by Penny Jordan
Squaring her shoulders, she said confidently, ‘I can cope.’
‘At least there’s one thing I won’t have to worry about,’ Oliver Savage commented dryly as he made for the door. ‘You aren’t likely to use the situation to promote any other sort of intimacy between us, are you? Have you never felt the slightest bit of curiosity about what it would be like to make love with someone?’ he questioned as she opened the door for him.
‘Never,’ she told him coldly, dull colour burning up under her skin, as she added for good measure, ‘I find the thought totally revolting!’
‘Then perhaps it’s time that someone taught you differently,’ were his last words as she closed the door behind him.
How dared he pity her! she seethed angrily when he had gone—because there had been pity, as well as something else, in the final glance he had given her just before he left. But soon he would have no room to pity anyone but himself. She would see to that!
CHAPTER FOUR
ONCE his mind was made up Oliver moved with breathtaking speed, as Laurel soon discovered. By subtle flattery he managed to persuade Mr Marshall to release her on a mere week’s notice. Sally goggled when she heard the news, exclaiming disbelievingly, ‘You’re going to work for Oliver Savage? God, Laurel what a waste! If I were in your shoes.…’
‘You’d be thinking more about going to bed with him than working for him,’ Laurel guessed accurately, shocking Sally a little, as she wasn’t used to hearing Laurel speak so frankly. ‘Why do you think he’s employing me?’ she asked with a certain amount of grim amusement. ‘He wants a secretary, Sally, not a bedmate.’
‘No,’ Sally agreed unthinkingly. ‘Not that I imagine he has much difficulty in finding the latter. Still, I think you’re very lucky,’ she added wistfully. ‘Provence.…’
Not so much lucky as quick-thinking, Laurel told herself three days later as she presented herself at Oliver’s London apartment as per his instructions.
It was in a luxurious but surprisingly discreet block not far from the city centre. He opened the door to her himself, clad only in a towel wrapped carelessly round his hips. His mouth quirked in amusement at her horrified expression, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he explained, ‘I had rather a late night, and as a consequence.…’
‘Don’t bother to explain,’ Laurel cut in. ‘I can imagine.’
‘You can?’ This time his voice and expression were both sardonic. ‘You surprise me. I didn’t realise you knew what working through the night can do to you. Somehow I didn’t imagine they went in for that sort of thing in accountants’ offices—I thought they were strictly nine to five. Still, it makes it easier if you do know, then you won’t be surprised if I ask you to take dictation in the evenings occasionally, will you?’
Laurel hadn’t for a moment meant that he had spent the night working, and they both knew it. Her face tight, she stepped past him into the hall. It was painted in a soft shade of green, cool and relaxing, but her overall impression of the large living room he led her to was that while it was expensive and effective it wasn’t a homely room, and she thought nostalgically of the house in Hampstead as it had been when her grandparents were still alive.
‘I’m flying to Nice a day ahead of schedule,’ Oliver explained to her as he gestured to her to sit down. ‘I want you to type up some letters for me—you can sign them per pro. I’ve told the staff that you’ll be working here for a day. I’ve got something to do in Nice, but it won’t take long.’
Laurel wished he would go away and get dressed. The sight of his body clad only in that brief towel was disturbing her. Since her teens she had been unable to look at a male body without feeling revulsion and loathing, and yet for some reason her eyes were drawn to Oliver’s almost against her will.
‘You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that if we’re going to work successfully together, you know,’ he told her dryly, watching the colour flood her face. ‘I know how you feel about me, Laurel, but I’m not your stepfather.’
She bent her head over the notebook in her lap. ‘I know.’ The shaky admission was forced reluctantly past her lips.
‘Do you?’
She was aware of him moving, coming to stand beside her, but a strange weakness held her in thrall. Her body tensed at his proximity. She hated him and she wanted to tell him so.
‘Prove it to me, Laurel,’ he commanded softly. ‘Look at me.’
What was he trying to do? What was he trying to prove?
She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t, but she refused to expose her weakness to him. With an effort of will that left her strangely shaky she managed to focus her eyes on his face.
