Edge Of Deception

by Daphne Clair

  Tara hadn’t told him that she’d never done this be­fore. She’d been enjoying herself, her skin responding exquisitely to his feathery caresses, her body hot and trembling with wanting him. She hadn’t expected real pain, and when it happened she threshed under him and fought it, her mouth crying out against his.

  Unusually for him, Sholto had been a little slow to re­act. She was truly frightened before he withdrew sud­denly, his chest heaving and sheened with sweat. As soon as he left her she’d huddled away from him, but he clamped a hand on her arm and turned her onto her back so he could see her face. ‘My God!’ he breathed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t think... that you’d need to know,’ she whis­pered, trying to keep tears from forming in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I knew it might hurt a bit, but not like that.’

  ‘It needn’t have if you’d warned me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect...’ His hand absently stroked her arm, soothing her. She was shivering, and he drew the sheet and single blanket over them. They were in her bed, where they had ended up after she invited him in for coffee when he took her home from an evening at the theatre.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ he asked her.

  ‘No! Please, can’t we try again?’

  He didn’t answer for a while, but his hand had wan­dered from her arm to her midriff and up to her breast, one finger toying with the tight, hard centre. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘We can try again. But you must tell me if anything I do bothers you, okay?’

  This time he was slow and gentle, and she realised much later, when she was more experienced, that he had exercised considerable control over his own instincts.

  Afterwards she’d hesitantly asked him to stay with her, and it was only over breakfast the next morning that he’d said, his eyes brooding, ‘I should have left you at the door last night.’

  ‘Why?’ She’d been buttering a piece of toast, but she put down the knife to look at him.

  ‘What happened, shouldn’t have,’ he said. ‘That’s why.’

  She looked away from him, asking huskily, ‘Wasn’t it any good for you?’

  He gave a sound like choked laughter, becoming a groan. ‘It was very good for me,’ he said. ‘But for you—’

  ‘For me, too,’ she said firmly, returning her gaze to him. ‘I know the first time was a disaster, but after that— I wanted it never to stop.’

  Sholto rubbed a hand briefly over his eyes. ‘The thing is, you’re very young.’

  ‘Too young for you?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way, yes.’

  She looked at him, clear-eyed. ‘You didn’t think so last night. It’s because I was a virgin, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s... a part of it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not any more, so where’s the problem?’

  ‘Don’t be smart!’ he said sharply, for all the world as though he were a schoolmaster rebuking a recalcitrant pupil. ‘If your father was still here, would you have asked me to stay last night?’

  Tara shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I took advantage of you, Tara. That’s something no man has a right to be proud of.’

  ‘I don’t remember kicking and screaming.’

  ‘That isn’t the point! I’m nearly ten years older than you, I knew you were in a vulnerable state since your father’s death. In fact,’ he added musingly, ‘if he’d been around, he’d probably have taken a horsewhip to me.’

  Tara giggled, choking it off as she realised how girlish it sounded.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Sholto enquired dourly.

  ‘I don’t think Dad ever owned a horsewhip. He wouldn’t even know where to find one.’

  Impatiently, Sholto said, ‘The fact is—’

  ‘The fact is, my father is dead,’ Tara said flatly. ‘When he was alive he might have disapproved, but his mar­riage to my mother wasn’t exactly a great example.’

  Sholto looked at her narrowly. ‘They weren’t happy?’

  ‘Oh, I think he was happy enough. He just couldn’t stick with one woman. My mother turned a blind eye, but she must have known. I knew before I was twelve years old about Daddy’s women. He used me as cover, but I didn’t realise it when I was little.’

  ‘Cover?’

  ‘He’d tell my mother he was taking me out for a treat. We went to the pictures, or the zoo. Once we watched the start of a yacht race. Anything that was a legitimate ex­cuse for an outing.’

  ‘Your mother didn’t go with you?’

  ‘Sometimes, but she was always tired. She was a true housewife, everything had to be cleaned and polished every week. She worked hard, and on Saturday after­noon she liked to nap. No one knew that she had a weak heart. She was glad to see Dad taking me out; it gave her a chance to rest, and I suppose she thought as long as I was with him he couldn’t be getting up to anything. But sometimes we only stayed for an hour or so at the zoo or whatever event we’d attended. Then he’d buy me an ice­cream and a bag of chips, and a kid’s magazine or a comic book, and slip into a house while I sat in the car.’

  ‘The same house, always?’

  ‘For a few months at a time. After a while it would change to a different one. He said not to tell Mum be­cause she didn’t approve of my snacking between meals. When I was about ten I dimly realised he was actually bribing me, and I started blackmailing him for things I wanted. That’s how I got my first bike.’

  Sholto laughed quietly. ‘You little devil!’

  ‘But that didn’t last long,’ she confessed with a wry answering smile, ‘because he guessed that I was getting too old to be fooled, and he stopped taking me out.’

  ‘It was a case of do as I say, not as I do?’

  ‘Exactly. So I wouldn’t worry about what he would have said if he knew. He had no right to judge.’

  ‘It isn’t actually your father’s judgement I’m con­cerned with.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one else to be bothered about me sleeping with you.’

