by Penny Jordan
‘Is this true?’ he demanded, rounding on her, his mouth thinning. ‘Are you planning to spend the evening with him?’
‘Yes,’ she told him blithely, astonished at the sheer sense of exultation the word gave her. She knew he didn’t want her to go, but it gave her infinite pleasure to defy him, especially when she knew why he didn’t want her to go. She was a specimen, an ‘experiment’, and nothing was to be allowed to become between him and the final results—results he obviously needed for his new book.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ was all he finally said, adding later in a voice that only she could hear, ‘Be careful, Laurel. Wanting to leave the past behind you is fine; trying to catch up on six years’ living all in one go is another. You’re still very much at the toddler stage, you know… when it comes to sex, that is. You know what all the moves are, but you still haven’t learned to coordinate them—I should hate to see you fall flat on your face.’ His false assumption of concern for her doubled her fury.
‘If I do, Chas will be there to catch me, won’t he?’ she retorted sweetly, astonished to see the white ring of anger round his mouth.
‘Perhaps your stepfather wasn’t lying after all,’ was his final brutal thrust. ‘Perhaps you are asking for it!’
It was six o’clock before the others left to return to the farmhouse. Oliver’s sister wanted an early start in the morning and Chas promised that they wouldn’t be late. ‘Arles isn’t exactly Paris, is it?’ he asked ruefully. ‘I expect the whole place shuts down at ten.’
Alone with him, Laurel wasn’t quite so sure that defying Oliver had been a good idea. For one thing, his manner towards her changed quite markedly. His arm resting on her shoulders was far more intimate than she would have liked, and she moved away from him when it slipped to her arm, his fingers brushing the curve of her breast.
His eyebrows rose. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were such a prude,’ he commented. ‘Not after living with a man like Savage.’
‘Living with? I’m Oliver’s secretary, that’s all,’ Laurel told him indignantly. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea, Chas.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he argued lazily. ‘In fact I’m sure not. You can say what you like, Laurel, but there was something distinctly possessive about the way he told you he didn’t want you coming out with me tonight. And no man gets like that with a woman unless she gives him good cause.’
‘Oliver, was just… concerned about me,’ she told him stiffly.
‘Sure he was,’ he agreed, laughing coarsely, ‘concerned that someone else might be fishing what he considers private waters. It’s time he learned that modern girls don’t belong exclusively to one man, isn’t that right? And I’m all for it.’
She could imagine! Angry with him, Laurel pulled away. ‘You’re quite wrong, Chas,’ she told him. ‘I’m just Oliver’s secretary, nothing more.’
‘Is that so? Then how come when we arrived last night there was only one light on? One bedroom light, that is. It wasn’t until we were almost up to the house that any downstairs lights went on. You know what that suggests to me, Laurel?’
She did, and she knew it would be a waste of time trying to explain to him what had actually happened. Not that it was really any of his business.
‘No, and I don’t want to,’ she told him tightly. ‘Chas, I think tonight was a bad idea. I’d like to go back to the farmhouse now.’
‘And let Uncle O. know that you prefer him to me? No way, baby,’ he told her cruelly. ‘I’m sick of hearing Rick ramble on about his precious uncle. Seems to me the guy’s bigheaded enough already without you adding to it. I could give you a good time.…’
Laurel felt sick. Oliver had been right to warn her against him.
‘No, thanks,’ she said shakily. ‘I’d really much rather go back, Chas.’
His eyes narrowed, and she became aware of the petulant droop to his mouth and the glittering excitement in his eyes as they moved restlessly over her.
‘What’s the matter?’ he taunted. ‘Afraid I might not be as generous as Savage?’
It was obvious that he wasn’t going to take her back, and his mood frightened her. Perhaps if they had something to eat and then left.… Yes, that was the best thing.
Only she didn’t bargain for the carafe of wine which was brought to their table, or that Chas would insist on drinking all of it himself when she refused more after discovering that it was a little sour and rough for her taste.
