by Daphne Clair
'Stop it,' he chided, and shook her gently. 'I won't do anything you don't want, Catherine. Come on, darling—kiss me.'
She lifted her face mutely, and he studied it with a strange enigmatic expression.
'Please,' he said at last, 'kiss me.'
He bent his head and she met his lips softly, surprised to find them undemanding, gentle, almost tentative, as though he was afraid of frightening her. She relaxed, trusting him, yearning strangely for a closer contact, and Jason pulled her into his arms and her head rested against the seat back as his mouth firmed and took hers with passion.
Later, as she made a reluctant movement away from him, he said, 'I love you. Marry me
—please!'
It jolted her. She hadn't thought of marriage. She had scarcely thought of loving him.
She said shakenly, 'I don't know ... I never thought of you being in love with me ...'
'Isn't it obvious?' He sounded dry, and Catherine shook her head.
She said, 'I've no idea what you're thinking, most of the time. You're very—controlled.'
She heard the uneven breath of his laughter. 'I try to be,' he said. 'It isn't easy when I'm around you.'
She experienced a peculiar thrill at the admission. She knew she was nice to look at, attractive to men. They had told her often enough, and there was the evidence of her mirror. But she had never heard quite that note in a man's voice before. Even her body responded to it, with a soft uncurling of desire.
It made examining her own emotions dispassionately very difficult. 'I don't know,’ she said again. 'Give me time.'
He had given her time, but not a lot, and although he didn't force the issue, his lovemaking had been an insistent though patient wearing down of her defences. Once she had tentatively tried to indicate that she felt it clouded the issue, and Jason looked at her with his eyes narrowed slightly, his mouth wry, and said, 'I'm a man, Catherine, and I'm as circumspect as you've any right to expect. I promised I won't ravish you, you can trust me on that. I'm hanged if I'm going to accept a complete "hands off" policy from you. It's more than I can take.'
She supposed it was unfair to ask it of him, but at times she suspected that he knew very well what a potent weapon his lovemaking was, and that he used it deliberately, in spite of his considerable discretion, which she had to admit.
In the end he had won. She had married him, loved him, borne his children. He had fought his way to the top in his profession, a man driven by a desire to succeed that sometimes left her wondering if his wife and children were only a sort of fringe benefit.
She had learned to be an executive wife and a social hostess, making small talk and canapés with equal skill and a degree of boredom, and glad to escape into motherhood when the children came, able to absorb herself in their needs to a great extent, dodging the social and business functions when she could, still playing the gracious hostess when she must, being the faithful, loyal helpmeet, but feeling that her life had some deeper purpose in the terribly important work of shaping two young lives towards happiness and fulfilment. On their honeymoon, Jason's passion had almost frightened her, and he had learned to temper it with tenderness, to adjust to her different, more uncertain responses. But before long he had taught her a passion nearly equal to his own, and they had enjoyed a marvellous sexual rapport, scarcely interrupted by the birth of Michael. In fact, that had seemed to bring a new dimension into their lovemaking, as Jason had become more sensitive to her need for rest and care, and she had experienced a kind of loving gratitude to her husband for the new, wonderful son he had given her.
But Jenny's birth had been more difficult, and Catherine's recovery slower. It was a long time before she felt able to welcome Jason again, and when she did turn to him she had been unable to summon the response that he had become accustomed to arousing.
Once she had resorted to pretence, and he had known and been furious. It was the only time she had ever thought he might be close to violence, and she had cringed and cried.
Jason had stared disbelievingly at her for several seconds, and then pulled on his robe and left the room. He didn't return until morning, and she supposed he had slept in the spare room they kept for visitors.
For a time, she was too tired to care that he had ceased making love to her, until she realised with a jolt one day that it was months since he had touched her. She gave the children an early meal, cooked a special dinner for herself and Jason, and donned a new patio dress before he came home, spraying perfume on her body and behind her ears.
