Jeff cast her a thoughtful glance, and she wondered if she had said a little too much. Changing the subject, she asked, “How is the writing going?"
“At the moment it isn't.” He grimaced. “I had this idea for a great new thriller, and the first two chapters flowed like water, but now I'm stuck. Sometimes a bit of physical activity helps."
“And has it helped?"
“Don't know yet. The trick is to think of something totally different for a couple of hours, then go and stare at the screen and see what happens. At least, that's my method.” He raised a hand in greeting to someone behind her, making her look around. “Have you met the Palmers?” he asked her.
Celeste shook her head, and he said, “Well, I'll introduce you, then."
The couple were in their sixties, Henry Palmer erect and white-haired, his wife Janice a head shorter than her husband, with greying curls and an aristocratic nose.
“We retired here,” she told Celeste. “But Henry never retired really. He's still available to people by appointment or in an emergency, although he has no regular clinic. We set up a small surgery at the house, and he has just enough business to keep him from subsiding into senility.” She threw a teasing glance at her husband.
“Well, I had to have something to do while you mucked about with your paints and stuff,” he grumbled affectionately.
“You're an artist?” Celeste asked.
“Only an amateur one,” Janice said. “But I have sold a few paintings to the tourists."
“She's a very good amateur,” her husband said loyally. “I prefer her landscapes and seascapes to some of those outlandish daubings you see in art galleries, with outrageous prices on them."
“That's because you know nothing about art, darling,” his wife told him. “But I'm very glad there are people like you who are willing to take my work off my hands and pay me for it into the bargain."
“I'm surprised you haven't met Celeste before,” Jeff told them. “She's on the beach almost every day."
“We've been away visiting friends on the mainland,” Henry told him. “We read about your husband's death,” he added to Celeste. “Tragic business. Very sorry to hear about it."
Janice added her condolences, and then said, “You must all come over for dinner one evening. You and Ethan and Jeff. It's a while since we've got together. I'll phone Ethan about it tonight."
Celeste half expected that Ethan would plead pressure of work and turn down the invitation, but instead he told her they were invited for Saturday night, and to wear something pretty. Over the next few days he reverted to his usual cool courtesy, and she took her cue from him, with a cowardly reluctance to stir up the emotions that had surfaced the other night.
She met the Palmers again on the beach, and asked Janice what sort of thing she should wear.
“Whatever you're comfortable in,” the older woman replied. “We don't dress up much here."
She decided to wear the red dress again. She was heartily sick of everything else in her wardrobe, and it was about the only thing she had that would meet Ethan's requirement of “something pretty.” Once she had owned a couple of dozen pretty dresses, but that was before Alec had started making pointed remarks about her clothes and her love of fashion. Before he had begun to tell everyone how his wife liked to look beautiful and sexy, and how much time and money she spent on her appearance. It was all done with a wry, indulgent smile, and at first she had tried not to mind, putting it down to male tactlessness. He would end by hooking an arm about her and declaring it was well worth it, inviting all and sundry to agree with him. And when she did protest in private, later, that he was embarrassing her and sometimes other people as well, he laughed and told her not to be a silly, oversensitive child.
Her clothes had not been particularly expensive, because she had a flair for fashion and an ability to pick out inexpensive garments that could be dressed up and combined to give the casual but trendy look that she liked. Over time, she had replaced them with others that were less noticeable, more conservative—and more suitable, she supposed, for the wife of a respected academic. That was another thing. She was so much younger than most of the people her husband mingled with, and it had seemed a good idea to try to minimise the age gap somehow. She did it partly by dressing older than her years, but the change in image had been so gradual that Alec apparently never noticed. He had been convinced to the end that she had a consuming and youthful frivolous interest in fashion and glamour. The red dress was, of course, the one thing that she had never worn in his company. Somehow she felt lighter when she put it on, as though a host of oppressive memories remained with the other clothing but could not cling to this new garment.
She hesitated with the lipstick in her hand, shrugged, and applied it with a steady hand. Why not? Ethan, she felt, reacted negatively to her donning makeup, but the dress definitely needed it, and anyway, she had not been freed of eight years of trying in vain to please Alec, only to start on the same self-defeating cycle with his brother.
The thought was barely formulated in her mind before she slammed a mental door on it, appalled. But one word echoed in her mind and wouldn't go away. She was free. Free. Try as she would to deny it, she couldn't help a faint lifting of the heart. In spite of the guilt that came crashing over her, so that she bowed her head on her hands and moaned aloud, that tiny spark of defiance would not be quite crushed out of existence.
“We could go by road, if you like,” Ethan said, looking at her sandalled feet.
“What do you usually do?"
“Walk across the beach, and come home by the road. It'll be dark by then, but I've got a good torch."
“Let's do it that way,” she said. “I can shake the sand out when we get there. I don't suppose Janice and Henry will mind."
“I'm sure they won't."
Dusk was falling as they gained the beach, and Celeste removed her sandals and went barefoot. Ethan was wearing an open-necked blue shirt and fawn slacks with matching slip-on shoes and no socks.
