by Penny Jordan
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of in having someone desire you, Laurel.’ he told her quietly. ‘No blame attached to it. He was a sick man—mentally sick—Dear God, if I’d.…’ He broke off, his mouth hard and compressed.
‘He said I led him on. He made my mother believe it. You believed it; everyone believed it.…’
‘And you believed it,’ he guessed, lifting her chin with his thumbs and forcing her to meet his eyes, his earlier anger replaced by compassion, but strangely, for once it did not anger her. Instead she felt curiously weak.
‘No.… Yes.… I.…’
She pulled away from him, still dazed by the emotional storm his questions had evoked. No one had ever got to her like that—not in six years. She started to shake with reaction and made no demur as he pushed her down into a chair and poured her a cup of coffee, practicality replacing compassion.
‘It’s bound to be traumatic,’ he told her. ‘But you will fly free, Laurel.’ And from the way he said it she couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a threat. Had he guessed that sometimes in those awful nightmares that seized her, he was the one bending over her, pinning her to the floor, touching her.… Perspiration broke out on her forehead, and she pushed her cup away, knowing that she was going to be sick, if she so much as took a sip of it, all thoughts of revenge forgotten in the wave of emotion engulfing her.
‘Like I already said, I’ve some reading to catch up on, so try taking it easy for today.’
‘So you can try a different experiment on me tomorrow?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Do you really think wearing different clothes is going to make me into a different person?’ She had to whip up her anger against him, she had to!
‘I don’t think so, but obviously you do, otherwise you wouldn’t have chosen to wear the ones you did before, would you?’ he pointed out with a logic she couldn’t refute. ‘If it helps try telling yourself that fate has brought us together again, Laurel, giving us both a chance to escape from the past. I know you don’t want to, but you must learn to talk about what happened. You’re carrying a terrible burden of self-blame and guilt, and there’s no need. You have nothing to blame yourself for, or to feel guilty about. Unlike.…’ He broke off as she saw the expression of disbelief in her eyes.
‘Is it so impossible to believe that I might feel guilty?’ he asked harshly. ‘Dear God, Laurel, do you think me so devoid of human feelings? Do you really see me as such a monster?’
She started to tremble, reacting against her will to the taut emotion of his voice, at first barely paying attention as he continued to talk to her, slowly becoming aware of how skilfully he was drawing her out, of how much she had already confided to him as she responded to his careful probing.
‘Laurel, don’t you see?’ he demanded when she suddenly clammed up. ‘If we talk it through it.…’
‘Will ease your guilt?’ she supplied scornfully. ‘I don’t.…’
‘Believe me?’ For a moment she could almost have believed she saw pain and remorse mingling in his eyes, but the expression was gone so quickly she couldn’t really analyse it. ‘Strange though it may seem to you I don’t exactly relish the thought of what I’ve done to you—not singlehandedly perhaps, but I certainly did my bit to contribute. Is it too late for me to make amends?’
Did he really think she would give her trust to him so easily a second time? Laurel asked herself bitterly, forcing herself to ignore the tug of response his words evoked. He had been using her then and now. And now she was determined to use him—but how? Suddenly she had the germ of an idea.
On his own admission he had been wrong about her; how many more of those, clever, acclaimed articles of his had been based on biased opinion rather than hard fact? Perhaps none, but if there was only one… that would be enough to discredit him as a reporter, and if she could discredit him as the reporter he had once been, she could discredit him as the writer he now was. Ignoring the thrust of distaste she couldn’t quite smother, she pursued the idea. What she needed were copies of all his old articles so that she could study them. Was he likely to have any here at the farmhouse?
He was talking to her again, this time about the court case, and she stilled the pain starting deep down inside her, forcing herself to try to answer his questions; perhaps she might be able to ask some of her own if she managed to get him off guard enough.
‘Trust me, Laurel,’ he urged her. ‘It’s a big step for you to take, I know, but.…’
‘You want to help me?’