He had watched her, narrow-eyed, throughout the meal, making her nervous, and when he had helped her do the dishes, he waited as though he expected her to make the first move. And she made it, a little later, after leading the way into the lounge where he sat on the long expensive sofa and she sank down at his feet, leaning her head against his knees, and allowed her hand to slide along his thigh.
He took a long, shuddering breath and grasped her hand in his, and, bending his head, put his lips to her palm. Catherine looked up and saw that he had his eyes tightly shut, while his mouth pressed hotly on her skin, and she trembled.
He looked up, and his eyes held hers, a leaping fire in their depths. 'I hope you mean it,'
he said thickly. 'I hope to God you mean it.'
She didn't answer, but twisted and got up on her knees to face him, her arms going round his neck. He pulled her up on to his lap and kissed her fiercely, then got up, swinging her high against his chest, and carried her to their bed.
He was not gentle, he almost threw her on to the mattress before he followed her down, and his hands on the lovely dress tore the stitching as he dispensed with it. His kisses bruised her skin, but sent a sudden hot tide of desire racing through her veins, and she arched herself to him as he tore off his own clothing, touching his hair and clutching at his head as it rested heavily against her breast.
He scooped a hand into her hair, and held her, his eyes blazing down at her face, his voice exultant. 'You want me! You do, don't you?'
'Yes,' she whispered, gasping and gulping with the force of her desire. 'Yes, Jason, oh yes!'
'Now?' His voice was deep and rasping with passion.
'Yes—now!'
When he came to her, violently and deeply, she cried out and writhed beneath him with sudden pleasure.
'Does it hurt?' he asked hoarsely, raising his head. 'Did I h u r t you?'
Her head moved restlessly in negation, her parted lips saying words she barely heard herself. 'Yes,' she said, 'yes, hurt me!' She pulled him to her with her arms about his neck, with an overwhelming need to feel every physical sensation he could give her, to a pitch where pain and pleasure had no dividing line, and the hard fingers digging into the flesh of her shoulders were one with the passion of the mouth that closed over hers, the heavy body that crushed her breasts and the driving force that was the apex of this voluptuous, intoxicating torture.
Jason laughed softly against her ear, and bit it, and she shuddered in ecstasy. Then the vortex took her, swirled her into a giddy, incredible, mindless rush of sheer brilliant feeling, weightless, wonderful, too much to bear alone, so that she clung to Jason's shoulders, imploring him to hold her, to stay with her. And felt him, too, plunge into the whirlpool with her, until together they reached a quieter shore.
They were both panting, spent, and it was a long time before they could move apart, reluctantly loosing themselves from each other's arms.
Catherine, still faintly dizzy, lay with her arm over her eyes. She didn't know just what had happened to her. She had never felt like that before. The violence of the encounter shocked her in retrospect. She felt slightly ashamed of her own bold enjoyment, the demands she had made, the things she had said.
In the morning, she had avoided Jason's puzzled gaze. It had never been like that again.
Not in all the years since. They made love, not as often as before—she assumed that was normal in any marriage after several years and two children—but f
requently enough, and she responded less wildly than that night, perhaps less passionately than she had in the honeymoon period, but adequately, she supposed. Jason seemed satisfied, and she—she enjoyed his lovemaking. There were times when she felt an unease, almost a discontent, that bothered her, briefly. She would thrust it away, tell herself that she had everything to be grateful for, a nice home, a lovely family, no financial worries, a husband who was successful and considerate, a good father and a good lover. It was true that he worked long hours, that he was frequently late home and not infrequently away for days or weeks at a time, for his job entailed some travelling, and she had stopped going with him since the children ...
