by the window, overlooking the harbour with the lights of the city now reflected in the dark, hammered pewter of the water. Tiny points of brightness that must be boats, moving gently on the slow swell; occasionally, one could be seen wending its way through the moored vessels, off on a fishing trip perhaps.
It was fish that they ate as their main course. On Keir's advice, Libby chose melon to start with-they were particularly delicious here, he told her, and some of the other starters, like cannelloni or spaghetti, would probably prove substantial enough to count as a main course. Looking at one or two of the other tables, Libby decided he was probably right. She wanted to try the seafood Malta was famous for anyway, and feeling very daring she plumped for swordfish.
It came with chips and salad-another of Britain's legacies, she thought wryly-but she enjoyed the firm, creamy texture of the fish, and enjoyed too the wine that Keir had chosen to go with it. Something local, she could never remember quite what it was called, but it was pleasant and eased her tension so much that she was able at last to smile naturally across the table at Keir and respon4~hen he began to talk about their engagement again. ,._.
'Remember the time we went to Hay Tor and climbed the rock?' he was asking, his blue eyes smiling at the memory. 'You got stuck at the top and couldn't get down-s-or pretended you couldn't, I was never quite sure. And then we went to Becka Falls and I photographed you by the water. It was pretty there, and unspoilt, but we didn't like Dartmeet so much, remember? That huge car park and the wire fences . .
.'
'It was better when we walked along the river,' she said, joining in at last. 'So many people just go there and stay by the car park and the clapper bridge, if you just walk a little way you can be quite alone.'
'I know,' he said, and his eyes rested on her face. 'I remember that, too.'
Libby felt her colour rise in her cheeks. She had forgotten how they had walked, arms wound round each other, beside the river Dart, leaving the crowds behind. But now the memory flooded back. She was there again, slipping down into the heathery hollow to lie close to Keir, hearing the river chuckle past as they kissed, letting their bodies mould together as lips met and spoke a language more subtle than words, and hands moved in tender exploration of contours that were already well-known.
That had been one of the times when only Keir's strength of mind had kept them from that final capitulation to the yearning that shook them both. Even when Libby's body had arched almost involuntarily towards him, begging him to complete their lovemaking, he had refused, telling her again that for her it had to be perfect, marred by nothing.
'It would be perfect now,' she whispered as the feathery clouds wheeled above them in the eggshell-blue sky. 'Here in the heather, with the sun warm on our skins, please, Keir, please .. .'
But he only smiled that tender smile that made her want him even more and kissed he
r gently before pulling away from her and buttoning her shirt with long, sensitive fingers.
'It will be even more perfect on our wedding-night,' he promised. 'I'll make sure of that. And it's not so very far away-only two more weeks now. We can wait, my darling.'
And they had waited-for a wedding-night that never came. Tears filled Libby's eyes suddenly and she looked down quickly, praying that none would fall. Why had she had to remind Keir of that afternoon in particular? Or had he reminded her? She was too confused to know, now. She only knew that they had to stop all this reminiscing and talk-talk about why she was here, and what was going to happen next.
Keir's hand came across the table and gripped hers, and she was startled by the urgency of his clasp.
Involuntarily, she looked up and met his dark blue gaze. .
'We were happy, weren't we, Libby?' he asked, and she nodded, incapable of denying it, knowing that it would be a kind of betrayal to do so. Her heart jumped suddenly-was he really trying to tell her he wanted reconciliation, that he loved her still? But she remembered his odd mood of the afternoon and cautioned herself to be wary. Even this could be part of his revenge, if she had been right in suspecting that. Don't jump too quickly, she thought. Let him come out into the open first.
Keir's eyes were still on her, dark and intent, and she waited with a thumping heart for what he would say next. This was the moment, she was sure of it. She was conscious of his hand over hers, his fingers warm and strong on her wrist. He could probably feel the way her blood was racing, feel the pounding pulse beneath his fingertips. He had always known her almost too well always been able to tell when her desire for him was rising.
Keir opened his mouth to speak, but another voice got in first, and there was a moment of absolute stillness as they both realised that the waiter was there, asking if everything was all right, smiling at them with a friendliness that at that moment neither of them reciprocated.
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