Stormy Rapture

by Margaret Pargeter

  "Oh, yes, of course, the drinks are over there. Please help yourself." Liza fled, flushing scarlet. She suspected he was teasing, but she had been guilty of bad manners. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet as she went, not seeing the thoughtful glint in his eyes as he watched her go.

  "While you're making coffee," he called after her, "I'll go outside and find your shoes."

  Once in the kitchen Liza plugged in the percolator before searching frantically for another pair of sandals, the ones she had worn originally still lying out on the gravel. Simon had said he would fetch them, but she was reluctant to wait until he did so. Too vivid in her mind was the memory of how he had carried her into the house. Pagan rites in bare feet might be all right in their place, but that place wasn't here. And as for her sandals, he might easily forget to look for them.

  Hastily, while the percolator boiled, she rinsed her hands and hot face at the kitchen sink, rubbed in a little moisture cream and set two cups. Then, snatching a comb from a drawer, she ran it through her silky hair, despairing to note, when she glanced in the mirror, that her reflection looked pale and oddly fragile. There was a lipstick in the drawer where she had found the comb. It was an old frosted one which she had forgotten about, and without the colour she sought, but it would have to do. There was no time to run upstairs, and she applied it hopefully, but it only gave her lips a pearly, iridescent glow which, she thought wryly, didn't improve her image at all, and made no difference to the overall picture.

  Shrugging scornfully at her own stupidity, Liza turned away. Simon Redford would be the last to notice anything about her, unless it was something scarcely flattering like missing shoes. She had better go and see what all the mystery was about, it could be something very simple. These days she and Simon had little opportunity of discussing anything in the office, due she supposed to the vigilance of Miss Brown. Not even a relative was allowed to take precedence over that lady! Whatever it was, Liza hoped it would be pleasant. A sigh escaped her as she quickly arranged a plate of biscuits and picked up the tray. Even if it wasn't it was unlikely that her mother would be home before midnight. Plenty of time to sort out any differences before then.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Simon was still lounging in his chair when Liza returned to the drawing room. In one hand he held a whisky glass, but from his other her sandals dangled, so he must have been out. She knew a moment's relief that he hadn't looked into the kitchen and caught her trying to rectify her face.

  Lazily he grinned as she placed the tray of coffee on a small glass-topped table. "I see you've found some more shoes." He placed the ones he held carefully on the carpet. "I helped myself." He lifted his glass with a nod of appreciation, adding politely, "I hope your mother won't mind?"

  "Mother? Oh no, of course not." Liza sat down opposite, uncomfortably aware that her reply sounded stilted, but it was discomfiting to hear him apologise for using something which must actually belong to him in the first place.

  "How is your mother?" he asked, taking her right off guard. "She seems to be settling down again."

  A small frown chased across Liza's brow. "Have you seen her recently?" He talked as though he had.

  "No." His voice was smooth as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into the coffee Liza passed him. "But she did ring, just after we'd been to Stratford. Actually she seemed much more grateful than her daughter."

  Liza flushed, feeling the warm colour rush to her cheeks. She might have known he would not be above reminding her of what she owed him, however subtly he might frame his remarks. Quickly she glanced at him, hating his supreme decisiveness. How nice to be in a position where the enemy must always be on the defensive! Her mother had mentioned ringing Simon, but she had forgotten. "You've pointed out my lack of gratitude before, Mr. Redford," she said coldly, her dark blue eyes meeting his grey ones. "But I thought we'd come to a satisfactory arrangement?"

  His mouth still quirked at the corners. "That, dear Liza, is a matter of opinion. And I don't want to hear you call me Mr. Redford again."

  There was more than a hint of a threat in his voice, but she ignored it. She had heard those faintly ominous tones before and managed to survive. Her rounded chin tilted, a clear indication that she refused to be intimidated. "I think I'm keeping to my side of the bargain, as I remember it. I still work for you."

  "And you don't ever wonder what I'm getting out of it?"

