Stranger in the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  'The answer's no, Clare. I don't want you using me to get yourself over the shock of seeing Murry again.'

  'I was doing nothing of the kind,' she retorted furiously, her body rigid.

  'Oh, yes,' he grated, anger making him seem taller and more powerful than ever. 'Do you think I'm too dumb to catch on? You haven't exactly been hiding it I've been getting smouldering looks from you all day. Well, thanks for the offer, but no. If you want a stud that badly go down into Nice and pick one up!'

  Her hand stung across his face in a violent, blind instinct of rage and wounded pride.

  Macey's intake of breath was followed immediately by furious movement. He leapt forward, grabbing her arms, holding her like a rigid doll between his hands, his angry face bent towards her.

  Clare was shattered by her own instinct of violence. Her nervous, horrified eyes flickered up to his face. His features were hot and taut, his skin showing the mark of her fingers. The white outline turned red as she stared, but it was Macey's eyes that made her shiver as she met them.

  The sexual threat in the blue eyes leapt over her. Macey bent her backwards away from him, shaking her. Clare's throat ached with tension.

  'You think I'm not dying to give you what you want?' he asked harshly through white lips. 'My God, you stupid little bitch, I didn't close my eyes all night. How could I sleep, knowing you were in the next room and that I could have you if I went in to you?'

  'No!' she burst out, shaking, her eyes shifting away from the fixed stare.

  'Oh, yes,' Macey said hoarsely. 'You don't need to spell it out for me, Clare. When I kissed you last night you were offering me whatever I wanted.' He looked down at her and his breath caught. 'You're driving me insane,' he muttered. The black head bent and his lips pressed hungrily into her throat, forcing back her head. 'I want you. My God, you know I want you.' His lips were hot and shaking as they slid down her throat to her shoulders and then caressed her breasts where they rose from the tiny bikini cups. 'But not like this,' Macey whispered unsteadily. 'Not like this, Clare.'

  The movements of his exploring mouth had sent a wave of heat through her. She closed her eyes involuntarily, swaying limply between his hands, aching to press herself against his body, conscious of the wild intensity of the need driving her.

  'Macey,' she breathed weakly, desire making her voice almost inaudible.

  Macey's hands clenched, biting into her. The pain of his grip would have made her wince if she had been capable of feeling anything but the fierce, sweet emotions flooding through her.

  'Are you listening?' he demanded in a low, harsh voice, shaking her. The rough sound of his breathing outran her own. Clare forced her eyes open, shuddering. The lance of his angry stare thrust through her. Macey watched her, keeping her well away from him, those cruel hands remorselessly rejecting her.

  She looked at him dazedly and his face tightened even more. 'For God's sake, snap out of it, Clare,' he bit out. 'You're behaving with the emotional blatancy of a sex-crazy adolescent!'

  The drowning excitement fell away and her skin went cold. Shock and self-contempt ran along her nerves and the green eyes widened as she stared back at Macey.

  She had never imagined he would ever speak to her like that, his voice like a whiplash, his face set in tight, hard lines.

  She dragged herself back from the brink of that wild fever. Looking down, she swallowed and whispered, 'I'm sorry.' 'So I should think!' Macey sounded even angrier, his voice stinging.

  She hated to have him talking to her with that contempt. A sensation of self-disgust was filling every corner of her mind but, contrarily, she was angry with Macey, too, for forcing her to see and recognise what was happening inside her. He had hurt her when he spoke to her like that. She felt very small and stupid. She hated herself. But she felt a strange, confused anger with Macey, for having been witness to her moment of unbalanced emotionalism. 'I'll go and change,' she said stiffly. Macey did not release her. His fingers were clamped on her upper arms, making it impossible for her to move. 'Give yourself time,' he broke out harshly. 'That swine left you reeling. You're in no state to know what you're doing.'

  'Yes,' Clare agreed in a tight little voice. She could no longer meet his eyes; she was hating herself too much. Macey watched her, waiting, and she sensed that he was hesitating about saying something.

  'Clare—' he began.

  'Don't say anything else,' Clare interrupted. 'There's nothing that needs saying.'