  ‘There’s me,’ he said. He looked faintly disgusted with himself. ‘I promised your uncle I’d look after you.’

  ‘You have. You did that beautifully, last night, too.’

  Sholto shook his head. But his sombre self-contempt hadn’t stopped him from sharing her bed again and again. Nor from taking her, eventually, to his. And it was after their first night together in his stark, high-tech house that he’d asked her to marry him.

  How blind she’d been, to everything but her young, full-flowering love for him. Mistaking his male passion, his near-obsession with her on a physical level, for love, she’d revelled in the novelty of being Sholto’s wife, and seen a rosy future stretching before them.

  The first small shock had been when he’d vetoed her coming off the pill once they were married. ‘It’s enough that I’ve tied you down to a marriage at your age, with­out adding a family as well. Wait a few years. You’ll still be able to have babies when you’re twenty-five.’

  Besotted, and used to allowing Sholto to make de­cisions for her since her father’s death, she’d quelled her disappointment and obeyed. Looking back, it had been unfair to accuse him of deliberately controlling her life. He hadn’t needed to exercise any coercion because she’d been only too willing to let him take her over. Maybe she’d subconsciously treated him in some ways as a re­placement father, looking to him for all the security and certainty she’d missed not only since Harold’s death but throughout her childhood.

  For over a year she’d lived in a halcyon world where everything was bright and shining and new and wonder­ful. She didn’t remember now when unease set in, when she began to feel that Sholto was spending more and more of his time away from her. Perhaps it was when she’d finished transforming his house into a comfort­able and inviting place, a home where it felt all right to kick off your shoes and put your feet up on the coffee table or throw a few cushions on the rug and lie there to read a book or magazine, where in the evenings she could snuggle up to Sholto on a big, inv
itingly soft sofa that was long enough to accommodate his length, and broad enough for both of them to lie on if they were too eager for each other to repair to the bedroom.

  Or had it been when he was creating the Hong Kong branch of the business? She had accompanied him on his first visit, but had spent much of her time alone while he made and kept appointments with officials and business contacts. Although disappointed that they hadn’t had a lot of time together, she didn’t think she’d complained much. But the next time Sholto had said, ‘It wasn’t a lot of fun for you, and I don’t like the idea of you being on your own so much in that place, anyway. Wait until I’ve got the business sorted out, and we’ll take a proper hol­iday.’

  That vague future had never materialised. The ex­panding business seemed to take more and more of his time. And Tara had begun to occupy herself as a casual consultant in home decorating and a scout for people who wanted particular items of furniture, especially antiques, but didn’t have the time to hunt for themselves. It had begun as a favour for friends, but soon she was working for others who’d heard of her skills and were willing to pay for such services.

  She didn’t know until he dropped a casual remark that sometimes Sholto’s secretary went along on his business trips.

  ‘You didn’t tell me that!’ she’d said sharply.

  Looking mildly surprised, Sholto said, ‘You never asked. It’s no secret.’

  He’d introduced her to his secretary just before their marriage. A middle-aged widow, she had been at their wedding, one of the few guests that Sholto had invited.

  Tara’s aunt and uncle and cousins had been there, and her mother’s sister had surprised her by flying over from Australia for the occasion with her husband. A few of her friends came, a couple of them already married them­selves—one with a baby—and her neighbours who, since her mother’s death, had shown kindly concern for the bereft teenager and her father. There were people from her father’s office building, and some from her tennis club and from the night school where she’d studied con­versational Japanese. Derek had stood at Sholto’s side, and Tara’s cousin had been bridesmaid.

  She needn’t be jealous of Sholto’s secretary, she’d as­sured herself, remembering the stocky, motherly figure of the woman who had been the first to congratulate her employer outside the church after their wedding. But when she made one of her rare visits to his business premises she was considerably surprised to find a much younger, extremely pretty brunette ensconced in the outer office.

  Her chagrin was increased by the young woman’s de­termination to establish Tara’s credentials before al­lowing her to see Sholto. When at last she was shown in, she questioned Sholto with annoyance in her voice, and he answered curtly that Mrs Drinner had left some time ago, taking early retirement to go and live with her daughter in Timaru.

  ‘If I’d known you needed a new secretary,’ Tara said, her voice almost accusing, ‘I could have done the job. Did you think of that?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re my wife,’ he said, ‘not my secretary. It would never work.’

  ‘How do you know? You’ve never tried it.’

  ‘Look, I have a busy schedule today. What are you here for, Tara?’

  She’d stormed out of the office, telling him not to bother. She’d been hoping they might have lunch together, but there was no point now, they’d only row.

  At least she would have. Sholto, she soon discovered, simply deflected every shaft she threw in anger and re­fused to be drawn into an argument. When she tackled the subject again he said flatly, ‘Janette was the appli­cant with the best qualifications, she does the job well. I have no interest in her other than that. There is nothing more to say.’ And then he simply walked away.

  That night when he reached for her after they went to bed, she’d been stiff and cold at first, nearly rebuffing him, except that she needed the reassurance of being close to him, of knowing that he desired her. It hadn’t been long before her resistance and her jealousy disappeared under the skill of his lovemaking, to return faintly when he left for his office the following day.