  "Why should I?" Her breath came quickly. "You do have, the pleasure of making me feel uncomfortable, if that's what you mean. I expect you enjoy a position of some power, where you can move people around like a game of chess."

  "Heaven forbid!" He lay back, indolent grace in every line of him. "You've certainly got me type-cast—a real dictator! What you really should have said was that I stir you up a bit. I make you feel all sorts of things you'd rather not—some of which aren't strictly in the line of business."

  There was a strange blaze in her eyes and she found it difficult to sit still. "You seem to have studied me with some concentration. It is possible you've jumped to all the wrong conclusions."

  "I don't think so." In his eyes there was a cynical sparkle as he watched the bright colour slip beneath her skin, blending with the tension around her soft mouth. "If you've got me all weighed up, my so discerning Liza, then you must allow me to return the compliment."

  "You're being ridiculous!" she snapped.

  "I repeat, I don't think so, but we'll see. I like being proved wrong no better than the next man."

  "But you're rarely that! Wrong, I mean."

  "Sarcasm rarely suits a lady, Liza." The glint in his eyes deepened and his voice was mildly reproving.

  Unconsciously taut, Liza's hand went out to lift up her coffee, seeking refuge from his mocking gaze as she bent her head over the cup, her mind searching nervously for a change of subject. In its present groove their conversation was too disturbing. She felt out of her depth, unable to contend with his wholly masculine sophistication. It might have been better if she'd had him all weighed up, as he had suggested, but that observation, so far as she was concerned, was the joke of the century! He was too enigmatical for her ever to understand easily, although she did understand one thing which she refused to openly confess. In some way he did arouse her senses, even if not to any great degree, and she hated that he should so much as suspect.

  The silence being anything but companionable, Liza said at last, "You did say you would tell me what you'd really called about after I'd made coffee? You haven't forgotten?"

  "No, I hadn't forgotten." His dark face was suddenly inscrutable as he watched her broodingly. "I had, however, almost decided to leave it, but I'd overlooked a woman's curiosity."

  She smiled, immediately relaxed. The joke was straightforward and she could cope. It had none of the perilous undertones of his previous conversation. In a lighter mood she retorted demurely, "It is a secretary's job to remind her boss occasionally."

  "A habit which should be left in the office, I think." With a resigned sigh Simon put down his empty glass and rose to his feet. Standing on the hearthrug, he rested one arm along the mantelshelf and looked down at her. Through the dimness Liza could scarcely see him. Outside the open window the clear sky was clouding over, bathing the room in shadows and the heavy sweet scent of the roses which grew just under the window. A little uncertainly Liza supposed she should switch on a light. Yet she craved the protection which only darkness could give, away from his probing eyes.

  After a few considering seconds he spoke again, just as she was beginning to think he had changed his mind. "This actually concerns the office, Liza. Or rather, your work there. How long is it since you've had a rise?"

  "A rise?" Startled, she twisted to peer at him, her momentary composure gone. "Why should you ask that?"

  Above her head she heard him sigh. "Stop hedging, Liza, I want the truth. I'm asking you now because I don't want an inquisition in the office with Miss Brown bending to the keyhole."

  Liza mig
ht almost have laughed at such a picture if she hadn't felt so strung up. "I didn't mean to be off-putting," she protested, not very convincingly. "There are some things one doesn't make a point of remembering. I think it might be some years."

  "Liza… you've only worked for three! I've checked."

  "You're very fond of checking, aren't you?" Liza cried indignantly, tossing back her long hair through the dusk.

  "No more than is necessary…"

  "Then you must know, now that you've studied the records, that I haven't had a rise, ever."

  "Then why pretend you had?" His voice was laden with impatience and a determination to sort some answers from her evasive replies.

  "Your attitude is confusing…"

  "You mean my persistence? You haven't had an increase in salary, and I'm curious to know why."

  "If you must know," she answered, sulkily, "because I never asked for one."