Sometimes she wondered if he slept alone on those business trips. She knew that a secretary often accompanied him, that there were women among the people that he met, some of them glamorous, some of them, no doubt, available. There were times when he seemed preoccupied, and she worried that they were growing apart. Even when he brought her gifts from his trips, a bracelet or a bottle of perfume, occasionally flowers, she fought down a suspicion that his conscience was prompting him. He was a passionate man. She had seen other women sizing him up, assessing him. She knew they were attracted to him. And sometimes something deep inside her whispered that she had disappointed him ...
He had never said so, never indicated that it was so. Catherine told herself that she was merely suffering from a residue of the diffidence that had plagued her early in their marriage, when she had felt herself to be too young and inadequate. They had a good marriage, a perfectly normal, happy marriage. If some of the romance and excitement had gone out of it, that was only to be expected. One didn't live on a pinnacle of sensual pleasure and romantic happiness forever.
And yet, at only twenty-six, Catherine found herself thinking, with a claustrophobic sense of panic, Is this all? Is this my life? Jason's wife, Michael's and Jenny's mother?
Sometimes she had the feeling that she was not a person at all, but only an appendage to other people's lives. Jason's, Michael's and Jenny's. She had been Mrs. Clyde for eight years, 'Mummy' to two children for the past six. What had happened to Catherine Vaughan, single person?
There were days when she wondered if Catherine Vaughan had ever existed.
CHAPTER TWO
The plane was a small dark blot against the distant sky, and the wind blew coldly, making Catherine's eyes water. She turned and made her way downstairs and through the terminal building, among returning travellers and departing ones laden with luggage, and went through the automatic doors to the outside again. She found her car in the car-park after some hunting, because she had forgotten to note where she had parked it. Jason would have been able to go straight to it, if he had been with her. He never missed that kind of detail. It contributed to his success, she supposed, tiredly.
She felt let down, at a loose end. No children for seven weeks. The days stretched ahead of her yawningly, incredibly hard to fill.
That was stupid, of course. There was the pantomime, for a start. And Jason had suggested they take a few days' break, when he could spare the time. He was free over Christmas and New Year, but she had the pantomime then. Still, without the children to look after or find babysitters for, they could spend some time together ...
She unlocked the car and got in. She liked driving, and Jason had bought the little car for her use. She ran the children about in it on weekdays for their dancing and swimming lessons and Michael's Cub Scout meetings, and did her shopping on Wednesday mornings. Jason had the big car which they used on the weekends for family outings when Jason could spare the time.
She switched on the ignition, took a quick glance in the rear vision mirror and backed out of the parking space and there was a horrible jolt and the dreadful sound of tearing, crushing metal.
She slammed on the brake, jerking forward against her safety belt. Sick with fright, she released the belt and looked behind her, twisting her head to peer out of the side window.
She had no idea where the other car had come from, but she had backed into it, crushing the mudguard of the right front wheel against the tyre. Gingerly she eased her car forward, wincing as she heard the protest of the metal.
She climbed out and saw the driver of the other car try to open his door, give up and slide out the other side.
Surveying the damage, Catherine saw that it was worse than she had thought. She had dented the driver's door as well as the mudguard. She would never have believed she could make that much of a mess just backing out at five miles an hour.
'I'm terribly sorry!' she apologised. 'I'm afraid it was my fault. I just didn't see you!'
An amused male voice said, 'That's obvious! I don't flatter myself you did it on purpose.'
She looked for the first time at his face, and saw that he was young and brown-haired, and certainly good-looking, and his blue eyes were resting with blatant male appreciation on her face.
'Flatter——?' she murmured, bewildered.
'To get to meet me,' he explained.
'Oh.' Stupidly, she felt herself blushing, and saw the amusement in the blue eyes deepen.
She had been standing with her hands clasped, fighting an absurd desire to wring them.
His eyes flickered down, noting the gold band and the diamond solitaire on her left hand, and he gave her a comically rueful smile. 'Sorry,' he said. 'My sense of humour gets out of hand. Well, what are we going to do about this?'
'We—exchange names and addresses, don't we?' she suggested. 'I'm insured.'