‘Look at my body, Laurel,’ he told her insistently. ‘It isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s only muscle and flesh.’ Before she could stop him he lifted her palm and placed it against his bare shoulder. ‘See?’
Her breath seemed to be dammed up in her throat, her fingers trembling where they had touched his skin. She wanted to withdraw from him, but he wouldn’t let her, his eyes holding hers.
‘It isn’t so bad, Laurel, is it?’ he demanded softly as she shivered and trembled, unable to move.
She wanted to move away, but she seemed rooted to the spot, her fingers curling into his flesh as he moved closer, trapping her in his arms, his eyes steely grey as they looked down into hers, and she tried to move away.
‘Your heart is thudding like jungle drums,’ he told her. ‘What are you frightened of, Laurel?’
He was holding her quite loosely, not really imprisoning her at all. ‘I thought you were going to kiss me,’ she admitted huskily, unable to stop her trembling lips from admitting the truth.
‘So I was,’ Oliver agreed pleasantly, his eyes narrowing over her disturbed features. ‘Is that such a dreadful thing?’
‘You know I don’t like it.’ The words sounded childishly petulant, and she couldn’t believe she had uttered them; had spoken so frankly to him.
‘Don’t?’ he queried. ‘Or won’t let yourself? It can be very enjoyable, if you’d just let yourself enjoy it. There’s no sin in kissing someone, Laurel—look, I’ll show you.’ There was a look in his eyes she couldn’t interpret.
This time she kept her mouth tightly closed, but it didn’t appear to bother him. His lips moved gently over hers, brushing them lightly until her sensitised flesh reacted to the light contact. Against her will her lips softened and some of the rigidity left her body, but when Oliver’s tongue stroked the passive outline of her mouth it awoke all her dormant fears, and she sprang away from him, her eyes wild and frightened.
‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded bitterly. ‘You know I don’t like it.’
‘You think you don’t,’ he corrected briefly. ‘As to why—call it atonement, if you have to give a name to it.’
Atonement… what on earth did he mean by that? she asked herself blankly when he disappeared, telling her that he was going to get dressed.
When he returned he was dressed in jeans and sweater, the latter moulded firmly to the muscles of his chest and back, and Laurel found her mind wandering against her will to the smoothness of his skin beneath her fingers. His body wasn’t like Bill Trenchard’s. It was smooth and golden brown, lightly sprinkled with dark hair. Unknowingly Laurel pressed her fingers to her lips still quivering from his touch. Just for a moment with his lips brushing hers she had felt… had felt… what?
That weak sensation coursing through her must have been an offshoot of her hatred of him.
* * *
Two days later she was in Nice. Oliver met her at the airport, looking oddly different in frayed jeans and a thin cotton tee-shirt. It was at least fifteen degrees warmer than it had been in London. Spring was already well advanced, and Laurel felt over-warm in the heavyweight winter coat she had worn for the flight. A stewardess gave them an odd look as she walked past them—wondering what on earth such a plain creature was doing with someone like Oliver Savage, Laurel acknowledged mentally as she followed him
out into the brilliant sunshine.
‘This way.’ His hand on her shoulder directed her towards the dark, menacing outline of a Ferrari, parked on the forecourt.
‘This is all the luggage you’ve brought?’ he asked as she handed him her single, old-fashioned suitcase.
‘You said the farmhouse was remote,’ Laurel reminded him. ‘And as you’ll be busy on the book, I’ve only brought work things with me.’
‘You mean you actually do go out?’ He sounded disbelieving. ‘But not with men, eh, Laurel?’
She had the impression that he was deliberately baiting her, and resisted the impulse to react. Perhaps he was regretting giving her the job. Well, she wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to send her back now.
When he had said the farmhouse was remote, she hadn’t realised to what extent. It was late afternoon before they reached it, set amidst ancient olives, the terracotta building faded and softened by the sun.
‘Out you get.’
