Born Out of Love

by Anne Mather

  ‘Gosh, I’m exhausted!’ she remarked, as an opener, and he shrugged his thin shoulders.

  ‘I’m not hungry if you don’t feel like making dinner,’ he said.

  Charlotte sighed. ‘Well, I am.’ She pushed her shoulders back, curving her spine. ‘What do you fancy? I know there’s some steak. I saw it at lunchtime.’

  ‘Steak is fine,’ responded Robert indifferently, and controlling her impatience, Charlotte went through to her bedroom.

  The sea shore beckoned, but she turned away from its temptation and took a shower instead, making the water icy cool to sharpen her senses. Then she dressed in lemon silk pants and a printed wrap-around smock that was cool as well as comfortable.

  In her absence, Carlos had provided an assortment of foods for their dinner. There was the steak she had seen earlier, as well as salad and fruit, and a dish of dressed crabmeat. Robert came to support himself against the door jamb as she was boiling some sweet potatoes to add to the salad she was preparing, and she said lightly: ‘There’s crab as well as steak. Which do you prefer?’

  Robert shrugged. ‘Which do you?’

  ‘Steak, I think. We had cold chicken and salad yesterday.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You want that, too?’

  ‘Whichever is easiest.’

  Charlotte’s patience stretched. ‘If you don’t care what you eat, why don’t you go away and leave it to me?’

  A flush of colour darkened his cheeks. ‘I haven’t seen you all day,’ he muttered, once more awakening the guilt inside her.

  ‘I have to work, Robert,’ she protested, spooning oil and vinegar into a basin. ‘We’ve both got to adjust to our new—circumstances.’

  Robert hunched his back. ‘And do you like it here?’

  ‘Do you?’

  He pulled a face. ‘It’s all right.’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘What happened to your fossils?’

  ‘You mean the rock samples,’ he corrected her. ‘They’re in my room.’

  ‘Have you classified them?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Charlotte gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘You know—sorted them out? Made a list of what they are?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘I haven’t got any books to look them up in. I was going to—–’

  He broke off abruptly and she frowned. ‘What were you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Come on!’ She felt exasperated. ‘Finish the sentence.’

  ‘Well, I—I thought I might—might ask …’

  He was silent for so long that she finished it for him. ‘You thought you might discuss them with Mr Kennedy, didn’t you?’ Robert still said nothing, so she added: ‘So what’s stopping you?’

  He looked woodenly at her, and she bent to her task again. ‘Robert, you’re making this very difficult for me … Just because I don’t want you discussing our private affairs with Mr Kennedy …’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that!’ he protested.

  ‘So—if you want to be a friend of his, I can’t prevent you.’

  ‘Not much,’ he muttered, and she lifted her head.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He turned away. ‘Call me when it’s ready, will you? I’m going to unpack the rest of my things.’

  Charlotte expelled her breath noisily, and then resumed what she was doing with unnecessary vehemence. She had to be practical about this, she told herself fiercely, uttering an angry imprecation as the egg she had been about to break slipped out of her hand and smashed on the floor. Alienating Robert’s affections was the last thing she ought to be doing at this time, and the more she tried to keep him and Logan apart, the more desirable the relationship would become, in Robert’s eyes at least. Why didn’t she just opt out of the contest, let Robert make friends with whom he liked, and then wait for the inevitable cooling that would come with familiarity?

  She dropped the paper towels that she had used to mop up the broken egg into the waste bin. If only it was that simple! But it wasn’t. Robert was a great talker. Who knew what conclusions Logan might draw from the boy’s conversation, particularly if he happened to reveal that Matthew Derby had not been his father? Her greatest fear was that Logan might discover the truth, and in so doing destroy once and for all the love she and Robert shared. What would Robert do if he ever discovered Logan was his father? What would he think of her for keeping the truth from him, particularly now?