When they left the restaurant it was almost ten o’clock. Chas wanted to look for a club or a bar, but Laurel insisted that she wanted to return to the farmhouse.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, leering at her. ‘Gives me longer to stop for a while on the way back, doesn’t it?’
They were halfway back to the farmhouse when he pulled off down a narrow country road. It was completely dark, the countryside deserted, and Laurel felt a quiver of fear as he switched off the engine and turned towards her.
‘Relax,’ he told her, feeling her tense as he slid his arm round her. ‘What’s the panic?’
‘Elizabeth will be wondering where we are,’ she objected. ‘You know she’s planning an early start in the morning!’
‘Elizabeth will object? Don’t you mean Savage will object?’ he demanded. ‘Look, what is it with you, going out with one guy but with your mind constantly on another? I thought we could have fun together.’
‘You invited me out for a meal,’ Laurel reminded him bitterly.
‘Yeah, but we both know what that implies.’
‘That I have to pay for it?’ Laurel challenged bitterly. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Chas, but you picked the wrong girl.’
She pulled away from him, pushing open the car door, stumbling down the rutted track as she headed for the main road. Behind her she heard him curse and then start the engine. He drew alongside her.
‘Aw, come on, Laurel, don’t be such a prude!’ he wheedled, his tone changing and hardening when she refused to respond. ‘What is it with you anyway?’ he demanded roughly. ‘You know what it’s all about.’
His rough tone and hard eyes unnerved her. She wished she had never accepted his invitation; never seen those books of Oliver’s. If she hadn’t she’d be safe at the farmhouse by now.
Safe! A curious sensation fluttered through her stomach, a persistent shiver of alarm feathering along her nerves, but before she could correctly interpret the warning they were trying to give her, Chas suddenly slammed the car angrily into second gear and screamed past her, covering her in fine dust.
‘You want Savage,’ he threw at her above the protesting whine of the engine. ‘Okay, then let him take you home!’
He couldn’t really mean to leave her here, Laurel thought, appalled, several seconds later, searching the road for some evidence that he meant to turn back. But his tail-lights had already disappeared—in the direction of Arles, not the farmhouse—and she was alone, God knew how many miles from the nearest habitation. Terrified sobs rose in her throat, but she suppressed them. There was nothing to be gained from giving way to her emotions. Thankful that she had chosen to wear her flat-heeled sandals, she started to plod wearily in the direction of the farmhouse. Surely somewhere along the way there must be somewhere she could get help?
The night was full of sounds, frightening at first, but comforting after a while when she had learned to distinguish them. The mistral had gone, leaving the air soft and scented with mimosa.
Suddenly behind her she heard the sound of a car approaching. Oliver—please let it be Oliver, was the irrational thought that first burst upon her. She turned, disappointment flooding over her when she realised the car wasn’t Oliver’s Ferrari, and neither was it heading in her direction; it had turned off before it reached her, but Laurel was more concerned with the gaping chasm which suddenly appeared to have opened under her feet than the disappearance of the car.
It was only natural that she should feel relief, joy even, at the thought of being spared the orde
al of her long walk, but the emotions which had swept over her when she first thought the car might be Oliver’s hadn’t been those simple basic feelings.
In those brief telling seconds she had run the gamut of a whole range of feelings—incredible joy; tremulous uncertainty, hope, pleasure, and most of all.…
Most of all what?
She sat down suddenly, shivering and trembling with reaction as she battled against the truth and tried to analyse her emotions. She had wanted that car to be Oliver’s; had yearned desperately to see him striding towards her, taking her in his arms, holding her safe.
A conflicting surge of emotion engulfed her. She felt as though she had lost touch with everything familiar; as though her entire world had suddenly been turned upside down. She had come to Provence with Oliver with the sole purpose of wounding him; of inflicting on him the pain she had herself endured, and instead.…
Instead she was in danger of suffering a far greater pain herself; the anguish of loving a man and knowing her love would never be returned.
