by Daphne Clair
After a moment he said, ‘It can’t be helped. She must be aware that I would have given you presents. She’s a sensible woman.’
So she wouldn’t make a fuss, Tara thought, biting her lip. Presumably they would both ignore the incident, pretend that Averil had swallowed the story Tara gave her.
Her hand lifted again, and she held the pendant lightly, her thumb caressing the cool stone. She remembered the night Sholto had given it to her, on her twenty-first birthday.
They’d gone out to dinner with friends, to celebrate. Tara had worn a new dress on that occasion, too—a floaty turquoise chiffon creation that dipped low across her shoulders and breasts. Sholto had already presented her with an exquisite little eighteenth-century French clock that morning, and a huge bouquet of flowers had arrived in the afternoon. So the pendant had surprised as well as delighted her, when he told her to close her eyes and she felt him fasten it about her neck. He’d been standing behind her, in front of her dressing table mirror, and when she opened her eyes she’d seen the glow of admiration and desire in his as she fingered the opal, mesmerised by its deep fire.
‘It’s lovely!’ She’d turned spontaneously to kiss him, but he held her with his hands on the smooth skin of her shoulders, while he looked down at the pendant lying just above the shadow between her breasts.
‘I knew it would look wonderful on you,’ he said, his beautiful masculine voice even deeper than usual. One of his hands drifted across her skin to lift the pendant, and he bent his head to kiss the spot where it had been, his mouth open and eager, making her catch her breath through parted lips, her eyes closing again as her head tipped back.
She’d felt his lips graze along the taut line of her throat, and his breath on her mouth, his knuckles as he still held the pendant pressing against the softness of her breast.
Opening her eyes, she saw him draw back. ‘If I start kissing you now,’ he said, ‘I won’t stop there. We’re expected at the restaurant. We’d better go.’
Regretfully, he’d realigned the pendant over the place where she could still feel the moist warmth of his kiss. ‘Later,’ he said, his eyes lingering on it. And he’d dropped a tiny, fleeting kiss on her forehead and moved away, leaving her trembling with sweet anticipation.
At times throughout the meal she’d seen him looking at the opal, and each time her breath quickened, her cheeks flushing at the leaping warmth in his eyes. Afraid of what their friends might read in their faces, she tried to avoid meeting his gaze, but once he sent her a secret, understanding smile, accompanied by a wryly lifted eyebrow.
They’d invited the others back to their place for coffee and liqueurs, and played host and hostess for another hour or so. And when they had at last waved the guests goodbye, and Tara had turned to pick up glasses and cups, Sholto said roughly, ‘Leave them. We’ll fix it in the morning. I’m taking you to bed, now! If we get that far.’
She laughed at him, but before they made it to the bed she’d shed, with Sholto’s impatient help, her dress, her shoes, her hairpins, and pulled off his shirt, discarding it on the carpet.
He sat on the bed to remove his shoes and socks, and she raised her arms to undo the catch of the opal pendant.
‘Leave it on,’ he said huskily. His eyes roved over her body, clothed only in a low-cut strapless satin and lace bra and matching bikini panties. ‘I fancy you in nothing but my necklace. I’ve been going crazy all night, picturing it. Come here and help me.’
He was fumbling with his belt, and Tara swiftly came forward, kneeling between his thighs as she helped him undress completely. Then she let him do the same for her, and he pulled her with him onto the bed, so that she was lying on top of him, the pendant trapped between them as they kissed. Later she lay back against the linen-covered mattress, while he spread her hair in a wide halo on the pillow, and centred the opal carefully between her breasts, then kissed her skin above it, below it and to each side. And that was only the beginning...
The car came to a halt at a red light, and Tara discovered that she was clutching the pendant in her hand so hard that it hurt. She was also breathing quickly, and her skin felt hot, her breasts tingling.
She sank her teeth savagely into her lower lip and deliberately eased her grip on the stone. Sholto was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He could have no idea, thank God, of the direction of her thoughts, the strength of her memories.