‘Someone some time has to break through the wall you’ve built around yourself. The last time we met you were still a child… now you’re a woman. In the eyes of the world that is; in your own eyes you’re still very much a frightened child.’
He was perceptive; too perceptive. Fear lanced through her, darkening her eyes, her faint gasp of pain bringing his attention to her face.
‘Laurel!’
She must be going mad, she thought numbly, because for one crazy moment she had almost believed she saw anguish in his eyes and heard a raw bitterness in the way he grated her name. But that was impossible.
‘I want to help you,’ he reiterated softly. ‘Are you prepared to meet me halfway; to make an effort to rejoin the human race? Have you got the guts?’
It seemed impossible that he couldn’t sense her hostility towards him; she was so afraid she might betray it, but it was essential that she get under his guard. Her pride objected furiously to the tiny inner voice warning her to caution. She wanted to fling his offer of ‘help’ back in his face, but if she did that she would lose whatever chance she might have of discrediting him.
‘I… I don’t know,’ she managed huskily at last. ‘But I’ll try.’
‘You won’t be sorry,’ he promised softly, and then incredibly his lips brushed hers lightly and were gone before she could protest, her fingers going involuntarily to the quivering softness of her mouth, her eyes mirroring her disbelief. Just for a moment she had felt the strangest emotion; a mixture of excitement and dread; a weird sensation unlike any other she had known.
Deep down inside her warning bells started to clamour, where there was emotion there was danger.
‘I’ll be working in the living room if you want me for anything,’ Oliver told her, breaking into her thoughts, ‘Why don’t you go out for a walk—familiarise yourself with the place, but don’t wander too far, it’s only May, I know, but that sun out there is hot.’
‘Yes, I think I will.’ Laurel turned towards the door, too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the look he gave her, until he said softly, ‘Laurel?’
Her head jerked up their eyes meeting. Laurel felt for some reason as though she were poised on the edge of an abyss, teetering dangerously there, and that somehow Oliver had the power to either drag her over or leave her safely where she was. He moved toward her, checking suddenly.
‘I like the outfit,’ he told her slowly, and for some reason, when he turned away it was dissatisfaction that niggled away at her rather than relief.
Outside the sun was hot, as he had warned her. A little to her surprise she discovered an elegant paved patio at the rear of the house, decorated with stone tubs, but it had become neglected and weeds were beginning to creep between the stones. Laurel followed the path that led down to the olive grove and found the swimming pool, now half filled with water.
It didn’t look as garish as she had visualised and was surprisingly large, protected from any breeze by a hedge of cypresses. There were changing rooms and a barbecue pit, but Laurel only gave these a brief investigation before returning to the house. As she crossed the neglected patio something made her stop and kneel down to tug gently at some of the weeds. Once begun, the task engrossed her and she worked on heedless of time or effort, finding a growing satisfaction in the pile of weeds at her side and the neatness of the paving when they were removed. Alone, with the sun warming her back and faint birdsong the only sound to disturb the peace, it was easier to clarify her thoughts and intent
ions. She had asked for this job because she wanted to punish Oliver for what he had done to her, but somehow he had turned the tables on her and was going to use her presence for his own ends—but what were they? Turning her into a woman, was what he had said, but what exactly did that involve? she wondered with misgiving. Already he had proved that she was no match for him when it came to a direct clash of wills. Witness this morning, and the clothes he had made her wear. Laurel sat up, frowning. It was odd that after six years of dressing as she had and wearing her hair screwed up so tightly that not a single curl could escape, today she had worn casual clothes and let her hair down for the first time, and yet working here on the patio she had completely forgotten about it. It had taken the momentary sight of her own reflection to remind her that the girl in the cut-off jeans and long flowing hair was her!
When the psychiatrist had first come to see her at the home, he had told her that one day, when she was ready, she would want to break through the wall she had built round herself; he had also suggested that she might find it helpful to write down her thoughts and feelings; to keep a diary, in effect, but Laurel had rejected the idea outright. Her thoughts were so tortured that she couldn’t even bear to do that. And yet now.… Disposing of the weeds, she hurried inside, listening for a moment at the living-room door.
