by Penny Jordan
Was she beautiful? Would Oliver think she was? Why had she thought that? Why had she thought of Oliver at all? Because he was the one to force her into this situation? Did he know that she was cowering up here afraid of him seeing her like this? And yet hadn’t she admitted only this morning that she wasn’t afraid of him—at least, not in the way she had feared her stepfather?
If she didn’t go downstairs, he would only come and drag her out, she reflected uneasily as she pulled on the brief silk robe and tied the belt. Whoever heard of a silk bikini and wrap? It was so impracticable. Impracticable but beautiful, an inner voice contradicted. The silk caressed her skin softly, and with a jolting shock she realised she enjoyed the sensation of the fabric against her. It was like… like.… Her face burned suddenly as she realised the only thing she could compare the sensation with was the touch of Oliver’s hands on her skin. But she hadn’t liked that. She had hated it, just as she hated him.
He was already lying beside the pool when she walked hesitantly towards it. He had his back towards her, but he rolled over as though he had heard her coming, surveying her from eyes shielded from the sun by his hand.
He was wearing brief black trunks, so brief that after one shocked look Laurel averted her eyes from the tanned flesh of his body, almost stumbling along the path.
‘I was just about to come and get you,’ he told her lazily, apparently unaware of her embarrassment. ‘Come and lie down here.’ He patted a sun-lounger drawn up next to his own, smiling a little sardonically as Laurel skirted behind him to reach it.
‘Did you bring some protective cream with you?’ he demanded as she perched awkwardly on the lounger, her back hunched protectively. ‘The sun is still pretty powerful, but at a guess I would say your skin isn’t the type to burn, is it?’
‘I.…’ How could she tell him that she didn’t know? That she had never sunbathed as other girls did, and that right now her stomach was heaving protestingly at the thought that all she was wearing was several brief scraps of silk, a very perilous defence against the eyes of such men as her stepfather.
‘There’s no need to cling on to that thing as though it’s a life-raft, Laurel,’ Oliver told her sardonically, suddenly moving so that he too was sitting up, and although she still had her back to him, out of the corner of her eye she could see his feet placed firmly on the tiles and she knew that the slightest movement would bring the bare sun-tanned length of his thigh against hers.
She tensed as she waited for him to demand that she remove her robe, and was surprised to discover within herself a sense of anti-climax when he said instead,
‘Now that you’re here you can oil my back for me. Unlike you I’ve no desire to burn. A real martyr, aren’t you, Laurel?’ he goaded softly, ‘And like all martyrs you enjoy the thought of burning for your sins; isn’t that right?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she told him stiffly, taking the bottle of oil he handed her, and glad that he had turned on to his stomach so that he couldn’t see the dark colour running up under her skin. She did know what he meant, or what she thought he meant. He was trying to suggest that she enjoyed being frigid and unresponsive to men; that it was a form of self-punishment, but that wasn’t true? Was it?
‘Do my shoulders first, will you?’
The lazy command focused her attention on the breadth of his torso, her eyes drifting in helpless fascination down the length of his spine and the masculinity of his hips. His legs were long, sprinkled with dark hairs, and at the thought of touching them a thousand nerves jumped in protest under her skin.
‘What’s the matter, Laurel?’ Just in time she caught the note of hard anger in his voice. ‘Have I got to remind you again that I’m not your stepfather? I’m just a man like any other, and by no stretch of the imagination am I so starved of sex that I’m about to pounce on you the moment you touch me!’
He turned and looked mockingly at her over his shoulder, his eyes suddenly narrowing intently. She looked down and realised that her robe had come open.
‘And take that damned thing off,’ he growled, ‘otherwise I might start thinking you’re wearing it because you want me to take it off for you!’
As he turned away to rest his forehead on his forearms, and was taking absolutely no notice of her at all, Laurel couldn’t see the point in refusing. And besides, if she did, he might actually think she did want him to… to.… Hurriedly shrugging off the robe, she folded it neatly and placed it on her lounger, only realising as she lent to retrieve that bottle of oil that Oliver had rolled over on to his back and was watching her with a strange expression in his eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
‘So that’s the way to do it,’ he marvelled. ‘If you want to get a girl out of her clothes, promise to do it for her. Well, well—and to think all these years I actually thought they preferred it the other way round!’
He had tricked her, she thought angrily, unaware that her emotions were registering in the darkening of her eyes and the tensing of her muscles. She had thought he wasn’t going to look at her, and now.… She had a sudden overwhelming longing to run away and hide herself from him, and she couldn’t bear the way his eyes drifted slowly over her body. She remembered how her stepfather had looked at her; how greedily his eyes had roamed her body. She tensed, and Oliver rolled over again, closing his eyes as he murmured,
‘Very nice. Your skin is still a little pale, of course, but you’re as nicely put together as any other girl your age. Now do my back for me, will you, there’s a good girl.’
Again she experienced a let-down feeling; was that what was called damning with faint praise? she wondered absently as she unscrewed the lotion and knelt down beside him. What had she expected? He wasn’t her stepfather, he kept on telling her so; he was an experienced male who doubtless found her repression amusing. It was obvious from the way he lay perfectly relaxed and at ease that she had absolutely no effect upon him at all. Which was exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it?
