by Susan Lewis
It was a long time before Helena answered and when she did it was with a slow, uncertain shake of her head. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to lose her as a friend.’
Campbell sighed and as she sank back against his chest he wrapped her in his arms. Surely she understood that he got no pleasure out of what he was doing. He was just a pawn in Dyllis’s game. Were it up to him the things Helena had done would stay locked in the past. So too would the secrets of Laurence’s life. His jaw tensed with a quick anger. That they should all of them be caught up in this deadly combat between two women, have their own lives abused and trampled over the way they were for the sake of an old woman’s pride was so fucking unjust it defied words. He knew that if there were any way of doing it he’d go right in for the kill and get Kirsten out of their lives now. He wouldn’t lose much sleep over that, a woman as beautiful as her would always find a way of surviving. But Dyllis was pulling the strings not him. Shit, what he wouldn’t give to get himself out of that fucking megalomaniac’s clutches and leave her to fester in her sick delusions of supremacy.
As Helena stirred in his arms his anger faded. It was hard for him to think of anything else for long when he was holding her this way and wanting so very badly to kiss her. ‘I guess we just go on the way we were then?’ he said.
Helena nodded, then her breath caught in her throat as his hand came under her chin and he lifted her mouth to his.
‘Can you handle it?’ he said when finally she pulled away.
‘What us, or the deceit?’
‘I guess they’re one and the same thing.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m an actress, aren’t I?’
‘Oh shit,’ he groaned. ‘Tell me you’re not acting now.’
Taking his hand she raised it to her lips and kissed each finger in turn. ‘No, I’m not acting,’ she smiled.
Campbell left Kirsten’s at seven the following evening. At one minute past seven there was a knock on the door.
‘Jane!’ Helena gasped, almost reeling. She glanced quickly down the street to see if Campbell was still anywhere in sight. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I came to see Kirsten,’ Jane answered.
‘She’s in Italy.’
‘I thought she might be back.’
‘No, no. Um, you’d better come in.’
As they walked through to the kitchen Helena tightened the belt of her dressing gown still reeling at the narrowness of the escape. Christ, if it had been any closer Jane and Campbell would have met on the doorstep! ‘Can I get you something?’ she said to Jane. ‘Coffee? Tea?’
‘No, nothing, thank you.’
Helena looked at her, not quite sure what to say.
Jane shrugged, but as she tried to smile her mouth quivered and to Helena’s amazement she dissolved into tears.
‘What’s up?’ Helena said, trying not to be shocked at how awful the girl looked with her face screwed up that way.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Jane cried and fled to the bathroom.
For a while Helena stared at the door trying to swallow her exasperation at having to deal with an emotional kid when she had so much else to think about right now. Like her feelings for Campbell and what had happened between them. It was incredible and had she not experienced it herself she’d never have believed it was possible. They had spent an entire night wrapped in each others arms and neither one of them had made any attempt to make love. She wasn’t too sure why, especially when that had been her motive for getting him over here, but if the truth be told she wouldn’t have changed what did happen for the world for it had been so long since a man had held her that way – in fact she couldn’t remember ever having been held that way. Kirsten, it seemed, was the only one round here who experienced that sort of thing.