  Her head was aching by the time she set the meal on the kitchen table, and while Robert appeared to enjoy his, she pushed her steak round the plate and only picked at the potatoes and salad. If this was Logan’s idea of tormenting her, he could have no idea how successful his scheme had been. Why he might have done it bore further consideration, but right now she only wanted to lay her head on the pillow and forget.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHARLOTTE stood at her bedroom window, looking out on the sweep of deserted shoreline, palely illuminated by the light of the moon filtering between low-hanging clouds. It had been raining earlier in the evening, and Robert had gone to bed in disgust, muttering about the weather on San Cristobal being no better than England on occasions. But she had known he was bored, and the rain had only been an excuse.

  She sighed. If it seemed much longer than eight days since they had come to Avocado Cay to her, what must it seem to the boy, cut off from all but the most immature company, that of Lisette’s son Philippe? It was true he enjoyed swimming and sunbathing and exploring the out-crops of the headland, but it was natural that a child of his intelligence should need more than a four-year-old’s conversation to exercise his brain. She did her best to talk to him in the evening, but often she was tired herself, and more inclined to relax with a book than talk about the island’s ecology.

  During the day they had progressed as far as the village, but the children they had seen there were much younger than Robert, and he had nothing in common with them. His upbringing had been such that he was just as at home with adults as children, and consequently his isolation was more acute.

  Since their initial disagreement over his association with Logan, nothing more had been said, and as far as Charlotte knew he kept firmly away from that end of the beach. She guessed it must be frustrating for him when Philippe treated Logan’s house like his own, and came and went without invitation, but he had not mentioned it again. To Charlotte, however, his avoidance of the subject was in some ways worse than an open confrontation might have been.

  The sea moved lazily along the rim of the beach, and a strange restlessness filled her. She had retired to bed some time ago, but after tossing and turning for over an hour she was no nearer achieving the oblivion she sought. Perhaps a walk along the beach might relax her more satisfactorily than lying here allowing the tortuous writhings of her thoughts to torment her.

  She looked down at her cotton gown, which was one of Matthew’s nightshirts adapted for her own use. She could hardly go out in that, but it was easy to step into the silk culottes she had worn that evening, and she didn’t need anything else.

  Barefooted, she let herself out of the house, stepping down on to the still warm sands with a curious feeling of release. The fine coral was unexpectedly rough against her skin, the soles of her feet acquiring a sensitivity that gave her the sensation of feeling every grain.

  The sea beckoned with its age-old mystery, but she had more sense than to swim alone, and at night. She had been in the water a few times during the past week, but always with Robert and Philippe in attendance, and usually when she could be sure that Logan was not about. He and Carlos seemed to take the ketch out a lot, and from Philippe’s childish chatter she had established that they were diving off the reef. She guessed it had something to do with Logan’s purpose here on the island, but the situation with Robert being what it was, she never asked questions.

  Now she walked towards the ocean, arms crossing her breasts, hands gripping her shoulders at either side. The rain earlier had left
a coolness in the air that nevertheless had a velvety feel to it, and the wind tugging at her hair was pleasant after its confinement of the day. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of the sea. There was something elemental about the night, she thought, feeling the tenseness inside her easing away, some spiritual presence that made one supremely aware of one’s own insignificance. Beside the unceasing ritual of the elements, what minute place did man hold in the scheme of things?

  Charlotte opened her eyes again to a strange prickling at the back of her neck, and the awareness of eyes upon her of which she had no conception, and then gulped as a dark shadow rose from the waves a few yards in front of her, and came walking out of the water towards her.

  She froze to the spot, unable to turn and run as instinct dictated, and then felt weakness envelop her as she recognised Logan’s lean figure. But even as this fact registered, so, too, did another, and her cheeks flamed as her eyes took in his unashamed nakedness.

  She turned abruptly away, and then halted when he said: ‘Charlotte!’ in a low impatient tone.