  She’d told herself not to be silly, that Sholto loved her and only her. But much later, examining the events of the past, she could see that it was then that she had begun to distrust him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tara stirred restlessly on the bed, and with a sigh got to her feet. She’d make herself eat something, then go for a walk. The exercise might help her to sleep when she went to bed properly.

  But even as she set out at a brisk pace some time later, thoughts, memories, came crowding into her mind.

  In retrospect she supposed it was sex that had held their marriage together for the short time it had lasted. At first she’d been content with that and the feeling Sholto had given her of being cherished and admired, and they had soon discovered that they liked similar music and films, enjoyed long walks, and could talk amicably on what Tara came to think of as dinner-table topics.

  Sholto never discussed his feelings, and she had soon stopped talking about her emotions, because it was so one-sided that she began to feel foolish about pouring out her heart to him.

  She was pleased that he liked her to entertain for him, although apart from Derek the only people he asked to the house were business contacts rather than friends. At some stage, she recalled, she had realised guiltily that she scarcely saw her own friends any more, for Sholto had filled her life and her heart so completely.

  She suggested they could have a party, and asked all her old friends. With her encouragement a few of them began to call again casually, or she would invite them for a meal. Sholto was unfailingly polite, but before long their visits became less frequent. The combination of the palatial house and Sholto’s cool and distant courtesy made them uncomfortable.

  When Tara accused him of driving her friends away, he raised his brows and said, ‘I’ve never objected to you having your friends here.’

  ‘You don’t really want them.’

  ‘They’re your friends, Tara. They come to see you.’

  ‘But Sholto, don’t you like them? Any of them?’ she asked, perplexed.

  ‘I don’t dislike them.’

  Most of them were younger than Sholto, she re­minded herself. He couldn’t be blamed for not relating to them. She began meeting them at other places, in town or at their homes. Sholto didn’t mind. If anything, he was probably relieved.

  When had she become convinced that Sholto was un­faithful? The small clues had built up so gradually she wasn’t even sure.

  She’d found the outer office deserted one day when she dropped in unexpectedly at his office. Pushing open the connecting door, she found Sholto and his new secretary side by side, their dark heads almost touching as they studied some papers laid before them on the desk.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ she asked, a little too loudly.

  Sholto straightened quickly and said, ‘Yes, but we’ve nearly finished. You could start typing it up now, Janette.’

  Janette hadn’t smiled as she gathered up the papers into a folder and walked past Tara with a frosty, ‘Good morning, Mrs Herne.’

  Usually Sholto greeted Tara with a kiss, but today he didn’t come out from behind his desk, perhaps con­scious of his secretary’s presence in the outer room. She hadn’t closed the door. ‘What do you want, Tara?’ he enquired. ‘I’ve a pretty busy morning, I’m afraid.’

  Several years later Tara didn’t remember why she’d called in that day—perhaps just on impulse, out of a de­sire to see him and talk to him. But she remembered with hurtful clarity the disappointment when it seemed that he had no time for her, her sense of rejection.

  Tonight she’d walked further than usual, and by the time she turned for home it was getting dark. She didn’t realise until she reached the beginning of her street and swept the empty road with her eyes that she’d been half-hoping she’d find Sholto awaiting her again, as
he had once before.

  She had, she acknowledged now, been too young for marriage, as Sholto had said. She had been unwilling to accept that the first flush of love would inevitably fade, and that everyday life sometimes had to take precedence over romance.

  Sometimes, she admitted, she’d been inclined to sulk when they’d been invited out to some function, only to have Sholto plead inability to join her due to his busi­ness commitments. Even now she suspected that he’d in­vented excuses, though he’d always urged her not to miss anything on his account. One rather tense discussion took place while Derek was visiting, and when he offered to accompany her in Sholto’s stead to a black-tie affair, Sholto seconded the notion immediately, obviously glad to be let off the hook.

  For some reason which at the time she hadn’t even tried to examine Tara had for several months attended a great many parties, shows and dinners that ultimately bored her. But she’d never admitted her lack of enjoy­ment to Sholto. When he asked, she’d launch into an animated account of how exciting the event had been. She casually dropped the names of men she had talked to, danced with, sat next to. All perfectly innocent encoun­ters, and anyway, Sholto was still the only man she was interested in.

  ‘Trying to get his attention,’ she murmured now as she made herself a warm chocolate drink before going to bed. ‘Pathetic.’ How immature she had been.

  He would listen without a blink, but sometimes there was an edge to his lovemaking later that both excited and frightened her, as though she was flirting with some un­known and half-recognised danger.

  Leaning back on the kitchen counter, she seriously and systematically analysed her own behaviour in those months. She’d been trying to spark some emotional re­action from Sholto. Going about it blindly, clumsily. The lack of real communication in their marriage hadn’t been her fault, to start with. But the way she’d tried to rectify it had inevitably made matters worse. If Sholto was dis­turbed, the only way he’d shown it was to retreat further and further behind that impregnable wall with which he shut out the world.