She was stiff from the long drive and stumbled as she clambered out of the car. Instantly Oliver was at her side, grasping her waist to steady her, only the shock of the physical contact had her trembling like a leaf, her face milk-white as she stared blindly away from the tanned column of his throat.
‘And to think I thought I was making progress!’ she thought she heard him mutter as he released her and bent down to pick up her case.
‘This way,’ he instructed, leaving her to follow him through what had once been a garden, but was now a tangle of roses and hollyhocks mingling with almost knee-high grass.
‘As you can see, I don’t get much time for gardening,’ Oliver told her wryly, correctly reading her expression. ‘But then I came down here to write, not till the land.’
He pushed open the door, standing aside so that Laurel could precede him into the cool shadowy kitchen, which was obviously the heart of the farmhouse.
Ancient tiles covered the floor, dusty and neglected, another film of dust covered the dresser and cupboards. The room smelled musty, and Laurel wondered how long it had been since Oliver had last visited it.
‘Let’s get some of these windows open and then I’ll show you round. Fortunately we do have electricity—although it’s supplied by our own generator. I’ll go and get it going in a minute, and then if you will you can stock the freezer with the stuff I’ve got in the boot. I hope you’re not going to object to mucking in a bit with the chores,’ he added as he stretched up to open one of the windows. ‘I know it’s not part of the normal secretarial duties.…’
‘I don’t mind.’ There was no point in antagonising him at this stage, and who knew, perhaps during the shared intimacy of doing the dishes she might learn something she could use against him later.
‘Good girl! Come on then, I’ll give you the full tour. Not that there’s much to see,’ he added as he bent his head to avoid the lintel of the doorway that led from the kitchen to what was obviously the living room.
Pleasantly proportioned, it had windows looking out on both the front and back of the property. Like the kitchen, it looked dusty and forlorn, but it was comfortably furnished with typical Provençal furniture. There was a huge open fireplace at one end, and an enormous desk, tidy now, but obviously Oliver used the room as his study. Behind the desk ran a series of bookshelves, full mainly of reference and textbooks, from what Laurel could see.
‘Upstairs now. It’s a little larger than the downstairs,’ Oliver explained as he led the way up the narrow twisting flight of stairs. ‘Mainly because it’s been extended out over what was the barn and what is now the garage-cum-storeroom.
‘Five bedrooms.’ He pushed open the doors of each of them in turn. ‘This one’s mine.’ It contained an old-fashioned bed with wooden head board and a heavy but attractive armoire.
‘You can take your choice of the other four. Bathroom has to be shared, I’m afraid. We’re a little primitive in these parts, none of the luxuries of civilisation.’
‘There’s no lock on the door,’ Laurel said jerkily, her eyes flying to his face.
‘I’ve never felt the need to lock myself in,’ came the cool response. ‘I’m no peeping Tom, Laurel,’ he added impatiently. ‘If I want to see a naked woman I don’t have to go peering into bathrooms to do so.’
She flushed at the sardonic tone, and accepted his suggestion that she have the room at the head of the stairs. When she had decided to be revenged upon him she had overlooked the problem of her aversion to men and their enforced promixity.
‘It’s larger than the others—and further away from mine, which should make you feel safer,’ Oliver told her. ‘Tell me,’ he enquired silkily, ‘if you’re so terrfied that I might touch you why did you suggest working with me? Was it purely because you wanted to advance your career?’
Because she couldn’t answer the question without lying and because she was wary of the look in his eyes, Laurel put a question of her own.
‘Why did you accept me?’ she asked lightly.
‘Well now.…’ Oliver was watching her in a curious fashion, and all of a sudden her mouth went dry, her heart thudding erratically. ‘I wondered when we’d get to this. What would you say if I told you that I feel guilty about what’s happened to you, Laurel? About your fear and loathing of men—No, don’t deny it, we both know it’s there, and in some part I’m to blame. I want to help you, Laurel.’ If she didn’t know it wasn’t possible she might almost have suspected there was gentleness in his voice, compassion in his eyes as they rested on her pale face.
‘What did you say?’ She stared at him in mingled fury and outrage.