  'Isn't there?' Macey watched her fixedly. 'Please, you're hurting me,' she said, wriggling. His hands dropped. She walked towards the door, then halted, her back towards him. 'I'm sorry I hit you, Macey.'

  He drew a long, hard breath. 'I'm sorry I had to talk to you that way, but I had no choice.'

  She bent her head, shivering. 'I understand.'

  'Do you?' His voice was low and unsteady.

  'I'm grateful to you,' said Clare as lightly as she could. 'I was making a fool of myself.'

  'No,' Macey said roughly.

  'Oh, yes. You were quite restrained, on the whole. You could have said a lot more.' A sex-crazy adolescent, he had called her, and that was singing inside her head now, making her sick with self-disgust.

  'You're right off balance,' he returned quietly. 'After years of being emotionally withdrawn you've suddenly woken up and you don't know what's hit you.'

  'You're so clever, Macey,' she threw back in a brittle voice, the faint antagonism unmasked in her voice. 'I can't hide a thing from you, can I? It's disturbing to have someone read everything inside your head at a glance. I don't think I like it.'

  'I know you very well, Clare,' he said drily.

  'You think you do.' Did he know that at this moment she was hating him? Did he know that she felt she never wanted to set eyes on him again? Macey had rejected her angrily a few moments ago and her own self-contempt didn't lessen the blow that that had dealt at her ego. She felt two inches high every time she remembered the voice he had used to bring her back to her senses, every time she remembered her own drowning excitement as Macey kissed her, the wild need to which she had helplessly surrendered only to have him push her away with icy rejection.

  Macey was silent. Clare walked into her own room and closed the door, leaning on it, struggling with her feelings for a long time before she felt able to move again. She wouldn't give him any further cause to look at her with contempt. She had to start acting, so she chose her costume carefully. It always helped to be dressed for a part. Clothes were the mask behind which one hid. Whenever she was thinking herself into a part she spent a long time deciding what to wear. People could be judged by their choice of clothes. It betrayed their character, even if they were totally unaware of it.

  When she joined Macey later he was standing by the closed windows, a glass in his hand, staring out into the night. He turned and ran a shrewd, comprehending eye over her. Clare looked back at him coolly, her eyes as unrevealing as she could make them. No way was Macey going to keep walking in and out of her head like that.

  'Very charming,' he murmured sardonically.

  Macey was an actor, too. He knew the value of costume. He knew what that little cream dress was meant to represent. The modestly scooped neckline, the wrist-length sleeves, meant that Clare was under control again and intended to remain like that.

  'Drink?' he asked lightly.

  'Martini, thank you.'

  He moved to pour it for her and she glanced briefly at his tall, lean body. She was going to have an uphill struggle to keep Macey out of her head. He had too many advantages. He had learnt to read her face at a glance, and that was something which had to change.

  In the past she had had nothing to hide from him except one particular thing. Things were very different now.

  He turned with her glass and she accepted it, eyes lowered, refusing to let that dangerous awareness of him surface again as he touched her hand.

  'I thought we might try Antibes for a change,' he drawled, turning his own glas
s in his hand. 'We haven't been over there since we arrived.'

  'Fine,' said Clare, shrugging.

  'There's a little place on the Rue de la Touraque which is highly recommended for its seafood.'

  'Sounds lovely.'

  'Then we'll try there,' Macey shrugged drily, finishing his drink. He moved to the door. 'Ready?'

  They drove down the coastal road in the thick dusk with the sound of the cicadas all around them in the pine trees. Antibes was halfway between Nice and Cannes, across the bay from Nice with the rugged outline of Cap Ferrat marking the turn of the coast opposite.

  Once Antibes had been little but two white towers and a few huddled houses sheltering behind town walls. The tourist industry had expanded it far beyond the town walls. On the heights above the bay stood an old fort which had protected the town from invasion. Fort Cane had once held Napoleon prisoner before his name was even known in France. He had waited here during the reign of Robespierre to learn if he was to die on the guillotine. Tourists now filed past the grim cell which was reputed to have held him and stared in fascination, imagining the man fated to rule France sitting in that darkness waiting for death.