She was so engrossed in her task that it was several seconds before her fingers relayed to her brain the message that there was a distinct and almost shocking pleasure to be found in touching a man’s skin. Oliver’s felt warm from the sun, and oddly soft unlike the muscles beneath it. She touched tentative fingers to his spine, idly tracing the line of it, coming to an abrupt stop as he drawled mockingly, ‘You’re supposed to be oiling my skin, not giving yourself a lesson in anatomy!’ He sounded grimly angry, and she stared numbly at him.
‘I.…’
‘You what?’ Was it her imagination or had he paled slightly under his tan? ‘Got carried away? Surely not, Laurel? It seems to me that when you accuse me of indulging in experiments, you might be guilty of trying a few yourself. Go ahead, but don’t be surprised if I start wanting to try out a few of my own.’ He half turned and looked at her puzzled, hesitant eyes. ‘What you were just doing arouses some highly erotic sensations, Laurel,’ he told her sardonically, ‘You don’t believe me? Then perhaps I’d better just show you.’
Before she could guess what was going to happen he had tugged her down beside him. The lounger was only narrow, and even lying on her side, it was impossible to avoid coming into contact with his body. One arm circled her waist, the other propping up his head as he looked into her dazed and disbelieving eyes. His own were dark, glittering faintly as they studied her.
‘No.…’ she whispered jerkily, moistening dry lips. ‘No, Oliver, I.…’
‘You’re a great one for saying no, before you know what you’re refusing, aren’t you?’ he mocked, calmly ignoring her. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Laurel. Just keep still.’
Whatever it was she had glimpsed in his eyes a moment earlier had gone and they were once again calm and assessing, and yet she had the distinct impression that he was exerting stringent control over his real feelings, masking them with an assumed calmness.
‘Lie still!’ he reiterated softly.
CHAPTER SIX
; SHE was far too terrified to do anything else, and yet as the seconds ticked by and Oliver did no more than calmly smooth the oil into her neck and shoulders she found her body relaxing into the rhythmic movements of his hand. In fact it was so pleasantly soothing that she felt her eyes beginning to close, a deliciously warm, languorous sensation spreading through her body. If she was a cat she would be purring, she thought drowsily, opening her eyes to find Oliver watching her with an unreadable expression in his eyes.
‘That,’ he told her, ‘is someone oiling your back, but this.…’ Without any warning his hand left her shoulder, stroking slowly downwards over her spine, mirroring, she realised with a stab of startled dismay, the way she had touched him. Various emotions chased each other over her face as his thumb made circular patterns on her spine and curious sensations spiralled along it. Had he really felt like this when she touched him?
When she lifted bemused brown eyes to comprehending grey ones he murmured softly, ‘You see?—quite, quite different isn’t it?’
‘I.…’
‘Shush!’
The arm curved round her waist was suddenly removed, and she was lying on her back, with Oliver leaning over her. She tried to move and his fingers gripped her shoulder pinning her down, trapping her.… A panicky scream filled her throat, terror a black nightmare sea in which she was totally submerged, a dull roaring blackness devouring her.
The darkness cleared and she heard Oliver calling her name quietly. She opened her eyes. She was still lying on the lounger, but now he was crouching beside her, making no attempt to touch her.
‘All right now?’
‘I.…’
‘You fainted,’ he told her brusquely.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘It’s getting cooler, we might as well go in. You go ahead. I’ll follow you when I’ve cleared this lot away. Here, don’t forget this,’ he warned, handing her her wrap. And as she walked towards the farmhouse, Laurel had the distinct impression that beneath his outward calm he was a man in the grip of a raging anger. Because she had fainted? Because his experiment failed? She shivered suddenly, and it wasn’t simply because of the evening breeze. What had she done, agreeing to come down here? Why did he want her here?
It was a thought that hammered at her brain both that night and in the days that followed, although Oliver didn’t give her much time for daydreaming.
Once he started work, she was astounded at his output; already in three days the first chapter was almost finished. It was hard to judge the line of the story from it because the initial pages dealt mainly with the primary character, a man tortured by a sense of guilt for a past crime of which the reader was as yet unaware, and yet as she typed the dictation he had given her, Laurel found herself sympathising with the man; he stirred an elusive chord of memory within her; something that glimmered in and out of her subconscious mind but would not allow itself to be grasped.
Oliver had become almost withdrawn, barely communicative even at meal times, and she had almost forgotten the incident by the pool. Almost, but not quite. Sometimes at night, when she couldn’t sleep she remembered the feel of his skin beneath her fingers; the emotions he had aroused in her when he touched her; had he felt like that when she touched him? the thought was shockingly exciting, and strange sensations coiled through her stomach.
Every morning while Oliver worked on his notes she spent half an hour or so in the garden. She enjoyed her self-imposed task, and found that it helped to clarify her thoughts. She was still writing in her notebook, still trying to find ways and means of accomplishing her revenge. As yet she had not been able to bring herself to search through the bookshelves looking for something that might help her, but Oliver was reticent about his past life, and she knew she would never have the courage to question him directly.
