by Susan Napier
'That's different. That's never boring.'
'Not even scales?'
Tim's mouth firmed stubbornly.
'I take it you didn't do too well in the test.'
'I didn't finish it. I got to thinking…' He tailed off as he watched his mother's face cloud over with hurt. He swallowed hard. 'I'm sorry, Mum, but I knew it all, really. It was baby stuff, long division and tables and things.'
'You should have done the test first, then done your 'thinking',' said Clare firmly, with an inward sigh. She had already warned Tim's schoolteacher that he found the normal maths syllabus no challenge at all. Although Tim was a class ahead of his age group, he still found the work too easy, when he was sufficiently stimulated to tackle it!
'Never mind.' She leaned forward to kiss his smooth forehead, sprinkled with the freckles that adorned her own. 'I'll have a word with Mrs Campbell.'
'About book week, too? Why do all my reports have to be on those silly fiction books?'
'Because it'll do you good to read something imaginative rather than practical for a change.' This was something she had made progress with. 'Fiction is rather like music, Tim…one person's special vision of the world to be shared with others. They're all very well-written stories on the young adult level. I think you might find that you enjoy them.' And learn from them. One was about a gifted young pianist who had to face the fact he might not be able to play again after a car accident. She wanted Tim to realise that there were sometimes other obstacles than lack of talent or application that could get in the way of a burning desire to dedicate one's life to something. She feared for that fierce determination in one so young; it could so easily turn against him.
'OK, Mum.' Tim gave her the sweet smile that was his special gift. 'I love you, Mum.'
This was ritual, too. 'I love you, too, Tim. Sweet dreams.' She clicked off his bedside-lamp and went to the door.
'Mum?'
'Mmm?'
'Why can't we remember dreams?'
Clare smiled to herself in the darkness. Typical of Tim to end the day with a question.
'Our subconscious protecting itself, perhaps. Why don't you look it up in the library tomorrow?'
'OK.' Another yawn, but a real one this time.
Clare was still smiling as she closed his door and went to switch on her automatic kettle while she fetched her book from the bedroom. It was a thrilling spy novel, and Clare was looking forward to a little, vicarious excitement. She switched off the main light in the lounge and put on the table-lamp next to the big, soft velvet sofa. She could hear the kettle beginning to steam, so she tucked the book under her arm and was getting out a cup for herself in the tiny kitchenette when there was a soft rap on the door. Clare sighed.
David Deverenko's eyebrows shot up when he saw her night attire. He was still wearing the white cashmere sweater and dark trousers he had worn at dinner. 'Going to bed already? Or are you expecting someone else?'
'Miles is still away.' The impact of him, leaning casually against the doorway, made her snappy defence instantaneous. 'Who else would I be expecting?'
'While sugar daddy's away… That photographer seems to hang around your office rather a lot.'
Her surprise was answer enough. 'Doug?' She was undecided whether to be annoyed or amused. Doug was gay. It was far more likely to be David he was interested in than Clare! 'You seem to have it fixed in your mind that I'm some kind of femme fatale,' she said in exasperation. 'I don't know where you get your ideas from, but you're way off beam.' What did he see when he looked at her, for goodness' sake? She was a twenty-seven-year-old mother, not particularly pretty or sexy, living a rather ordinary and unexciting life. 'And Miles is not my sugar daddy,' she was unable to resist adding.
'Do you sleep with him?'
'David!'
'Just want to make sure I'm not stepping on anyone's toes,' he said mildly, accepting her spluttering outrage as his answer.
'You might get your own crushed,' she warned him grimly.
'Only might?'
'Will, then,' she corrected herself, furious at letting him fluster her yet again. She should expect the unexpected from him by now. 'David, I'm tired. What do you want?'
His eyes gleamed, but he ignored the opening. 'A little company, that's all. Tamara's plugged into some unspeakable horror video—' Clare frowned at this, the freckles between her straight brows forming little ridges, and David sighed '—I checked the rating, little mother, it's OK for teenagers… it may be unspeakable to me, but then I'm a coward about these things. Tamara doesn't seem to find it particularly scary, and I don't think it will be detrimental to her mental health in the long run. I'm not a totally inept father, you know.'
'I never thought you were,' Clare said faintly, because it seemed to matter to him what she thought.
'Don't think I haven't felt your disapproving maternal eyes watching us,' he astounded her further by saying, his dark eyes suddenly very much like his daughter's when she was brooding on some slight, real or imagined. 'I can't be a father and mother to her; she remembers Nina far too well to accept my poor efforts as substitute. They were very close. Sometimes I think that her behaviour stems from the fact that she blames me for killing her mother. Nina was flying out to Rome to join me when the plane crashed.'
'Surely not—' Clare blurted reassuringly. Was that really what he thought? Or was he just voicing his own deep-felt guilt?
'Look, can I come in? I really don't feel comfortable talking about this in a corridor,' he asked ruefully.
She hesitated, fighting the automatic reflex to agree. Was this just a ploy to get in the door?
'I was just about to relax on the couch with a Russian spy,' she murmured, taking the book out from under her arm. Then she realised what she had said and blushed.
His eyebrows rose again. 'Won't a musician do?' he murmured with sensuous amusement.
'David…' They both heard the weakness in her voice, and he followed up his advantage.
'Please? A lonely musician? I'm far safer than a spy.'
'That's a matter of opinion,' said Clare, to his delight. 'I suppose you can come in,' she sighed, thinking that she must be mad to invite… whatever it was she was inviting. 'But just for a little while,' she warned, more for herself than for him.
'Just long enough to finish the bottle,' he promised, moving past her.
'What bottle?' Her eyes fell to the hands which had remained tucked behind him for the short duration of their conversation.
