Lettie had prepared a breakfast of orange juice, croissants and a lightly poached egg, with a bunch of purple grapes to finish the meal.
'I can't manage this much!' Sara protested laughingly.
'You can, Miss Sara. You were always as skinny as a sparrow, but these last weeks…' A disapproving shake of the head. 'What Mr Peter would think if he could see you!'
Mention of Peter brought a resurgence of sorrow. His death had touched Sara very deeply, and there was not a day that she did not think of him. But she had hardly, thought of him yesterday, after Clyde had re-entered her life. The knowledge brought a sharp pang of guilt. If Peter had never managed to stir her senses as Clyde did so easily, she knew nevertheless that she would never again meet anyone quite so selfless and kind. The fact that her blood had raced at sight of Clyde, that she had longed to be in his arms, seemed to suggest disloyalty to a man who had been so good.
A little soberly she began to eat. The juice had been freshly squeezed and the grapes were tartly delicious. The rest of the meal was pushed aside.
'I can't manage any more,' she told the disapproving housekeeper, as she got to her feet. 'I'm going to spend the day on the beach.'
In her bedroom she changed into a bikini. About to slip a towelling gown over her shoulders, she was caught by her reflection in the mirror, and all at once her heart was beating uncomfortably fast.
The lilac bikini had been Clyde's favourite, but it was not the only one she possessed. What had prompted her to wear it today? Surely not the off-chance that he might see her, that in bringing back memories of moments that had been delightfully tender his new contemptuous mood might soften?
No! She shook herself impatiently. She was becoming fanciful if she imagined that her subconscious mind was influencing her actions. The chances of meeting Clyde were less than minimal. She meant to stay on the strip of sand which bordered Morning Glow. Though not officially private, that was in fact what the beach was. The holiday beach lay close to the village, half an hour's drive from here. If Clyde meant to spend the day at the sea, that was where he would be.
Besides, Clyde would be with Andrea. The last thing he would want was that his wife and his ex-fiancée should meet and spoil the day. For it would be spoiled. The one short meeting with Andrea had revealed a beautiful girl with a possessive manner.
There would be no relaxing if the three of them were thrown together.
Yet there was no reason to change into another bikini. Once she had made a great sacrifice for Clyde's sake. She knew it, though he never would. Now she owed him nothing. If she allowed a past memory to dictate her behaviour, she would be showing weakness. The first weakness would be a stepping-stone to the next. She would keep on the bikini she had originally chosen.
A little curious she studied herself in the mirror. It was a long while since she had looked at herself critically. The quiet months at Morning Glow had brought an apricot tan to her cheeks; against it her eyes were very green, her hair glossy. Her appearance had always been fragile, and that had not changed. The fragility extended to her body. A stranger looking at her might not have guessed that the slender body had once withstood the rigours demanded of a ballet dancer.
What she had not noticed before, Sara realised, was the sensuousness the bikini revealed. Small breasts were high and perfectly defined beneath the clinging fabric. If the waist was almost too tiny, it flared to hips that were softly rounded. The long thighs were smooth and shapely. Against the air of fragility, the overall curvaceousness had a hint of incongruity.
A slight breeze had risen as Sara came down to the beach. She took off her wrap and her sandals and left them by a pile of rocks. A long lazy day stretched ahead of her, and later she would read, but first she wanted to walk. Her body craved exercise. If dancing was denied her, walking was her only recourse.
Her spirits rose as she followed the water line. The breeze lifted her hair and blew it backwards, and the taste of salt was on her lips. The foam of the incoming waves eddied about her feet, curling about her ankles. She looked back once and saw the prints her feet had made, the only prints on a beach washed clear by the last tide. Here and there shells were sharp beneath her toes, and once she stopped to pick up a particularly lovely one.
Ahead of her the beach stretched golden and untrodden. The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks was a ceaseless roar. Sara had always loved the sea, never more than on a day like this one, when she was quite alone.
'Let the wind blow the cobwebs from your brain,' had been one of her grandmother's favourite sayings. Now, surrounded by sand and wind and sea, she knew the cobwebs that had clouded her thinking yesterday were gone.
The meeting with Clyde had been a shock. There had been too much between them for her to have reacted otherwise. His attitude had been wounding. Natural enough, she realised now, for he had never understood her rejection of him. And yet, as much as the meeting had unnerved her, there was no reason to let it dwell on her mind. It had been a chance encounter, one of those freak events that happen when one least expects them. It would not happen again.
So distraught had she been last night that it had not occurred to her to wonder what Clyde was doing in a small seaside village so far from his home. Even this morning, as she had dithered over the choice of bikinis, there had been the worry that she might run into him again.
Now she could think rationally, and she realised that the possibility of another meeting was unlikely. What had led Clyde to the Antique Den in search of Cape silver was something she did not know. Perhaps he had heard of the shop and made a note to visit it if ever he was passing through the village.
But passing through was all he could have been doing. Perhaps he had been on his way back to Cape Town from a medical convention. Unless he had come here on a holiday… A moment of panic at the thought, for it would entail the possibility of another meeting. Then came the realisation that he was not on holiday. If he had been, Andrea would have been with him, and Sara doubted that Clyde's wife would enjoy the very basic pleasures which were all the village could provide.