  ‘Yes?’ She didn’t turn, but she heard him approach her, and as he came round to face her, she saw with relief that he had hitched a towel about his hips.

  ‘Surely the sight of a man’s unclothed body is no novelty to you!’ he exclaimed tersely, and she hugged herself more closely.

  ‘There are bodies—and bodies,’ she retorted.

  Logan said a word she neither understood nor wanted to. ‘And what was his body like, hmm?’ he demanded savagely. ‘A man of almost sixty. Was it soft—like I know yours is? Thick and smooth and sinuous … Or gnarled and pouched, like an old prune!’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she got out chokingly. ‘If you’ll excuse me—–’

  ‘Charlotte!’ His voice was rough with emotion. ‘Please! All right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t go in, not yet.’

  ‘I don’t see that we have anything to say to one another,’ she managed unsteadily. ‘For some reason best known to yourself, you allowed me to come here, but I don’t have to talk to you. Particularly not at this time of night. I only came out for some air—–’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte!’ He raked back his wet hair with a frustrated hand. ‘Don’t you see? This is the only time we can talk!’

  ‘No, I don’t see that.’

  ‘But you came out here.’

  ‘Not knowing I would see you, believe me!’

  His features tautened at the insult. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Charlotte, I’ve been very patient.’

  ‘Patient?’ She stared at him. ‘You? What are you talking about?’

  He fixed his eyes on some point above her head as if looking at her disturbed his thought processes. ‘Tell me about your husband,’ he commanded thickly. ‘Tell me about Matthew Derby. I want to know all about him. I want to understand how your feelings towards him changed so dramatically. So dramatically in fact that you bore his child in the first year of your marriage! What did you think about the first time he made love to you? Tell me that. Make me see it, Charlotte.’ His fists clenched by his sides. ‘Paint me a picture. Destroy, once and for all, this hunger I have to repeat our experience!’

  ‘Logan!’

  His eyes lowered to hers. ‘What’s the matter? Have I shocked you? You shouldn’t be so sensitive—not now. We both know what happens when a man wants a woman, don’t we? It’s an insatiable thing that eats into his flesh, until he’s blinded by his own emotions. God, Charlotte, you can’t have completely forgotten what it was like with us! Unless Matthew was so much better at it than I was, and I won’t accept that.’

  Charlotte knew then she had to get away from him. His words were too insidious, invoking as they did images she did not want to remember. He had no conception of how easy it was for her to recall that brief taste of happiness, but the bitter aftermath hardened her heart.

  ‘You’re so arrogant, aren’t you?’ she flung at him. ‘What’s the matter, Logan? Does it offend your manhood to suggest that I might have enjoyed myself more with someone else? Is that what all this is about? Do you want reassurance that your efforts were not inadequate?’

  It was a foul thing to suggest, and as soon as the words were spoken, Charlotte was contrite. Logan was staring at her as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard, and her hands went involuntarily out to him, her fingertips encountering the cool dampness of his arms.

  ‘Oh, Logan!’ she cried, and suddenly he was close to her, and his mouth was covering her parted lips.

  She had forgotten what it felt like to be kissed as Logan was kissing her. For eleven years she had been afraid to invite Matthew’s kisses, knowing as she did how revolted she had felt at the touch of his wet mouth. Those kisses he had bestowed on her had been gentle pecks on her cheek or her forehead, casual salutations acceptable as such. Anything more would have been unthinkable, and therefore even Logan’s mouth was an assault on her senses. But fear and revulsion quickly gave way to a mounting sweetness, and when he released her lips for the few moments it took to draw her down on to the sand beside him, she felt a fleeting anguish.

  His skin was smooth, more roughly textured than hers, but sleek and flexible beneath her palms, his warmth and maleness enveloping her and making her overwhelmingly aware that only the thin material of the culotte suit separated them. He held her face between his hands, and his hardening mouth was echoed throughout the length and breadth of his body. She felt herself yielding weakly beneath him, and his hand slid from her shoulder, across her throat to find the zipper at the front of her suit, impelling it steadily downward.