Her need to be revenged upon him was constantly warring with her conscience; but stubbornly she refused to listen to it, quelling all her doubts.
One particularly hot afternoon when Oliver had told her he didn’t need her any more that day, as he wanted to do some thinking, Laurel abandoned the garden in favour of the pool. She hadn’t returned there since that first time, but strangely today, for some reason she felt an urge to lie in the sun and feel its warmth beating into her flesh.
This time she didn’t feel quite as exposed in the brief bikini, but she still wore the wrap.
The poolside was deserted as she expected and she dragged one of the loungers into the sun and spread a towel on it, smoothing cream into her skin so that she wouldn’t burn.
The sun was deliciously warm, the brilliant light bouncing off the water causing her to close her eyes. When she did so, she could almost imagine that the heat of the sun copied the warmth of Oliver’s hands, and a tiny tremor feathered along her spine, her stomach muscles tensing protestingly at her wayward thoughts.
The heat of the sun made her drowsy and as she drifted off to sleep she wondered a little how much she had changed since coming to Provence; since meeting Oliver, really. Now she thought nothing of leaving her hair loose about her face; about wearing the clothes he had bought her, about.…
She opened her eyes, sensing that she was no longer alone. Oliver stood there, looking grim.
She scrambled up, dislodging one of her bikini straps as she did so.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’
‘I was asleep,’ she told him muzzily. ‘I didn’t think you’d want me. You said I could have the rest of the afternoon to myself.’
‘But I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to lie out here and burn.’ He knelt down beside her, touching her shoulder, and she winced, realising that he was right and she had burned a little, but that seemed scant reason for the anger she could sense rigidly banked down inside him.
‘I had no idea you were here,’ he told her. ‘I thought you were in the garden. I thought you’d gone,’ he said roughly.
‘Gone?’
What on earth could he mean? Where could she have gone?
‘Yes, gone, left, run away,’ he elucidated, plainly on the verge of losing his temper, ‘but no, I find you’re here, blithely sunbathing, oblivious to the fact that.…’ He brought himself up sharply, clamping down on whatever it was he was going to say, and Laurel was glad. His anger frightened her.
‘It was so nice I thought I’d sunbathe,’ she said lamely.
‘So I see.’
He seemed to be back to his normal sardonic self, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief.
‘You’re going to have strap marks,’ he told her, bending down to tug her strap back into place. The cooling contact of his fingers against her skin produced a strange little frisson of pleasure, so unexpected that she stiffened.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he practically snarled. ‘I’m not about to rape you, Laurel. I thought we’d established that fact, although God knows, the way you act is enough to drive a man to it. I.…’
Laurel wasn’t listening. He had just echoed her stepfather’s accusations; he had said that too. He had said she asked for it, and that was what Oliver was saying. She got up blindly, oblivious to Oliver’s presence, to everything but the words hammering inside her head, walking and then running blindly in her attempt to escape from them. She heard Oliver call out something she couldn’t catch, and then suddenly she was plunging into the pool, the water an icy shock against her overheated skin. She tried to breathe, gulping a mouthful of water, choking in her panic as she tried to find the bottom with her feet, fighting for breath as she struggled beneath the surface, ears, eyes, nose and throat all clogged with the life-depriving water.
Someone was tugging at her hands, trying to stop her breathing, dragging her beneath the surface. She tore at the fingers grasping her arms, then panic exploded inside her as she fell into a whirlpool of darkness.
Someone was breathing erratically beside her, hurting her chest, forcing her to breathe. She tried to protest and instead was humiliatingly sick.
She gave a weak cough and a spluttering brea
th, then opened her eyes to discover that she was lying by the pool and that Oliver was standing over her, his jeans and shirt soaked, water dripping off his clothes and body.
‘Next time you decide to try and walk on water, give me some warning, will you?’ he demanded grittily, adding, ‘What the hell were you trying to do, Laurel? Drown yourself because I touched you?’
Not because you touched me, she wanted to say, and not drown myself even; it was just what you said… what you said… what my stepfather said, the words whirled through her mind, but her throat was too sore for her to utter them. She started to shiver with reaction, making no protest when Oliver bent and scooped her up in his arms. His shirt was plastered to his skin and she could feel the heat coming off it burning into her cold body.
As he carried her towards the house she realised hazily that being held in his arms wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary, she felt… safe.
‘Starting from tomorrow, you’re going to learn to swim,’ she heard him say as she carried her upstairs. ‘You can make a martyr out of yourself, but you’re not going to make one out of me,’ he told her obliquely. ‘I’ve already got enough crosses to bear.’
He carried her into her bedroom and dropped her on the bed. ‘Don’t move,’ he warned her. ‘You’re still in shock. Don’t worry if you feel like being sick. You swallowed one hell of a lot of water.’
‘Where are you going?’ Laurel watched him from the bed, eyes round and uncertain, not wanting him to go and yet unable to ask him to stay.
‘To run you a bath,’ he told her shortly. ‘You’re frozen, and like I said, still in shock.’ When he had gone she closed her eyes, mutely accepting what he had said; it was too much of an effort to do anything else. A bath, he had said, and the thought of warm water against her skin was distinctly appealing.