‘You don’t like the idea?’ he guessed, grimacing faintly. ‘Ah well, I didn’t think you would—but, Laurel, think, do you really want to go through the rest of your life terrified of men and sex? Do you.…?’
‘I’m not!’
‘Oh no?’ His mouth was wry. ‘My dear girl, I could take you to my bed right here and now and make love to you, but we both know that before I got half a dozen steps you’d be halfway to fainting with terror. I know what happened to you wasn’t pleasant, but it’s over, Laurel, you’ve got to learn to live.’ That couldn’t be anguish she thought she saw in his eyes, it was just a trick of the light. But he would know anguish!
‘And you’re going to teach me? No way! I’m leaving here right now. Oh, I might have known you’d have some ulterior motive, some reason for giving me the job. I suppose you’re going to write about it as well,’ she demanded sarcastically. ‘ “How I single-handed turned a frigid woman of ice into a raging sexpot…”.’ Dear God, if she’d dreamed this would be in his mind, she would never have suggested working for him—retribution or not!
Oliver’s reactions were far too swift. ‘So you admit it can be done,’ he pounced triumphantly. ‘But no, I don’t intend to write about it, Laurel. You seem to have a fixation about that—why?’
‘Perhaps because I’ve experienced your written words!’
‘Yes, you have, haven’t you?’ His face tightened. ‘Laurel, I.…’ he moved towards her, checking when she flinched, to say in a hard voice, ‘I meant every word I said, Laurel. By the time we leave here in the autumn my book will be finished and you’ll be a feeling, living woman.’
‘I will? I didn’t realise you could perform miracles,’ she sniped back at him bitterly. ‘Do I get to know just how you’re going to affect this transformation?’
He shrugged powerful shoulders. ‘I wish I knew, but it will be accomplished, Laurel, I promise you that. After all, I owe it to you to give you back what you keep on reminding me I took from you, don’t I?’ She could feel the heat of his anger beneath the suave exterior.
He left before she could retort, and as she heard his feet clattering down the narrow stairs Laurel sank down on to the unmade bed, her heart pounding nervously.
She shouldn’t have come here. She had let her desire for revenge blind her to the dangers. What did Oliver mean, he was going to turn her into a feeling wom
an? How did he expect to do that? She shivered shuddenly, remembering the touch of his mouth against hers, and the way he had looked at her afterwards. She should never have agreed to come here. But she had, and she had a mission to accomplish, and if Oliver thought he could undo the harm he had helped to cause all those years ago, then let him try; she knew differently.
She was just searching for bedlinen when she heard him coming back upstairs.
‘Generator’s going,’ he told her. ‘We’d better get all that stuff in the freezer, before it thaws.’
They worked in relative harmony for half an hour. Watching Oliver work was a revelation. Her stepfather hadn’t so much as lifted a finger in the house, and her grandmother had been the old-fashioned sort who never allowed her husband in the kitchen.
When they had finished, it was Oliver who pushed her down into a chair and told her to sit there while he made them a drink.
‘Tea okay?’ he asked her, filling the kettle. ‘I’ll go out and fill the pool later—we can use it once the sun’s warmed it up.’
‘The pool?’ Laurel stared at him.
‘Yes, there’s a swimming pool down by the orchard. It was installed by the painter who owned the house before me. He used it to lure nubile young ladies up here and then coaxed them into posing for him in the nude. Oh, for God’s sake!’ he exclaimed when he saw her shocked expression. ‘I’m only joking—the pool was installed by a painter, but so far as I know it wasn’t used by anyone except his four kids. You’ve got a very lurid imagination for a supposedly frigid young woman. What goes on inside that head of yours, Laurel? Why did you really come down here with me?’
‘You know why,’ she told him in a muffled voice.
‘I know what you told me,’ he corrected, switching off the kettle and pouring the water into the pot. ‘But something tells me it isn’t the truth, or at least not all of it.’
Had he guessed her real reason for coming with him? Surely not? She darted a hesitant glance towards him and then looked away. He couldn’t have guessed. He would never have given her the job if he had.