Apart from the occasional rustle of paper all was quiet, which meant, she guessed shrewdly, that Oliver didn’t want to be disturbed. Well, that suited her.
She went upstairs, washed her hands, and stared assessingly for a few minutes at her reflection. Surely her cheekbones had not always been so clearly defined, her eyes so large and sparkling? Even her mouth seemed different somehow, softer, more sensual, she recognised on a shock-wave of distaste.
In her room she removed the notepad she always carried in her bag and, seated by the window, began to write, slowly at first and then more quickly as the thoughts flowed. She started with the sudden re-emergence of Oliver into her life, trying to clarify her thoughts and emotions, writing a little unevenly as she admitted her desire for revenge; the sudden painful burgeoning of the first real emotion she had felt for six years.
When at last she laid aside her pencil she was frowning thoughtfully. It was strange; in some ways she felt more at home; more right as the girl she now was and had been for only a brief span of hours—and yet how could that be when Oliver had forced that girl upon her?
As she sat there it occurred to her that ever since they had met again Oliver had set out quite deliberately to provoke her into anger, alternating this treatment with a compassion that occasionally verged on the paternal. She wasn’t a fool, there had to be some ulterior motive for his behaviour. She might not know what it was yet, but at least, knowing helped to strengthen her resolve to be on her guard, reminded her that she was here for one purpose and one alone, and it had nothing to do with Oliver’s ‘experiment’, as she termed his behaviour towards her. She didn’t believe for one moment that his motives were as altrusitic as he had told her; she couldn’t believe it, not after what he had written about her. Of course he had explained that away very neatly, but how did she know it was true? How did she know he wasn’t simply planning a follow-up story or a full-length novel?—it would make riveting reading done in the inimitable Jonathan Graves style.
Oliver emerged from the living room for a salad lunch which Laurel had made. She had discovered a small kitchen garden, and Oliver told her that he had employed someone to take care of the gardens, but that he had died quite recently and that was why they were so neglected.
‘I could do a little bit while we’re here,’ she offered, surprising a sharp glance from him.
‘You like gardening?’
‘It can be therapeutic,’ she told him evasively, ‘and besides.…’
‘It’s a means of keeping away from me?’ he supplied. ‘Well, whatever turns you on, but you’re employed here primarily as a secretary, remember, Laurel, not a gardener, and I wouldn’t advise too much exposure to the sun until you become a little more acclimatised. You were out there long enough this morning for one day.’
‘You were watching me?’ She found it disconcerting to realise that he had seen her; watched her while she hadn’t known he was there.
‘Is it a crime?’ he asked her ironically. ‘Yes, I was watching you, and you looked like a little girl totally absorbed in some adult task.’ He got up swiftly and walked towards her, bending over her so that her breath became constricted in her throat. ‘Next time you go out, wear a hat,’ he told her, sliding his fingers into her hair and lifting the weight of it from her neck. ‘Lovely though this is, it’s no protection from the sun.’
And then to her consternation he lifted a handful of her hair and breathed in the scent of it before letting it run fluidly through his fingers. Lightning seemed to run along her nerve ends at his touch.
‘It smells of sunshine and thyme, and freedom, Laurel, a more erotic combination than the most expensive perfume in the world.’ And then with the abrupt changes of front she was becoming accustomed to he said coolly. ‘I still have one hell of a lot to get through. I’ll have my coffee in the living room. Will you object if I leave the evening meal to you tonight? With a bit of luck I might manage to get a swim in before dusk and then tomorrow we’ll start work proper.’ He sounded almost curt, his expression grimly withdrawn—more so than his words occasioned.
Later, alone with her book, Laurel found herself touching the silken strands of her hair with nervous fingers, remembering how he had touched it. Why did he do things like that? Was he constantly trying to unnerve her? What reaction did he want from her? Terror? She frowned and picked up her notebook, reading through what she had written that morning.