'A pleasure,' he said, taking a notebook and gold propelling pencil from the breast pocket of his smart dark rust suit. He scribbled down his name and address and tore the page out to give it to her, and then wrote down hers.
'It's good of you to take it so well,' Catherine said gratefully, as he closed the book.
'I don't bawl out pretty girls,' he assured her cheerfully. 'Even if they happen to be married.' He turned and frowned at his damaged car. 'I don't think I'll be able to drive that far, though. The metal is scraping on the wheel.' He tried to shift the twisted piece, but it obstinately sprang back.
'Were you going in to Auckland?' she asked. 'Could I give you a lift?'
'I was.'
'Then please—it's the least I can do.'
'Well, do you have time to wait while I get something done about this?' He indicated his car. 'I can't just leave it there like that. It'll have to be picked up for repair.'
'Of course.'
'Sure?' he persisted.
'Yes. I've just seen my two children off on a flight to Sydney. I'm at a loose end for the rest of the day.'
The look he gave her was shrewd. 'Take your mind off missing them, eh?'
Catherine smiled. 'They'll only be away for seven weeks. But yes, it would.'
'You're on,' he grinned. 'Stay here, I'll be right l-.uk.'
Her car would need a modest amount of panel beating, too, she realised, as he strode off. She got into the driver's seat and looked properly at the scrap of paper he had given her. Russel Thurston, it said. Russel with one L. It suited him.
He came back with a traffic controller who helped him to push his car out of the way. He picked up a small bag and swung it into the back seat of Catherine's car. 'You're sure this is okay?'
'Quite sure.' She was firm, smiling at him as he took the passenger seat beside her and folded his long legs into the space before him.
'Fasten your safety belt,' she reminded him crisply as she backed, much more cautiously this time. He obeyed, casting her a quizzical look and saying, 'Yes, ma'am.'
Catherine bit her lip and smiled apologetically. 'I usually drive my kids,' she explained.
'It's an automatic reflex.'
'How old are they?'
She told him, and he whistled. 'You must have been married from your cradle!'
'Nonsense. I was nineteen.'
He grimaced. 'Pretty young. I'm twenty-seven and I'm too young to be married.'
Catherin
e smiled. 'It's different for a man.'
'Is it? I don't see why.'
He seemed to expect an answer, and she said, 'Well, because—because women mature earlier.'
'So how old was your husband?'
She cast him a surprised look, and he held up a hand and said, 'Sorry, I don't mean to be personal.'
'He was thirty,' she said.
He shifted as though she had startled him, and she glanced at him in time to see his lips purse as though he was about to whistle again. But he didn't. Instead, he gazed ahead of them at the wide road, and kept total silence.
Driven to it, against her will and better judgment, Catherine said defensively, 'It's not such a huge difference. We're very happy.'
She felt his sharp stare as though it was a rapier. The hum of the motor seemed very loud. Then he said quietly, 'Congratulations.'
What was she doing, explaining her marriage to a total stranger? This was a crazy conversation to be having. 'Are you a psychiatrist?' she asked him.
He laughed. 'No. I'm in television. A producer, though I have done some reporting in my murky past.'
'Should I have recognised you?'
'No. I haven't appeared before the cameras much. My work is behind the scenes. My name comes up on the credits, but most people hardly notice that.'
'Don't you like the cameras?' She looked at him curiously. He would look good on film, and he had a pleasant voice too, cultured, not affected, and with an attractive masculine timbre.
'I prefer making things happen,' he said. 'I got tired of reporting. The production side is more interesting.'
'What programmes have you worked on?'
He told her, and she recognised the names of some programmes which she had liked.
When she told him so, he seemed pleased.
'What about you?' he asked her. 'Are you a full- time mum? Or do you have a job, too?'
'No—yes. I mean, yes, no.' She laughed. 'I can't claim mothering takes all my time, now. But I don't have a job. I thought about it, but. ..'