She loved Oliver! Admitting it brought a certain peace; so many irrationalities in her own behaviour were explained once she had admitted it. No wonder she had been so reluctant to read those articles; to get on with her self-imposed task.
But she must! She mustn’t let what she felt for him distract her from her purpose. The fact of her loving him changed nothing. She had come to Provence for a reason and she must see it through. She must!
But how could she? All along she had felt a warring distaste for what she planned to do. Her conscience had consistently troubled her; and now she had to fight against her love as well. While her pride urged retaliation her heart whispered a different message, even hinting that all along, secretly her desire to be with Oliver had sprung not from any desire for revenge, but a simple need to be with the man she loved.
She had been so bitter, so engrossed in the past that she hadn’t been able to recognise her own emotions, and every minute spent with Oliver had only made matters worse, she now recognised. His compassion, his concern, his probing questions, all these had helped breach her defences, making her more vulnerable, although she had tried to hide that fact from herself by cloaking her vulnerability with anger.
Walking had become an automatic reaction not requiring any thought; all her mental concentration focusing on the discovery of her love.
When had it first started? When he walked into the office, or earlier? Did it perhaps have its roots in the very first encounter; had the seeds of trust and warmth sown then not after all been destroyed in the conflagration of his betrayal? Had they survived and lain dormant all through the years waiting for his reappearance into her life to put out shoots?
Had she buried her true feelings, encasing them in the frigidity she had used to stop herself from being hurt again?
And then when they had met all that emotion had come rushing to the surface, breaking through the ice.
But she must not give way to it. Dear God, if he were to guess how she felt! He would have a field day, she told herself bitterly, thinking of the textbooks she had seen. Could he have guessed? She started to tremble convulsively.
She had to get away from him. She had to. She couldn’t trust herself any longer. A sob tore at her throat. It was all so unfair. Oliver was going to use her again while she, hampered by her love, couldn’t even bring herself to use the puny weapons she had at her disposal to fight back. If she had any pride, she would carry out her original plan, she lashed herself bitterly. She owed it to herself to wipe out the past and start again. How could she possibly start again now? She stopped again, acknowledging with a faint sense of disbelieving shock that somewhere deep down inside her lurked the primeval notion that somehow by punishing Oliver, by hurting him, she would ‘buy’ her own freedom from the past and all the nightmares it still held. She had never thought of herself as particularly superstitious, but her reasoning here was as primitive as those of the tribes who still believed that by using a ‘sin-eater’ and paying him they could shed their own failings and guilt. She had thought that by hurting Oliver she could wipe out her own hurt, but she saw now that burdened by her love for him, she would only be hurt the more.
Dear God, she had to get away! If she didn’t she might easily betray herself, weakened as she was by her need of him.
Slowly, mechanically she walked on, glancing at her watch occasionally, trying to still the thoughts that tormented her. There was no sign of human habitation. The road from the farmhouse to Arles was a quiet country one, she remembered, and she realised with dismay that she hadn’t seen any other building on the way. How much farther was it to the farmhouse? Had Chas returned, and how had he explained away her absence? Why hadn’t anyone come to look for her? Why didn’t she have the pride to do as she had first intended? Why was she so weak? The thoughts beat at her unceasingly until she sank exhausted by the roadside, clenched fists pressed bitterly to her throbbing forehead as her thoughts chased one another unceasingly through her aching head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE woke up with a start, horrified to discover that she had fallen asleep by the side of the road. Her body felt gritty from the dust; her hair untidy, and her clothes grubby. A false dawn was just beginning to tinge the sky, and she shivered a little with the cool air.
Why had no one come to look for her? Surely Chas must have returned from Arles by now? Somehow she managed to force her tired legs to move. It was too cold to simply sit around and wait for help to arrive, and before she had gone more than half a mile Laurel realised that she was closer to the farmhouse than she had realised, maybe only five miles or so away.