Watching his hands, she saw them stop drumming and tighten on the leather-covered curve. Heard him take a rasping breath.
His head began to turn towards her just before the light changed. A car behind them gave an impatient toot, and Sholto’s eyes whipped back to the road as he pressed the accelerator.
She stole a glance at his profile and found it austere and enigmatic.
He probably didn’t even remember the night he had given her the opal.
When he drew up outside her house she was opening the door almost before he killed the engine. But he came round anyway and walked with her up the path, waiting while she found her key.
‘It was kind of you to do this,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘It’s no big sacrifice. You’re not afraid to be on your own, after your fright with the burglar?’
‘No. I’m not bothered.’ She found the key and inserted it in the lock. Perhaps she’d have felt differently if the robbery had been at home.
‘They haven’t caught him?’
Tara shook her head. ‘No. I couldn’t give a very good description.’ The door swung open and she found the light switch, turning it on. ‘Thank you for bringing me home. It was generous of Averil to be so—’
‘Trusting?’ Sholto suggested mockingly as she searched for an appropriate word. ‘It’s one of her most attractive characteristics.’
‘That must be nice for you.’ She hoped her voice didn’t betray sarcasm. She hadn’t meant it to. Whatever she thought about the wisdom of trusting Sholto, she was determined to keep her opinion to herself in future.
‘Nice?’ he said. ‘It’s necessary for me.’
Tara laughed. She couldn’t help it.
‘Funny, is it?’ His voice was a soft snarl.
She found that she was fingering the pendant as though it was a talisman of some sort. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘In a macabre sort of way.’ She paused. ‘Averil tried to pump me tonight—about our marriage.’
His shoulders stiffened. ‘What did you say to her?’
‘Nothing.’ Perhaps she should have, but intuition told her that Averil wouldn’t have been receptive to a warning. On that thought, something else occurred to her, and she said slowly, ‘She’s testing you, isn’t she?’
‘What?’
‘She’s testing you!’ Tara repeated. ‘She wants to know if you can withstand temptation. That’s why she was so keen for you to bring me home alone.’
‘Rubbish,’ Sholto said coldly.
‘Is it? Did you tell her what happened the night you came round here to “talk”?’
‘What I told her needn’t concern you. That was an aberration—a stupid mistake. It certainly won’t happen again.’ She saw his nostrils thin as he drew in a breath. And then, before she could say anything in reply to his last speech, he said with positive ferocity, ‘Will you stop playing with that damned bauble!’
Tara’s heart thudded in a strange mixture of fear and triumph. Her hand stilled, curled about the pendant. ‘Why?’ she said softly. ‘Does it bother you?’
He didn’t answer, his unwilling gaze riveted on her hand. She unclenched her fingers and let her hand drift away, leaving the gleaming stone resting on the quick rise and fall of her breast. The blood thundered in her head. Waves of remembered desire washed over her, and she willed him to raise his eyes and see, respond to her need of him. All the possessive passion that had held her to him after the first time they made love returned in full force, racing through her veins in a hot tide. He was her man, and she wanted him.
Abruptly
, Sholto moved, swinging away from her, but she swiftly stepped in front of him, breathing his name.
He stopped with scarcely an inch between them. She saw him close his eyes, grit his teeth. ‘Get out of my way,’ he said.
‘Look at me,’ she whispered. ‘Please, Sholto.’
He opened his eyes reluctantly, as if he’d been drugged. His face was taut and seemed pale. His gaze moved slowly from the opal pendant to her throat, her parted lips, her eyes. He swallowed, and she saw his mouth take on a savage twist. ‘What do you want?’ he asked her, his voice losing its velvet texture, rasping as if torn from his reluctant throat. ‘This?’ His hands clamped on her upper arms and he dragged her against him, his mouth descending in a barbaric, callous kiss that bruised and degraded but was mercifully brief.