  ‘No, Logan,’ she breathed, but he pulled the hands with which she might have resisted him around him, arching her body so that he could observe her reaction to the thrusting aggression of his with sensual satisfaction.

  ‘No?’ he probed with gentle mockery, his mouth seeking the pointed fullness of her breasts now exposed to his gaze. ‘Why not? It’s what we both want, don’t deny it.’

  ‘Logan, please …’ she moaned, twisting beneath him, but her movements only dislodged the loosely-hitched towel, so that with an impatient exclamation he tossed it carelessly aside.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he muttered hoarsely, moving against her. ‘When I think of you and that—that swine Derby—–’

  ‘Oh, don’t, Logan, don’t,’ she pleaded, but when his mouth found hers again, she could not restrain the ardour of her own response.

  ‘God, I want you, Charlotte,’ he spoke against her lips, his warm breath filling her mouth. ‘But you can feel that, can’t you? A man never can hide his feelings.’ He broke off roughly. ‘God, I was a fool to think I could bring you here without—– I can’t keep away from you!’

  ‘No, Logan!’

  ‘What do you mean—no? You want me—–’

  ‘No, Logan!’

  Somehow Charlotte struggled up from the depth of a sexually-induced lethargy. It wasn’t easy, when her whole body threatened to betray her, but his words were too similar to the words he had used to her once before, and she remembered only too well what had happened next. Lying here on the sand, seduced by the night, with Logan’s weight imprisoning hers, the musky scent of his body filling her with the desire to surrender to the primitive needs he aroused inside her, it would be fatally easy to succumb again to the dark fascination he had for her. But she couldn’t. She mustn’t. Not because she didn’t want to, but because he must never suspect the power he had over her, not only for her sake, for Robert’s, too.

  At first, Logan resisted her efforts to get away from him, but when she cried: ‘Let me go!’ in a tearful tone, he smothered a groan and rolled on to his back, setting her free.

  She sat up quickly, her fingers fumbling with the zipper, conscious all the while of Logan lying beside her, and of the potent attraction of his lean body. God, she thought unsteadi
ly, what am I doing here? And then, more wildly: Why am I leaving him? I want him! But not on his terms, the still small voice of sanity reminded her, and she struggled to her feet.

  Logan opened his eyes then and looked up at her, the moonlight glinting on his strained features. ‘We are not through, Charlotte,’ he told her flatly, reaching for the towel and standing up. ‘But run away, if you must.’

  ‘We are—we are through,’ she blurted tremulously. ‘At least, so far as I’m concerned—–’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, draping the towel around him. ‘I sometimes think we haven’t even begun.’

  ‘You said …’ She hesitated as his words came back to her. ‘You said you—brought me here?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His lips twisted as he turned to stare broodingly out towards the veiled horizon. Then he looked back at her again, and she winced at the grimness of his expression. ‘You didn’t imagine finding me here was coincidental, did you?’

  ‘But—–’

  ‘It’s too late to go into explanations now,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘Besides, I don’t know that you deserve them.’ He stretched his shoulders. ‘Goodnight, Charlotte. We have plenty of time to talk, don’t we? Sleep well!’ And with this parting taunt he strode away along the beach towards his own house.

  Charlotte watched until his shadow was absorbed by the deepening shadows cast by the lowering clouds. As if to remind her of the uncertainty of the weather, a few drops of rain drifted to her on the breeze, and the wind made eerie moaning sounds between the trees about the dunes. Realising she could not stand here all night, she clenched her fists and turned back to the bungalow, running the few yards to the verandah as if to rid herself of the daunting apathy into which she was sinking.

  She went inside, closed the door, and was turning the key in the lock when Robert said, almost laconically: ‘Does that mean I can be friendly with Mr Kennedy now, Mum?’ and she almost jumped out of her skin.