The sand was still warm and the water lapped quietly into foam-edged curves along the beach. Celeste stopped to admire the last of the fading sunset on the water, and Ethan, with his hands in his pockets, waited for her.
“Sorry,” she said, as she went to his side. “It's so lovely here. This is very peaceful, isn't it?"
“Don't you miss the social life of Sydney?"
“We didn't have a very active social life, as a matter of fact. About the only times we went out were to university functions, and other things that Alec had to attend because of his work."
“Over here,” he said, touching her arm and indicating the path to the Palmers’ house.
He allowed her to go ahead of him when the path narrowed, and she climbed quickly, very conscious of him just behind her, now and then reaching across her shoulder to lift a wayward, trailing spray of purple bougainvillea or a curling tendril of trumpet vine out of her way.
When he caught her arm, she stiffened, holding her breath.
Ethan said, “Don't go so fast, there's plenty of time. You're panting."
She hadn't realised it. She nodded without looking at him and, when he released her, proceeded more slowly.
She was glad when they reached the house, a natural wood structure with a broad balcony around three sides. Henry leaned over the railing and called, “Come on up. Jeff's arrived and we're having drinks out here. Janice is doing things in the kitchen."
There was an outside staircase, and at the top, of course, a view of the bay. Henry poured drinks, and shortly afterwards Janice joined them. Celeste gradually relaxed. The Palmers went out of their way to make their guests feel comfortable, and she wished she could be a little more animated, but she had to mentally shake herself awake a couple of times. Still, she smiled and nodded in the right places, managed to carry on a conversation, and even laughed once or twice. She was, in a mild sort of way, enjoying herself.
The men volunteered to wash up after dinner, and
at Ethan's urging, Janice took Celeste into her small studio to show her some of her paintings.
There were a few oils and bold acrylics, but most were watercolours. “I have one theme.” Janice laughed. “This island. I love painting it."
Leaving the studio, they sat out on the balcony again, and the men joined them, Jeff drawing up a chair close to Celeste's. “What do you think of Janice's paintings?” he asked her.
“I like them. They're restful and yet interesting."
“Mm-hm. She's quite talented."
Henry called his attention with a question about some mutual acquaintance, and Celeste leaned her head against the chair back.
“Tired?” Jeff asked, turning to her again.
“Not really,” she said guiltily, and made an effort to stir herself. She smiled at him and asked, “Do you know a lot of people on the island?"
“Most of the prominent ones and the old identities. I got to know them when I was researching for the book."
“Tell me about them,” she invited, and managed to concentrate long enough to be genuinely entertained by some anecdotes that for one reason or another had not been included in his history of the island. “Some were too raunchy for general consumption,” he said, grinning. “And some that dealt with people still living or who had a close living relative were plain slanderous. I had no wish to be involved in a libel suit. Besides, I wanted to live here, and if I'd printed everything the locals would probably have tarred and feathered me and thrown me into the sea."
“Surely not!” Celeste laughed.
“Oh, I don't know. It has happened here, you know. Though not too recently,” he admitted. “There was a time when the respectable settlers were trying to get the upper hand over the beachcombers who populated the island in the earlier days, and they formed a sort of vigilante committee. One of my informants was a descendant of a bloke who allegedly ‘stole the affections’ of another man's wife. Which was regarded as a criminal offense, then. The committee tried him in a kangaroo court, tarred and feathered him and rolled him down the beach to the sea. It's all in the town records."
“What happened to the wife?"
“I never discovered that. Her name wasn't mentioned, and now no one seems to know who she was. I guess her husband was responsible for seeing to her punishment."
Celeste shivered. “I wonder what he did to her."
“It would depend on how much he loved her, wouldn't it? Of course, some men find unfaithfulness impossible to forgive."
Celeste felt Ethan's eyes on her, and knew he had heard part of the conversation, even though he was talking with Janice and Henry. There was a hardness in the glance that flickered from her to Jeff and back again. She wrenched her gaze away from his as Henry stood and said, “Anyone for another drink? I'm going to have a snifter of brandy.”
The two men accepted, but Celeste shook her head. She did feel tired now, and brandy would make her sleepier. Ethan went to help pour it, and when they returned he leaned on the rail with his, facing her and Jeff, and carried on a casual conversation until he said, “Time we went home, I think. Are you ready, Celeste?"
“I should leave, too,” Jeff said. “I'll come with you."
“We're planning to go along the road."
“Why not take the beach route?” Henry suggested. “The moon's bright enough."
“The beach is lovely in moonlight,” Janice said to Celeste. She turned to her husband. “We could walk down with them and go for a swim."
“Fine,” Henry agreed. “It's a warm night."
“I'll get some towels,” Janice offered.
She came back with an armful of them, saying, “I've brought extras in case the rest of you would like to have a dip on the way home."
The beach was a canvas of milky white light and blue shadows. The water hissed and whispered along the sand, and the moon silvered its surface.
“Are you all coming in?” Henry asked as he slipped out of his loose shirt.
“I'm a starter,” Jeff volunteered, and began stripping.
“Celeste is tired,” Ethan said decisively. “I'm taking her home. Have a good time, you lot. Thanks for a very pleasant evening."