Walking gave her time to consider and analyse her feelings towards Oliver. She knew she loved him, but why? Because she had trusted him once, briefly, as an adolescent? No. That must have some part of it, she suspected. Had he not already been known to her; had her six-year-old resentment towards him not sparked off an anger which overcame all her normal reticence, she would never have allowed her emotions to get so out of control that she could feel anything for him. That had been the starting point, and there had been something in the way he had listened, understood—or so she had thought all those years ago—which had lingered, providing the basis for what she now felt for him. But it was more than that. Unbelievably, with Oliver she felt no sexual fear—oh, there were times when his features blurred and her mind turned inwards and saw only her stepfather, but Oliver himself induced neither sexual dread or even the revulsion she had come to expect whenever a member of the male sex approached her. Quite the opposite. Her stomach muscles quivered softly as she remembered how she had felt. She had wanted him to touch her; had wanted to touch him. Rachel had told her that one day it would happen, but she had never believed it.
But Oliver wasn’t a god, he was a living, breathing human being, a compassionate and caring one, if she was to believe his sister, and strangely she did believe her. Even at that first meeting she had sensed the lack of cruelty in him, although later events had destroyed her trust in her own adolescent judgment. But he didn’t love her. And he was using her. So if she had any sense she would take herself as far away from him as she possibly could, and the sooner the better.
Strange how her normal defence system didn’t seem to be functioning properly. Instead of wanting to leave she had a weak-willed desire to stay. She even began to wonder feverishly, as she walked, what it would be like to know the full pleasure of his possession—and pleasure it would be. She shivered a little, remembering the brush of his skin against hers, dazed by the knowledge that if such a brief contact could induce such a delirium of longing, to be held in his arms with no barriers between them must be the very zenith of delight.
Lost in her thoughts as she was, it was some time before she realised the low humming sound intruding on them was a car, and that it was coming up behind her very fast. She paused and half turned, unable to prevent a tremulous smile of relief when she realised it was Oliver’s Ferrari and that h
e was driving it.
He drew up several yards ahead of her in a screech of tyres and a cloud of dust, which choked her of breath as she hurried towards him.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded furiously. ‘I suppose it amuses you to realise that I’ve just spent half the night scouring Arles for you—enquiring at every seedy, run-down bar I could find because I was worried that young Chas might have taken you there against your will! To look at you now I can only assume that you were very willing indeed! You do realise, I suppose, that as you’re my employee, it might have been courteous to tell me that you intended to spend the night with your lover, and not simply leave me to surmise that fact, when he rang us to say that he wasn’t coming back and that he’d meet up with my sister in Marbella. I suppose I ought to be thankful that you came back at all—and after only one night, although by the looks of you it was an extremely busy one!’
‘Chas rang you from Arles?’ Laurel asked faintly. ‘But.…’
‘At two o’clock this morning,’ Oliver agreed roughly, ‘after the pair of you had had me half out of my mind with worry!’
‘You were worried… about me?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t play games with me, Laurel! Of course I was worried about you! You may be way, way over the age of consent, but if you’ve consented with anyone other than Chas before, I’ll be one very surprised man. But when you decide to do something, you don’t do it by half measures, do you? And with him! But then I suppose your lack of experience goes some way to excusing your lack of taste.’
‘Oliver, I haven’t been with Chas. We had a quarrel. He left me.…’
‘Oh yeah! Look, I’m not your father, Laurel, you don’t have to lie to me. If you want to sleep with Chas that’s your affair, but a little consideration wouldn’t have come amiss!’
He looked angry, more angry than Laurel had ever seen him before, and no wonder, if he had driven to Arles and back looking for her. She was surprised that he had bothered. Unless, of course, he thought that any relationship she had with Chas might spoil his ‘experiment’, she reflected bitterly.