She gasped as he lifted his head, but he wasn’t finished with her yet. ‘This?’ he repeated harshly. His mouth was on her throat, burning, pressing against her skin until she felt the edge of his teeth, his tongue searching the hollow at the base. ‘Or this?’ he muttered, not lifting his head, bending her over his arm as his lips marauded, finding the tender swell of her breast above the black fabric.
He grasped the edges of the dress where it skimmed her shoulders, and she emitted a wordless cry of protest as he yanked the fabric down and she heard the stitching rip before the hook at the top of the zip parted and the zip itself gave way.
Sholto took no notice. His lips, his tongue, explored the exposed flesh, and then his teeth nipped at her, hurting a little, before he straightened, his breathing ragged, and pushed her away from him. ‘Is that what you want, Tara?’ he asked her again.
She drew a shuddering, gulping breath, unable to answer him. Her hands shook as she pulled at her dress, the light streaming from the passageway behind her making her feel naked, exposed. She was horribly shocked, not only at his unaccustomed violence, but even more so at the fact that despite the deliberate crudeness of his approach, she was fiercely aroused. Baldly, without conscious volition, she said, ‘I want you.’
His hand moved, she thought at first towards her, but instead it closed hard about the wrought iron railing that protected the short flight of steps. He said, without apparent emotion, ‘You slut.’
And then he turned again, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her any longer, went down the steps and strode away to his car. By the time he started the engine, she was inside the house, leaning back against the door while hot tears poured down her face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tara had promised to go out with Derek the next day, sailing with some friends of his who owned a large yacht.
She hadn’t slept well, but towards dawn she’d dozed off, waking to find it was late, with barely half an hour before he came to call for her. She debated phoning and putting him off, but doing so at the last minute would leave him no time to find another companion, and besides, what was she going to do all day? Mope about and relive the events of last night?
Far better to join a group of people out for a pleasant trip on the harbour, and put Sholto to the back of her mind.
‘You’re looking a bit wan,’ Derek told her as she gathered up a drawstring bag containing sun lotion, swimming gear and a jersey. He wasn’t fooled by the tinted foundation and powder blusher she’d used.
‘Late night,’ she said glibly.
‘Ah, the film premiere,’ he recalled. ‘How was it?’
For a few seconds her mind went totally blank. She could recall nothing at all about the film, and little of the party except her own intense awareness of Sholto’s presence. ‘It was very good,’ she said, trying to sound knowledgeable. ‘The acting was splendid.’
In the car she began to remember details, and talked more than usual, making the subject last until they drew up at the marina and made their way to the boat.
Derek’s friends had two pre-teen children, and the other members of the party were a husband and wife and their adult niece who was visiting from England.
The children were remarkably competent on the boat, and enjoyed showing Tara the ropes. ‘I suppose that’s where the term comes from,’ she commented to Derek after helping to hoist the sail.
‘I guess.’ Derek was content to let others do most of the work, though he cheerfully lent a hand whenever extra muscle was required.
The harbour was ruffled only slightly by a breeze that pushed the boat along at a brisk pace. They tacked about, sometimes hailing other yachts or waving back to passengers on the ferries that plied from the downtown wharves to the islands of the Hauraki Gulf.
At lunchtime the yacht hove to off the well-populated island of Waiheke. After a short swim in clear, cool water, the party all went ashore in the dinghy and walked along a white beach to a hotel where they had drinks and lunch.
Later they sailed further around the island and found a pretty cove that they had all to themselves.
The children wanted to explore, scrambling up a steepish cliff among looming trees and tufts of whippy grass. Most of the adults lolled about on the sand, taking advantage of the shade afforded by the trees, but Tara elected to join the younger members of the party.
When they returned everyone else was swimming except for Derek, who lay comfortably propped against a smooth, sandy rock, long tanned legs stretched out before him on a towel, while he turned the pages of a book.