The thought of Kirsten brought a stab of dismay to her heart. The guilt she felt at the way she was betraying the closest friend she had ever had was indescribable. Just about every damning story Campbell had written so far had been based on information she, Helena, had provided. In an effort to save her own skin, to avoid the scandal of her own past, she had given Campbell all he wanted to know about Kirsten’s. But she hadn’t stopped with the past, for amongst all the minutiae of Kirsten’s day to day life she, Helena, had been the one to tell Campbell that Kirsten had befriended Laurence’s nanny and it was she who had disclosed the fact that Kirsten was in Italy now staying with Zaccheo Marigliano – someone else with a close connection to the McAllister family. But Helena hadn’t told Campbell what lay behind Kirsten and Laurence’s break up. She had no idea who had and it almost frightened her to think that there was someone else out there who was either betraying Kirsten as mercilessly as she was or who was as determined as Dyllis Fisher was to wreak some kind of vengeance on Kirsten. Helena knew that the odds of Kirsten getting her life back together now were stacked so heavily against her as to make it virtually impossible. Dyllis was already proving that she more than had the means, as well as the contacts, to annihilate Kirsten’s career, and Campbell’s determination that Kirsten would never come between Laurence and Pippa was unshakable. But there was always Zaccheo, Helena reminded herself. A quick flare of jealousy burned in her throat. For Kirsten there was always someone. Dyllis had ordered Campbell to do all he could to destroy whatever there was between Zaccheo and Kirsten but Helena couldn’t see Zaccheo being too swayed by what was written in the press, particularly not the British press.
She started as the lock on the bathroom door snapped open. Jane had been gone so long she’d forgotten she was there.
‘Are you all right?’ Helena said as Jane came into the kitchen.
‘I think so,’ Jane sniffed, dabbing at her nose with a wad of toilet paper.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Helena offered, hoping the answer would be no.
Jane’s bottom lip was sucked under her teeth as she half-sobbed. Her normally lifeless eyes were glittering brightly as they darted about the kitchen, then to Helena’s surprise she walked over to the draining board and picking up a cloth started to dry the dishes. Helena watched her, vaguely amused by the fact that she seemed unaware of what she was doing. ‘I took Tom to Laurence’s parents today,’ Jane said, putting the cloth back down again.
‘Did you? That was nice.’
Jane looked at her. ‘I took him there because Pippa asked me to,’ she said.
‘Oh.’
‘Tom and I often go there.’
‘That’s nice,’ Helena said again, feeling a growing urge to shake the girl.
‘It’s just that . . .’ Jane’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Well, I know Pippa wanted me and Tom out of the way while she was packing . . . Tom’s still with his grandparents, he’s staying the night. I am too. Laurence’s parents are so nice to me. They always make me really welcome . . .’
‘Oh. Well, I’m sure they do. Uh, are you sure you won’t have a coffee?’
‘No, no thanks. I went back home again just now. Pippa was already gone.’ Helena could see the effort going into her holding back yet more tears and silently she was willing her to succeed. ‘I knew she was going.’
The words were out before Helena could stop them. ‘I imagine the fact that she was packing put you on to her,’ she quipped.
Jane’s eyes came up to hers. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Pippa wasn’t just packing for a trip, she was packing because . . .’ Her voice was so strangled over her final words that Helena wasn’t too sure she’d heard right.
‘What did you say?’ she said.
Jane swallowed hard. ‘Pippa’s left Laurence,’ she whispered.
Helena blinked.
‘Oh, what shall I do? What am I going to do?’ Jane sobbed covering her face with her hands.
‘Well, I don’t see that there’s much you can do,’ Helena said. ‘I mean, it’s up to them really, isn’t it?’
‘But if I’d got there sooner I might have been able to stop her.’
‘Surely that
’s up to Laurence.’
‘But Laurence doesn’t know!’ Jane cried. ‘He’s in America and he’s not due home until the end of next week and I don’t know whether I should ring him and tell him or just wait until he comes back. I was hoping Kirsten could tell me what to do.’
Helena wasn’t too sure how much Jane knew about Kirsten’s feelings for Laurence so, deciding not to voice her opinion on what she thought of Jane coming to Kirsten for such advice, she said, ‘Look, are you sure Laurence doesn’t know? I mean, she can’t have just gone off without saying a word.’
‘She’s left him a note.’
‘Oh, I see. Do you know where she’s gone?’ Helena asked, more out of curiosity than concern.
Jane nodded. ‘She’s gone, or at least tomorrow she’s going, to Italy. She’s staying with her mother tonight.’
‘Italy?’ Helena said stupidly.
Again Jane nodded. ‘Pippa’s left Laurence for Zaccheo.’