  "You never asked for one." He tapped the top of his head twice with an exasperated hand before running it around the back of his neck. "Translated, does that mean you were never offered one, and, as Silas was a relation, you allowed a stupid pride to prevent you from insisting on fair treatment?"

  She slid round that one carefully. "I was quite content with what I had. After all, Silas did let me live here. I was very comfortable."

  "The deficiency in your salary would more than account for that."

  "Mother lived here too."

  His sigh went deep in his throat. "That's beside the point. Your mother wasn't exactly idle. I gather, from what she told me, that she ran the house and did quite a lot of entertaining. Having her here probably paid Silas handsomely. Outside entertaining can be costly, even on an expense account."

  He made it all sound so objective. Silas had really considered them as family. She said stiffly, "It was good of him to offer us a home after Father died. And he was always generous."

  "But not to you. Unless…" Simon's tones suddenly sharpened. "It wasn't a tax fiddle, Liza? He wasn't putting so much away for you each week?"

  "How could you say such a thing!" The anger in her eyes which he couldn't see reflected in her voice. "That was the last thing he would do, or which I would have agreed to."

  "Fine, then." His nod was cool, her small fury producing no trace of apology. "Now we seem to know where we stand. And from this week you'll have more money—considerably more. I'll see what I can do."

  "No, please. Please don't do anything!" Almost startled, Liza heard herself pleading. "I don't want any more, Simon. Mother and I are living here rent-free. Consider any difference in lieu of rent if you like. This would suit me fine."

  "And what," he asked, his voice silky soft, "do you intend to live on? Even if your mother is financially secure, surely you value your independence?"

  Liza felt her cheeks pale even as she said clearly, "My present salary will cover that." There came a slight pause and she glanced up at him quickly to find his eyes narrowed upon her. Just as quickly she looked away, her heart sinking. What was she saying! Why was she being so totally unrealistic? Her mother did have a little money, she knew, although she didn't know how much, and since Silas's death it had seemed she was reluctant to talk about it. However, they had managed so far. If they did happen to get short then she could perhaps find an evening job, and her mother might sell more of her paintings. These had always sold well in the past. Whatever happened, some sort of independence of Simon Redford seemed absolutely necessary. Again she glanced at him, but adding nothing to her short statement.

  "Okay," he submitted briefly, obviously having decided to argue no further. "Have it your own way, but I might have a word with your mother."

  "No!" Liza was on her feet in a trice, clutching his arm unconsciously. He mustn't do this! Her mother was capable of accepting anything. Where her comfort was concerned she had no scruples, about Hollows End, no pride. "Please," she repeated, her fingers urgent on his arm. "She might only be upset."

  "She might," he agreed suavely, with apparent indifference. "But sometimes it's necessary. However, if you do need any help, Liza, I want you to promise you'll come to me."

  "Why?" Suddenly aware that she still held his arm, she removed her hand, burnt, as if his touch was like fire. With the contact her mouth was nervously dry so that she licked her lips, quite unconscious of the gesture. "I can always go to Bill," she tacked on, not knowing where the idea came from. Did Simon imagine her friendless?

  "No, you will not!"

  Liza sensed in his even tones impending disaster, if unable to find a reason. Maybe he didn't like Bill Bright? Didn't consider him suitable company for anyone with even an ounce of Redford blood in their veins? Vehemently she was glad she hadn't any, and hated that Simon should feel he owed her protection for that which she had not. She brushed back her hair which she always did when distracted, with nervous fingers. "I think you're being quite ridiculous," she cried indignantly. "But you needn't worry, I don't need you or any other man."

  The statement was rash, she knew it as soon as she had spoken as, instinctively defensive, she began to move away from him, only to discover with shock his hand on her arm, this time delaying her. "You do need a man, Liza." His fingers bit deep, emphasizing the truth of his words as his voice came mockingly. "You need men, but you happen to be scared of them, or at least, very very wary. I wonder why?"

  Liza swallowed hard. "Now you're talking in riddles. In my job I'm with men all the time, and enjoy their company as much as the next girl. I'm quite capable of all the normal responses, believe me."