Sara walked further and further. Now and then the beach narrowed, so that there was no more than a foot of sand between the rocks and the jungle-like vegetation of the interior. Sometimes there was no sand at all so that she had to climb, nimble-footed, over great piles of black stone. And then she would come to a new beach as private and as unmarked by human feet as the one before.
She did not know how long she had been walking when she saw the long shadow take form on the sand beside her own. In the manner of shadows, it was elongated to the point of exaggeration. Nevertheless, compared to her own, it suggested that its owner was a tall person indeed.
Sara stifled the cry of alarm that rose to her lips.
She was in a small cove now. Any stranger might have come down from the underbrush to walk beside the water, just as she was doing. In a moment the shadow would move beyond hers as the person went past her. There was no cause for panic.
She went on walking, trying to keep her rhythm steady. Only when it was clear that the person at her back did not mean to pass her, did she turn. Her eyes, controlled to hide her fright, slanted up upward to Clyde's face.
CHAPTER FIVE
'You followed me.' Her accusation was cool.
'Good morning, and how are you?' he asked mockingly. 'Thank you, I'm very well.'
Despite herself she flushed. 'After the way you spoke to me yesterday no civilities are necessary.'
'Unnecessary perhaps, but polite all the same.'
Since when had there been need for politeness between them? Loving, in all its forms, had pervaded the whole of their relationship. All the niceties had, quite naturally, been taken care of.
'Why did you follow me?' Sara demanded.
'I wanted to talk to you.'
Strange how her heart was racing. No matter that the love that had once existed between them had vanished, at least as far as Clyde was concerned, it seemed she could no mo
re prevent herself responding to him than she could stop breathing.
'We've nothing to talk about.' Her voice was very low.
'Oh yes, Sara, I think we have.' His tone was hard.
She was frightened all at once. There were things she had resolved she would never tell Clyde. She would not let herself weaken on that point. But standing up to him might not be easy. The break in their relationship had revealed a new aspect of his personality. Clyde could be inflexible.
She bit her lip, then deliberately let it go. Any hint of uncertainty would be pounced on as a sign of weakness. If she meant to stand up to him, the sooner she did so the better.
'You had no right to follow me!'
'My dear Sara,' the deliberate drawl gave the endearment a derogatory sound, 'I don't hold back from doing what I wish.'
The retort which should have been simple, was not simple at all, especially when she was subjected to a scrutiny that was nothing less than outrageous. His gaze lingered a few moments on eyes that were distressed despite all attempts to keep them blank, on lips that trembled, then descended to the swell of the high breasts above the confining limits of the bikini, to waist and hips and thighs. If he had used his hands to tear the brief garment from her body, he could not have undressed her more thoroughly, Sara thought wildly.
As it was, the opportunity for retort slipped by. Instead, when she could speak, Sara asked, 'How did you know where to find me.'
'You left a very clear set of footprints.'
He knew what she was asking, but he was making her spell the words out. He was playing with her. Through the excitement his closeness provoked, Sara was aware of an intense anger.
She wanted to hit him; only a deliberate effort kept her hands at her side. For the action would set forth a chain of consequences over which she would have no control—she was very certain of that.
He was so sure of himself, she thought bitterly. No stranger would have taken him for a doctor on his way to fame. In denim shorts and an open-necked shirt he could more easily have been a beachcomber or a surfer. His shirt was open to just above his waist, so that she could see the mass of golden hairs that curled on the lean yet well-muscled chest. His legs were very long, taut and strong, planted almost aggressively in the soft sand. He possessed an unrestrained maleness which played havoc with her frenzied senses.
Involuntarily her eyes moved upwards to his face. There was no denying that his appearance was distinguished, but had his face always been quite so rakish? Had there always been the impression of strength mixed with cruelty in the set of his lips and the rigid line of his jaw; the look of challenge and devil-may-care in the narrowed ice-blue eyes?
'How did you know where to find me?' she asked again, managing somehow to retain her composure. 'You didn't just happen along this beach. Casual strangers don't come here.'
He shot her a long level look. 'I went to Morning Glow.'
If only she had given instructions to Lettie to tell nobody where she was! But after Clyde's obvious astonishment at seeing her yesterday it had not occurred to her that he would know where she lived.
'What you're really asking is how I learned about Morning Glow.'
'Yes…' She did not know that her lips were white.
The eyes that met hers held an expression of disgust, as if she had committed a crime which he could not condone. Sara felt a quiver that began at the base of her spine and travelled swiftly upwards. She had an inkling of what was coming.
'After I left you,' he said, his words slow and measured, 'I made some enquiries. I wanted to know more about the ballet dancer who ran the village antique shop.'
'You could have asked me,' she said tersely.
'Would you have told me the truth?' His face totally without emotion. 'What I learned was interesting. Sara Demaine, the dancer who put her career before all else, had married the famous choreographer, Peter Burod. The very wealthy Peter Burod.'
'Yes.'
'… and was living at Morning Glow, an estate worth a fortune.'