  The perfume industry dominated the town. Behind it to the north grew acres of flowers grown for their scent. 'We ought to make a special trip out to the flower gardens so that you can see the roses,' Macey observed to her as he turned into the town. They hugged the curve of the bay with the railway station behind them and turned down towards the promenade. People strolled through the lit streets. Cafes spilled over on to the pavements. People laughed and talked at crowded tables.

  The Rue de la Touraque was sited just behind the Promenade. Macey parked and waited while Clare joined him. They walked without speaking, each intent on their own thoughts.

  Antibes and Juan-les-Pins had slowly merged over the years. Clare glanced along the brilliantly lit sea front and saw the wide, white pathway of the lighthouse gleaming across the dark water for miles. The hills above were crowded with villas and houses and tonight she felt she needed to be among people.

  She was sick of herself, afraid to be alone with Macey. When they walked into the restaurant she was pleased to find it crowded. The last thing in the world she wanted was to be thrust into intimate isolation with Macey tonight.

  The harassed waiter looked around him, shrugging. 'No table,' he sighed, spreading his hands. 'You wait?'

  Macey ran his eye over the room. He shook his head. 'Never mind, we'll try elsewhere.'

  As they turned to leave someone stood up from a table near by and smiled at Clare. 'Please,' he said politely. 'I've almost finished my meal. Won't you join me for a few moments? Then you can have this table.' His dark eyes ran on to Macey, still courteous, his English thickly accented, but very good.

  'How kind of you,' she said, smiling at him, glancing at Macey enquiringly.

  The Frenchman was alone and, as he had said, was already at the coffee stage. The waiter beamed, pushing them towards the table. 'Good, good,' he said, daring them to refuse.

  The Frenchman drew out the chair opposite his own and Clare sat down, smiling at him over her shoulder. 'Thank you.'

  He lingered, smiling back, and Macey waited for him to move out of the way so that he, too, could sit down. Clare could feel Macey's silent irritation at being forced to accept a companion at such a moment. Given the invitation, they had had little choice but to accept, though.

  When they were all seated, the stranger leant across the table, his tanned skin creased in a friendly, admiring smile.

  'To be frank, Miss Barry, I recognised you on sight. I'm delighted to have the honour of your company, even briefly.'

  Clare should have guessed, but she had been too preoccupied to notice anyone looking at her with recognition. She automatically gave him her public smile, her green eyes shimmering between their dark lashes.

  'You're very kind.'

  He took that as a desire to know his name, apparently. 'Pierre Riardot,' he said quickly, extending his hand.

  Clare took it and he lifted her fingers to his lips, giving her a flattering, dark-eyed smile as he kissed them.

  Macey watched, his face passive.

  'You are on holiday, Miss Barry?' Monsieur Riardot enquired, smiling at her.

  'We're staying near Nice,' she admitted.

  His glance shot to Macey, curiosity in it. 'Ah,' he murmured, discretion veiling his look a second later. Clare felt herself flush.

  'Do you live in Antibes?' She decided he must be around forty. He would have been very attractive a while back. He still was, in fact, and showed no signs of middle age as yet. It was in the mature sophistication of his sun-tanned face that one read his age. Although he occasionally glanced politely at Macey to include him in the conversation he largely concentrated on Clare, his dark eyes flattering.

  'I both live and work here,' he agreed. 'I'm a jeweller.' He ran a glance over her, lifting his perfectly shaped dark eyebrows. 'You do not like jewellery, Miss Barry?'

  'On the right occasion,' she agreed.

  He smiled, those white teeth flashing. 'And tonight is not one of those occasions?'

  She felt Macey stirring, his feet shifting under the table. Pierre Riardot noted it, too. He shot him a brief, interrogative glance.

  'While you are in the South of France, I should be honoured if you would call at my shop and let me show you some very fine emeralds.' He lifted one hand, smiling. 'No, I am not inviting you to buy them. They are very highly priced and I shall find a buyer, but I cannot imagine any customer who could wear them to the same advantage as yourself. Emeralds are your stones.'