His hand fastened about her wrist as the others said good night, and he made for the cliff face and the path to his house, taking Celeste inexorably along.
He switched on the torch when they began the climb, releasing her as he let her go in front. Celeste was aware of a sluggish stirring of anger. He had been decidedly highhanded, dragging her away without giving her a chance to say what she wanted to do.
“Why didn't you want to swim?” she asked, over her shoulder.
“I didn't say I didn't want to."
“No, you implied that I didn't. Without consulting me."
“So,” he said softly, “were you dying to take off your clothes in front of Jeff?"
She swung round, finding him looming close behind her. The light dazzled her, as he turned the torch upwards, and she blinked. He moved the beam to the ground, and she said, “That's a hateful thing to suggest! You know it's untrue!"
“Do I? How? After all, you've been throwing out lures to the poor guy all evening."
Shocked, she said, “You're crazy! I was being normally nice to him. And I've never thrown out lures to anyone!"
He made a small sound of disbelief. “Well, you've hooked Jeff. He can't take his eyes off you. Going nude swimming with you would have made his evening."
“You are being ridiculous,” she said coldly. “It was hardly going to be a tête-à-tête, with Henry and Janice, and you along as well."
“Still, I'm sure Jeff would have enjoyed it. But maybe it wouldn't be a new experience. Have the two of you already been skinny-dipping on your own?"
“No, we have not! Jeff swims nude, as you very well know—you warned me yourself to expect it. I daresay you do, too. But I haven't ... haven't tried it yet."
“Be my guest,” he said, stepping aside on the narrow path. “Do you want to go back?"
“No, I don't.” She wasn't going to tell him that she had been relieved at his taking the decision from her, until indignation got the upper hand. Not because she had qualms about undressing in front of Jeff and the Palmers, but because the idea of Ethan seeing her without her clothes had aroused a flood of confusing emotions. “I just think you might have asked me how I felt, that's all,” she finished, and turned to go uphill again.
“Don't go too fast,” Ethan's voice said behind her. “Take your time."
She didn't answer, but slowed her pace slightly. Something—a large moth, perhaps—flew out of the trees and brushed her hair. She lifted a hand to flick it away, backing instinctively, and coming up hard against the firm bulk of Ethan's body. They were both off balance, and she felt him clamp a hand on her shoulder. The torch fell to the ground and went out as it rolled away into the bushes.
“I'm sorry!” she gasped, and heard him swear in her ear.
Then he said, “Are you all right?"
“Yes, I was just startled. Is the torch broken?"
“I don't know,” he said, releasing her and groping around. “I can't find the damned thing.” She tried to help, but the trees were thick here and the bright moon could barely penetrate the darkness.
He said, “It's no use, we'll go on without it. Give me your hand, I'll guide you."
He knew the path well, of course, and she obeyed, placing her fingers in his while he led her the rest of the way. Near the top, she stumbled over a protruding root, and he turned, catching her with one arm about her waist, her hand still held in his. For a moment she allowed herself to rest against him, experiencing such a feeling of warmth and safety that she was loath to leave the haven of his arms. She felt the swift rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep, unsteady breath, and she made to move away. But his arm had tightened, and she raised her head to try and read his face, finding it shadowed, although the moon was bright again behind him. Her lips parted, and she whispered his name. He
muttered something that sounded like, “Damn you, Celeste!” And then his mouth was on hers, crushing its softness.
Her heart gave one hard thump, and then she felt as though all feeling was suspended, except the pure physical shock of pleasure that Ethan's kiss produced in her. Her mouth opened involuntarily under his demands, and he raised both hands to her head, tipping it backwards and holding it there while he explored and tasted and probed until she was dizzy, clinging to him as though her life depended on his touch.
His hands swept down again to her waist and he held her to him, still with his mouth on hers, her body arching within his arms and her thighs enclosed by his. She shuddered against him and made a little moaning sound, and he suddenly tore his mouth from hers, then grasped her shoulders and shoved her away from him.
They were both breathing fast, and Celeste raised a shaking hand to her mouth, which felt hot and bruised.
Ethan said, “Well, we've found a way of waking you up, haven't we?"
“What?” She felt confused, disoriented, and an icy shiver ran down her spine, because his voice was hostile, cold and contemptuous. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
He lifted his hand, too, deliberately wiping the back of it across his lips as though to erase the taste of hers. “You've been some kind of zombie ever since you arrived here,” he said. “But there was nothing zombie-like about your reaction just now. I must say, Celeste, you've lost none of your skill. That was quite something, for such a recent widow."
“Ethan, don't!"
“Don't what? Remind you? Perhaps I'm reminding myself. Alec was my brother, after all. If you make me sick to my stomach, it's only half of what I feel for myself, believe me. I swore I'd not let you get to me again.” He gave an angry laugh. “All it takes is a few drinks and a moonlit night, and a melting look from a pair of lying eyes."
“That's not fair!"
He made an impatient, chopping motion in the air. “Okay! Leave it. There's no point in going over old territory. Let's say we both got a bit carried away. Come on.” He moved forward and caught her arm, pushing her the few steps to the top, then let her go immediately, pacing silently at her side until they reached the house.
A Guilty Passion Page 8