‘But Kirsten’s with Zaccheo,’ Helena said, feeling her head starting to spin. The implications of all this would have been hard to handle at the best of times, but with a hangover . . . ‘does Kirsten know Pippa’s on her way?’ she said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I think we’d better find out, don’t you?’ But when Helena made the connection to Zaccheo’s villa there was no reply.
The early morning mist was suspended over the valley, the dew glinted like tiny stars on the vivid green leaves and the air was so fresh and exhilarating as it wafted in through the open bedroom window that it had roused Kirsten long before Zaccheo reached for her.
She adored these wonderful late spring mornings and couldn’t think of anywhere in the world she would rather be than half-lying, half-sitting here in this tapestry-strewn bedroom gazing dreamily out of the windows. Her eyes fluttered as Zaccheo’s hand slipped across her stomach. She lay very still, pretending she was still sleeping, but as he leaned over her her lips started to twitch with a smile.
‘Buon giorno, mia cara,’ he murmured as her eyes opened and after kissing her lightly on the mouth he drew himself up taking the warm, linen sheets with him. Immediately Kirsten’s nipples puckered as the cool air touched them, but she merely lifted her hands behind her head and lay back, allowing Zaccheo to look at her and feeling the thrill of his eyes as they moved sensuously over her body. Sometimes their intensity was as palpable as a caress.
She looked up to the ceiling as his hands slipped gently between her thighs and parted them. Their mirrored reflections moved languorously above them and she watched as he lowered his head to kiss the dark thatch of hair his fingers were already parting. As tall and as full-figured as she was, beside the immensity of him she seemed almost frail. His muscled arms were as erotically powerful as his skilfully probing fingers, his vast chest was as hard as his thighs. His waistline had turned to fat, yet there was something deeply sensual about so much flesh.
For five days now they had slept, walked, talked and made love. And the more she came to know him the more she was coming to care for him. His mind was so intellectual and challenging that that alone was enough to make Kirsten’s pulses race. When he laughed the deep resonance of it seemed to vibrate through her body and so often she would find herself reaching for him, wanting to feel his hardness filling her.
Getting him to forgive her for the way she had so unceremoniously pushed him away that first night had been easier than she’d expected. He had returned from Rome to be with her, he’d said, he’d wanted to show her all that he had harboured in his heart for her for so long. So of course he forgave her, and his gentleness had calmed her fears, his loving hands had smoothed away the memories and his brutal thrusts had bound her to him and him alone. It was as if he had understood what had happened to her that night and now wanted to show her that she was right to shut out the past, she must let it go, for here, with him, there was a new beginning, a future filled with hope and attainable dreams.
Kirsten sighed and shivered and pressed her head hard into the pillows as his tongue seemed to draw her every nerve end to the point it touched. She groaned her disappointment when he lifted his head, but as he moved over her, covering her body with his, her arms opened to embrace him. His hardness penetrated her and she looked up again to the mirror, watching the calculated thrust of hips. Her long legs encircled his waist and as she lowered her eyes she found him studying her. She smiled then closed her eyes, for sometimes to watch him as he made love, as he judged and manipulated his every move for the sole purpose of her pleasure, was almost unnerving. It was as though his sublime expertise somehow detached him from the body he used with the delicacy and ferocity of the player of a finely tuned instrument.
The telephone suddenly pierced through the sensuous silence. Kirsten moaned irritably, letting her legs drop back to the bed as Zaccheo reached for it. Yet even as he listened to the voice at the other end he was holding her to him, pushing into her even deeper.
‘It’s for you,’ he said resting the receiver on her shoulder, but as he raised himself on his arms and looked down to where their bodies were joined Kirsten fumbled the receiver back into place.
Zaccheo laughed and when Kirsten’s eyes found his she too started to smile. Then the laughter was gone and he was clutching her hips, pounding into her so hard that she could only cling to him and whimper with the sheer power of the sensations coursing through her.