  Clare laughed. 'Thank you, I'll remember that.' She wrinkled her nose teasingly at him. 'When I can afford to buy emeralds I'll come and see you.' 'I should be delighted,' he said, inclining his head. 'Your coffee is getting cold,' said Macey, and Clare did not have to look at him to recognise that Macey was annoyed. She had been absorbing that fact over the last few moments. Macey hadn't said a syllable until now, but his lean body had been rigid with silent hostility.

  Pierre Riardot slid his dark eyes sideways to look at Macey's hard face. Clare saw his smiling expression fade. He shrugged. 'And I am interrupting your evening with Miss Barry,' he murmured wryly. 'I apologise, monsieur.'

  Clare was annoyed with Macey. Even if the man had merely been so kind because he recognised her, Macey should know better than to glare at him like that. Quickly she said, 'Not at all. It's fascinating to have met you. I really must find time to drop in at your shop.'

  At once he put a hand into his inside pocket and produced a printed card. 'Any time,' he urged, smiling into her eyes. 'I shall be delighted to see you.'

  He stood up, signalling to the waiter. 'L'addition, s'il vous plait.' Glancing down at Clare he smiled again. 'It has been enchanting to meet you, Miss Barry. I hope it will not be long before we meet again.'

  When he had gone Clare glanced at Macey, meeting the hard glint of the blue eyes defiantly. 'He was very charming.'

  'If I'd had to listen to him much longer I'd have poured his cold coffee all over his head,' Macey muttered.

  'It was kind of him to offer to share his table!'

  'He'd have jumped at the chance of sharing a lot more than that,' Macey said unpleasantly, his lip curling.

  'You know what people are like when they recognise you!' It was always happening and she was used to it. Although Macey's name was well known his face was far less instantly recognisable. He was lucky; he didn't need to defend himself against importunate strangers.

  'I know what men are like when they look at your figure,' Macey bit out.

  'He was being friendly, not leering,' she denied angrily, although she knew very well that those dark eyes had been far more than friendly. Pierre Riardot was too sophisticated to make his appreciation crudely obvious. His eyes had flattered rather than offended.

  Macey turned and gave her a brooding stare. 'I know precisely what was in his mind. I've seen it over and over
again when men look at you.'

  'Then you'll be used to it,' Clare muttered.

  'I'll never get used to it,' Macey retorted.

  The waiter had appeared beside them, poised to dart away, impatient for their order. Macey curtly gave it without consulting her, knowing her tastes in seafood, and the waiter vanished again, nodding.

  They sat in silence waiting for their first course. Macey had ordered a local wine with it. The waiter filled their glasses and rushed off leaving them to eat their chilled melon. Clare had no appetite, but she concentrated on the pale fruit as though she were hungry, her eyes lowered.

  The seafood was as excellent as they had been promised it would be—served and cooked as superbly as Clare had ever known before. It might as well have been dry bread. She found it hard to force the food down her throat. Tension kept her aware of every move Macey made, every breath he took.

  I ought to take the first plane home, she thought, but it would make it all far too obvious to him. Macey would know immediately what had driven me back to London and I can't bear to have him reading my mind.

  She drank some more of the wine and the waiter brought a second bottle. Gradually her wrought-up tension eased as the wine ran through her veins. Her skin grew flushed and her body relaxed. Macey talked about his play and about Rowena and she listened and smiled while she thought about other things.

  They took a long time over their coffee. Macey took it black and very strong. 'I've got to drive back to the villa,' he pointed out. 'I shall need a clear head tonight.'

  Somehow Clare felt that that was another of Macey's dry ambiguities. He wasn't looking at her, but she could feel the tension in him which matched her own. Only Macey was capable of smiling wryly at his own emotions, and Clare wasn't. She was being torn apart by feelings she couldn't cope with or contain.

  As they got into the car later she felt her nerves flickering with restless excitement. Macey started the engine without looking at her. She sat there beside him, deeply aware of his body moving next to her, the long hands controlling the wheel as he left Antibes and headed for the mountain road above Nice. Macey whistled under his breath as he drove, but Clare could sense the tension mounting in him as it rose in her. Macey was hiding it better, but she knew it was present in him.