'You make it sound so cheap,' she whispered. 'Did you also hear that Peter… my husband… was killed in a motor accident?'
'I heard.' Compassion touched his eyes, only to vanish before she could glean any comfort therefrom.
'I also heard,' he went on, 'that the wealthy widow chose to continue living at Morning Glow after her husband's death. That her work in the antique shop is of a temporary nature…'
'I might decide to put money into the shop,' she interrupted him, 'to work there full-time.'
The hands that gripped her shoulders caught her unprepared. Clyde's fingers dug hard into the soft skin. 'An antique shop, Sara? What are you playing at, for heaven's sake?'
'I happen to like antiques,' she said defensively.
'I like them too. That's why yesterday…' He stopped. 'It doesn't make sense. You're a dancer, a damned fine dancer. You broke up with me because you were so obsessed with the idea of a starring role. What happened, Sara?'
Now was the time to tell him. She opened her mouth, only to close it again. Telling Clyde the truth would also mean telling him why she had ended their engagement. Even now, she could not do that.
'Peter asked me to marry him.'
'And you agreed.' She saw the sudden whiteness in his face, the expression that came and went in his eyes, an expression of pain she thought, and briefly her heart went out to him. Clyde thought she had given him up in favour of someone with more to offer. Sara, who had had to endure so much, was able to identify with the pain of another; especially when it was the pain of the man she loved. For she did love him—desperately. Despite the fact that he was married himself. Despite his new feelings of disgust.
'Try to understand…' she began.
'What is there to understand?' he asked through his teeth. The fingers on her shoulders moved upwards towards her neck. There was an urgency in his touch which Sara had never felt before, an urgency that had nothing to do with the passion they had once known, and once more she was frightened.
'Well?' The word was a whiplash.
'Take your hands off my neck,' she said unsteadily.
Clyde's laugh, short and unamused, fanned her ear. 'Scared I'll strangle you?'
'Clyde…'
'You're safe enough.' He dropped his fingers abruptly. 'Did Peter Burod ever get angry with you? Or was he too old for that? Too grateful for a young girl's love.'
'Why do you make it so ugly?' In the aftermath of tension she was trembling.
'Because it is ugly.'
'No!' She took a step away from him and began to walk. There was no point in continuing the conversation.
He fell in beside her. Abstractedly Sara noticed that their shadows were close together; merging now and then. As their bodies had merged once before. And never would again…
'Peter Burod must have been a good thirty years older than you.' Evidently Sara's attempt to end the conversation meant nothing to Clyde.
'Twenty-five.'
'And very rich.'
'He was rich.' She turned suddenly, pausing in mid-step, tilting her head back to look at him. 'What are you trying to prove?'
'That you're a mercenary little bitch.'
'I think you implied something of the sort yesterday.' She was so angry that it was no effort to keep her voice as cool as his.
'And that all your ideals never meant a damn thing.'
Later she would feel pain. When she relived the things they had said to each other. Now there was just the necessity of keeping up a composed front.
Lifting her head, cheeks burning, she said, 'You're entitled to believe what you wish. I don't have to wait around while you do it.'
Pivoting away from him in a dancer's neat movement, she began to walk—quickly, angrily. Until an arm caught her from behind, the hand beneath her breasts jerking the breath from her lungs.
'Let me go!' she muttered through clenched teeth.
'When we've finished talking.' Biting amusement in his tone.
He knows that he's hurting me, Sara thought. And he doesn't care. Perhaps he enjoys it.
'I can't take much more.' Her voice was strangely husky. The look she sent him was one of pleading.
'Not even this?' he queried softly.
She had no chance to escape as he turned her completely and pulled her into his arms. He moved more quickly than she did, so that his mouth found hers before she could twist her head away. For a moment she went quite limp, then she stiffened, forcing her lips to remain closed again the pressure of his kiss.
For so long she had waited for this moment; had woken in the mornings knowing that Clyde had been in her dreams, heavy with the terrible wanting to be in his arms. But this was not the embrace she had longed for. This was a combination of his own hurt and his wish to hurt her. It was cruel and calculating, intending to punish. It was an embrace not to be endured.
'Let me go!' she snapped through clenched teeth when he lifted his head to draw breath.
He held her a little away from him, so that he could look down into her face. 'Is frigidity another one of your personality changes?'
Was there to be no letting up? The loveliness of the morning had vanished. Sara felt suddenly ill. 'You don't know much about me,' she said.
'You're probably right,' Clyde agreed. 'Though I once thought I did. What I do know—' he paused, eyes narrowed and so speculative that Sara felt herself tense in anticipation of whatever was coming—'is that you can be a very warm-blooded female when you choose.'
He had not forgotten. He remembered every detail of the night when they had made love in his apartment. Just as she did.
'You did turn me on once,' she admitted, her eyes wide and steady despite the contempt in his own expression. 'You don't any longer.'
'Who turns you on these days?' he enquired lazily.
Sara moistened her lips. 'You know that I'm a widow.'
'A very lovely widow, young, desirable.' The corners of his lips lifted just a little. 'In that way at least you haven't changed.'
Another Life Page 7