Deftly he rolled on to his back, taking her with him, and as she rode him, meeting every mighty thrust of his hips, he clasped and kneaded her breasts in his bear-like paws.
Again the telephone rang. Zaccheo reached out for it, slowing his pace, but never quite stopping as he listened. Kirsten rested against his knees, her head falling back as his thumb pushed its way between her legs. She looked down at him, saw him smile as he increased the pressure of his thumb, then without uttering a word he replaced the receiver.
The restraints he could put on his own orgasm were incredible, holding back always until he knew she was ready. And as the shuddering tide started to simmer within her he jerked her forward so that she almost lost him, but not quite. Then with long, determined and rapaciously savage strokes he took them both over the edge into oblivion.
Several minutes later, his heart still pounding in his chest, he started to snore gently. Smiling, Kirsten pulled herself up and looked down at his sleeping face. Kissing him softly on the lips she eased herself carefully from him and went off to the bathroom.
Later that day they were going to drive to Siena where he would walk her through each chapter of his latest book. It was something Kirsten had been looking forward to ever since he’d first suggested it. She loved Italy and to be shown one of its most beautiful towns through the eyes of Zaccheo Marigliano she knew was going to be one of the most precious experiences of her life.
She had more or less decided to stay in Tuscany for another two weeks, by which time she knew she would have to return to England if only because she needed to visit the libraries to carry out her own research. Despite the all too frequent distraction of Zaccheo, her own projects were progressing, one in particular, which she was quite excited to show Helena. There was a great part in it for her, and perhaps between them they could decide on who would be best to write it.
In fact the idea of going back to England didn’t fill her with as many misgivings as she might have expected. Whatever Dermott Campbell had written about her recently, or whatever he chose to write in the future, didn’t bother her any more than it seemed to have bothered Zaccheo. As far as they were concerned their lives were their own affair and what anyone else chose to think was simply of no consequence. And England was going to be so much more tolerable when she knew that most weekends she would be flying over here to be with Zaccheo.
‘Ouch!’ she laughed as Zaccheo came into the bathroom and slapped her bottom.
‘Time to be going, cara,’ he said, reaching into the still steamy shower and turning it on.
‘Alre
ady?’ Kirsten said, rubbing cream into her arms. ‘I thought we weren’t leaving until lunch-time.’
‘Ah!’ he sighed, turning back to her, his face a burlesque of sorrow. ‘You misunderstand me, cara. It is time for you to be going, not I.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Kirsten said, stopping what she was doing.
He shrugged. ‘My editor, Pippa, she is arriving today. It is better that you are not here when she comes.’
Kirsten could feel the muscles freezing in her face. ‘But what difference does it make whether I’m here or not?’ she said.
‘It is better that you leave,’ Zaccheo answered. ‘Raimondo will drive you to the airport,’ and turning into the shower he closed the door.
Dumb-founded Kirsten stood staring at his enormous bulk through the steam-plastered door. For the moment both her mind and body seemed locked in paralysis, but as the shock slowly permeated her senses she felt herself start to shake with fury.
She wrenched open the shower door, forced a hand past Zaccheo and snapped off the water. ‘What the hell do you mean, it’s better that I go?’ she seethed. ‘What am I, some kind of dog to be dismissed when its master becomes bored? You invited me here for as long as I wanted to be here . . .’
‘Cara, cara,’ he sighed, turning to face her. ‘You make such a drama of this when it is nothing.’
‘Nothing!’ she yelled. ‘Five days and five nights of unadulterated passion and you call it nothing!’
‘But what did you expect, la mia volpe furba? That I would change my will?’
As though she had been struck Kirsten reeled back. She hadn’t read Campbell’s column so had no idea that in calling her his wily fox Zaccheo was referring to that, but that he had called her it at all was almost as injurious as his remark about the will. ‘I don’t believe you said that,’ she gasped. ‘I don’t believe you could think that of me. I came here . . .’