  "Well, that's just fine." His voice was smooth, blending with the senses, almost deceiving, driving Liza on to further recklessness.

  "You don't believe me!"

  He threw back his dark head, his eyes taunting. "Not exactly, although you may do yourself, but there's one way of finding out."

  Too late Liza tried to wrench her arm from his grasp. Somehow the movement went against her as with a slight pull he folded her in his arms, right against his heart. The palms of his hands were warm and firm on her skin through the thin material of her dress, and his fingers incredibly strong as they pressed her against him. Then, before she could try again to escape, his hand went under her chin, lifting her mouth to his, and the fire which had been smouldering gently through Liza's body suddenly burst into flames, threatening to devastate her completely.

  The touch of his lips was unexpectedly gentle at first, as if he only attempted to tease her, his breath warm on her mouth, with no hint of emotion in the gesture, spoke of a control which Liza was far from sharing. For her it had never been like this before, not when Bill or anyone else had held her, and now, swaying beneath a surging flood of emotion, she felt completely bewildered by her own reactions. Something inside her recognised that this was what she had been waiting for, but, as her arms clung to him, there came a faint tremor of shock at her own response.

  She was clinging to him when she should be thrusting him away, her hands creeping to his neck when she should be fighting him with small, balled fists. Her body, aching against the hardness of his, implored her to forget the restraint that overruled her mind, and through the thin silk of his shirt her heart beat into his wildly.

  Then his mouth suddenly hardened, parting her lips, bringing a soft sound of protest which he ignored completely. It was almost as if he sensed her reticence and was determined to sweep it away. In the shimmery soft darkness fright like a wild thing licked along her veins, as his hands moved over her, tentative, exploring, until her small moan told him she was completely without breath.

  Slowly the pressure of his mouth eased, just so far, just far enough to allow her dazed little whisper, an only half audible plea that he should let her go. "You said," he teased slowly, "that you're capable of all the normal responses. As I said, I was only finding out."

  "If you say so," she gasped incoherently, staying her struggles of which he took little notice. In the circle of his arms there might be more safety if she stoo
d still. A thick coil of hair fell across her cheek which she left to him to brush back, unable to make the movement herself.

  He said softly, his lips against her cheek, "You're trembling, and there's no need. Just accept this as a salutary lesson, a beginner's course. It will be over in no time."

  But he was wrong. It was easy the way he said it, but it didn't seem possible to be unmoved by this tidal wave of feeling. Again his hand, brooking no denial, slid under her chin, tilting her face to him, his mouth cutting off her fluttering breath. In a moment's insanity her young body yielded, responding to him with an instinct far more sure than any reasoning could be. And her soft mouth, trembling slightly out of control where a nerve jerked at one corner, seemed to constitute a challenge. Deliberately his hand slipped from her chin to the back of her neck where he grasped a sliver of silky hair, pulling it back. The sharp cry which escaped her parted her lips and the demand of his mouth was suddenly fiercer, arousing her in some exciting, irresistible way which she found impossible to fight.

  Then suddenly he was putting her away from him, but gently, almost as if he was very reluctant to let her go. Liza was trembling uncontrollably as she came back unwillingly to earth. Theirs had been a sort of violent exploration of the senses, where pleasure and pain had mingled irrevocably into one. A world beyond any known realm to be entered, but to which she wasn't as yet experienced enough to wholly commit herself.

  Perhaps as he sensed her unconscious hesitation, Simon's arms slackened and he withdrew. Holding her for a brief moment, her head tipped back against his arm, he spoke softly, yet his voice seemed to contain an odd threat. "One step at a time," he said. "And time all little girls were in bed."

  Beyond his head, through the darkness beyond the open window, sparkling stars seemed to be falling to the ground. A sound, like a gentle explosion, vibrated in her ears. Then abruptly his hands slid from her waist and he bent his dark head briefly to brush her cheek with his lips.