‘You’re very energetic today,’ he commented as Tara approached. Inching over a bit, he patted the towel beside him. ‘Have a rest.’ The children were already racing to join the others in the water.
Tara sank down beside Derek, and he put down his book to curve an arm loosely about her shoulders, allowing her to rest against him. He said, ‘I thought you were tired after your late night.’
‘Fresh air,’ Tara said vaguely. ‘It’s woken me up.’
‘Hmm. So what’s this, then?’ He lightly ran a finger along the skin under each of her eyes. ‘You’ve still got blue shadows there.’
‘You know me too well,’ Tara acknowledged wryly.
‘So, tell uncle all about it,’ he encouraged her.
Tara shook her head. ‘No, I can’t.’
After a few moments’ silence, he said, ‘It’s Sholto, isn’t it? Since he’s been back you’ve been... different. Like you were after the breakup.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Not as bad, but the signs are there. I worry about you, Tara.’
‘I know you do. But there’s nothing you can do about it, and really, you must stop feeling responsible for me. What happened was entirely my own fault.’
‘I helped,’ he said simply. ‘And maybe Sholto wasn’t totally blameless, either.’
‘I shouldn’t have involved you. It wasn’t fair.’
‘I’ve told you, I wanted it. More than you did, actually. Even at the time I was well aware that it didn’t really matter to you who I was. Anyone would probably have done.’
‘That isn’t true!’ Tara stiffened, pulling away from him to stare into his face. Slut, Sholto had called her. Sensitive to the implication, she showed her distress in her eyes. ‘I couldn’t have—not with anyone. Only I liked you so much, I thought it would... would be all right.’ She’d thought, as much as she was capable of thinking at the time in her befuddled state, that Derek wouldn’t despise her afterwards, that he would understand her need.
‘I didn’t mean to imply you were—indiscriminate,’ he said now. ‘I was glad it was me you chose. But really the point was that I wasn’t Sholto, isn’t that so? And perhaps the fact that I was his best friend?’
They had never discussed it openly before. Although their friendship had been rebuilt on their shared guilt and regret, the events of five years before had been too painful for them to put it into words. Yet, Tara thought, both of them had probably known somewhere in the recesses of their minds that one day the time would come when they needed to talk about it.
‘I don’t think I consciously thought about you being hi
s friend,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It never occurred to me that in trying to hurt him, I was hurting you. And it should have. I was horribly selfish.’ She’d been young and muddled and very, very foolish.
‘I survived. And, having known him longer, I should have been able to predict how he’d react. Not the forgiving sort, our Sholto. I might have told you that you were playing with fire.’
‘He wouldn’t even listen,’ Tara said huskily. ‘Not then, not even later—weeks afterwards. It was as though he’d put a wall between us. There was no way of getting through to him.’
‘He learned to do that early, I think.’
‘What do you mean?’
Derek hesitated. ‘Did he ever tell you what his home was like—his parents?’
‘Sholto didn’t talk much about his childhood. I know his parents died when he was in his teens.’ It was why, she’d thought, he’d been so kind to her after her father’s death. He had empathised because he’d been through a similar experience.
Derek glanced at her. ‘Did he tell you how they died?’
She thought, not remembering his exact words, only the impression she’d gathered. ‘I thought they were in a car crash.’
‘Not exactly. His mother died of injuries inflicted by his father.’ Ignoring her start of horror, Derek went on, ‘Sholto blamed himself.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure. He said it once, and then clammed up. I’m pretty sure his father was in the habit of knocking his mum about. Sholto, too. He arrived at school sometimes with bruises. Then one day when he got home he found his mother lying on the kitchen floor, battered and barely conscious.’
‘That must have been horrifying!’
‘Yeah. It was him that called an ambulance, and the police. But his father went off in the car before they arrived and crashed it into a wall. Died instantly.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘No idea. He’d been drinking heavily all day. His mother had a couple of operations and then she was in and out of hospital for three or four years afterwards. She finally died of a brain tumour.’