It was a revelation to discover that despite her hatred of Oliver, what she had written betrayed none of the restraint or fear she had experienced with other men. He had angered her, yes; and there had been fear when he touched her, but it was not fear of him. The mere fact that he knew about her past seemed to make a subtle link between them which she could not break; it was as though because he knew of her fear and the reason for it, she didn’t need the protective barrier of it. In some strange way the fact that he did know was almost a relief, freeing her from the need to pretend.… She caught herself up. Pretend what? That she found men and sex abhorrent? That was no pretence. It was real—real! Throwing the notebook on one side, she went downstairs, busying herself with the preparation of the evening meal, forbidding herself to let her thoughts roam as they had done in her room. What was the matter with her? Why all these inward heart-searchings? What was happening to her?
* * *
Because they had only had a light lunch Laurel decided to make a chicken casserole for their evening meal. Cookery was one of her hobbies, and it didn’t take long to find enough in the garden and freezer to have the makings of a savoury concoction.
The smell of it had begun to permeate the whole kitchen when Oliver walked in, the dark hair ruffled as though impatient fingers had been dragged through it, a strained look in his eyes.
‘I need some fresh air,’ he told Laurel. ‘Something smells good—how long will it be?
‘It’s chicken casserole, and it will be another hour or so yet.’
‘Good,’ he announced equably, ‘then you’ve got no excuse for refusing to come down to the pool with me.’
‘None at all, apart from the fact that I can’t swim,’ she agreed coolly. ‘Anyway, I do have something of my own to do.’
‘You do?’ He frowned and Laurel wished she had said nothing. What if he were to ask her what she was doing? It occurred to her that his absence from the house would give her an opportunity to search for copies of his early articles, but something within her shrank from going through someone else’s personal belongings.
‘Something tells me you’re beginning to forget what you’re doing down here, Laurel,’ he told her in an ominously hard voice. ‘You’re here as my employee, and if I say you’re coming d
own to the pool with me that’s exactly what you’re going to do. I’ll see you down there in exactly ten minutes,’ he told her, not giving her the opportunity to argue, as he opened the door, pausing by it for a couple of seconds as he added with iron inflexibility, ‘Oh, and Laurel—put the bikini on!’
This time he didn’t add the threat that if she didn’t, he would, but it was there, unspoken between them.
She followed him upstairs slowly, when she judged she had left sufficient time for him to reach his room. What was she so afraid of? she asked herself as she went upstairs; why did she feel this acute sense of terror? Hadn’t she just been congratulating herself on the fact that she wasn’t afraid of him, and now suddenly.…
As she stripped off her jeans and blouse her eyes were glued on her bedroom door, as though she expected with every second that passed that Oliver intended to come in—just as in the old days her stepfather had done before she bought that lock. She tensed as she heard his door open and close and his progress along the landing, past her room, and she was drowning in a sea of fear, trembling with it, unable to understand why she had ever agreed to come here alone with this man—with any man. And then he was gone, walking down the stairs, and her terror lifted slowly, her body starting to relax. She stared at herself in the mirror. She had lost all the warm colour she had gained out in the garden. Her eyes looked huge and bruised somehow. She simply couldn’t go out there now. But she knew she had to, otherwise Oliver would come back and he would make her and there would be no compassion, no escape. It was really the lesser of two evils, she acknowledged as she slid out of her bra and briefs and into the bikini. There was a brief robe to go with it, and she snatched it up from the bed, startled by the sudden reflection of her body in the cheval mirror. Unwillingly she stared at her body—something she had always avoided doing since her teens. It was like looking at a stranger; a shockingly feminine stranger whose curves seemed made for the brief scraps of silk, and whose skin glowed with a soft sheen, even though it was pale and untouched by the sun. She couldn’t go outside dressed like this, she thought, aghast. She might just as well walk out there nude.… But other girls did it, she reminded herself; she had seen photographs in glossy holiday brochures; in magazines. From the past Rachel’s voice came back to her. ‘Never be ashamed of your body, Laurel,’ she had told her. ‘It’s very beautiful. It’s only your stepfather’s thoughts that make you think it’s ugly.’