'This one.' He had two glasses, also, crystal flutes from the bar. The bottle was champagne, vintage Krug at over one hundred dollars a bottle, a filmy chill misting the green glass.
'We can't drink that.' Clare was used to the extravagance of guests, but her own economical soul balked at sharing it.
'I'll get drunk if I drink it alone,' he said, putting the glasses down on a coffee-table as she absently shut the door, and ripping the foil off the top of the champagne. 'You wouldn't like me when I'm drunk, Clare; I become very maudlin and depressed, very black-Russian.'
'You forget, I've seen you knock back the vodka. You couldn't get drunk in a month of Sundays,' said Clare wryly. David had brought the bottles with him, bearing incomprehensible labels in Cyrillic script, and instructed Kerry to keep them in the freezer.
'Vodka is an exuberant drink, company in itself. Champagne shouldn't be drunk alone, it has tristesse in its bubbles. Here, taste.' He handed her a brimming glass.
'I hope you put this on the spike,' Clare said to counteract the shivery thrill of the first sip.
'I do not need to steal for my pleasures, Clare,' he said quietly.
'I didn't mean…I was joking,' she said awkwardly. She had expected a flippant reply, not this stern dignity. She would never understand the man!
'So…enjoy. It's not a crime, Clare, to indulge in a little luxury…nor is it one to want to share it with friends.'
'No, of course not.' She felt terrible now, and she took a large, hasty gulp t
o make up for it. The bubbles exploded in the back of her throat with a heady burst of dryness that made her nose tingle, and she began to cough. David clicked his tongue and took the forgotten book and the glass from her, and put them down with his own glass on the table before he slapped her sharply between the shoulder-blades.
'Better?' he asked, as her coughs spluttered to a halt.
'Yes, thank you.' Her eyes were watering and she was sure her nose must be red. She must really look a sight.
'Here.' As if to confirm it, he held out a handkerchief and she took it to cover her embarrassment.
'Thanks.'
'Let's sit down, shall we?' He indicated the couch. 'For a novice like you, it might be best if you didn't have to worry about drinking and standing up at the same time.'
'I have had champagne before,' Clare told him tartly, as she returned his handkerchief.
'But not, judging from your horror, of this quality. Do you know how many dollars' worth you just wasted in that sneeze?'
It was as if he had read her mind. She glared at him, but the look was wasted. He was showing interest in her robe where the wrapover section had slipped with her choking breaths, his grin fading at the sight of pale lavender lace. He looked up and found her watching him, and there was a breathless moment when neither could look away. Clare was suddenly achingly conscious of her body. Because she had a slight allergy to man-made fibres, she couldn't wear anything but wool, cotton or silk immediately next to her skin. As a result, her underwear and nightwear was all either extremely cheap and prosaic or, like the lavender silk nightgown, sinfully exotic and expensive. It was one of Miles's little gestures of appreciation that each time he came back from overseas he brought his valued Moonlight staff members a gift. For Clare it was invariably underwear, usually French, the kind she could never dream of affording herself. Over two years, she had built up quite a wardrobe, Miles turning a deaf ear to all blushes and protests.
'I… I think I should go and get dressed,' said Clare nervously, beginning to back away, feeling threatened by the curiosity she could see in the dark eyes. He wanted to see what the lace was attached to, and to her horror Clare could feel her breasts tingling against their fine silk covering.
'No!' The word jerked out, uncomfortably loud in the small room. 'No, don't run away.' He smiled soothingly at her, his voice warm and encouraging as he picked up her glass and handed it to her, resolutely keeping his eyes away from her intriguing neckline. 'Just a few drinks and a little conversation, Clare. Where's the harm in that, mmm? Sit down. Don't be so tense. Nothing terrible is going to happen.'
That was debatable, Clare thought as she numbly obeyed. Something terrible had already happened. She had wanted him to look at her…to touch her. She looked blindly down into her glass. It hurt, this wanting. It was wrong…
'Don't look so tragic, Clare. There's nothing wrong with a man looking at a woman, or vice versa. It doesn't have to lead to anything,' he said as he sat beside her, and the hint of amusement stung. Clare lifted her chin.
'It won't.'
'Of course it won't…if you don't want it to.' He smiled at her with a beguiling tenderness. It surprised her, this gentleness in a man who looked so harsh and masculine.
'Now…what were we talking about before we were…distracted? Ah, yes, my daughter. Dare I suggest that I think you might be good for her? That damned school she was at seems to have had no idea how to control her.'
'Is that what you want? For her to be controlled?' asked Clare, relaxing fractionally now that the conversation was focused on him.
'I put that badly. Not controlled—channelled. She has much energy but no sense of focus, no ambition… beyond this fixation that she wants to look after me.'
'What's so awful about that? You're her father, the only family she has. It's natural she should want to be with you.'
'Actually I'm not—her only family, that is. Nina's parents are still alive. They live in Paris and they'd be happy to have Tamara live with them and go to day school there, but she rejected that idea, too. It's not just being with me she wants, Clare; she wants to do things that a wife does. She wants to be a replacement for Nina, and I can't let her do that—to herself or to me.'
'Oh?' Clare was lost. Surely he didn't mean…she moistened her suddenly dry mouth with champagne. No, not David, his instincts were very healthy…
'Why are you looking at me like that? As if I am from under a stone?' She blushed, and his eyes narrowed to black slits. 'Clare? Surely you don't imagine…?' He swore. It was in Russian but she was positive it was a swear word. 'Clare!' For a moment she thought he was going to snatch back his champagne and storm out, then he threw back his dark shaggy head and began to laugh.
'For one who tries to be so controlled, you have a shockingly uncontrolled imagination,' he said, enjoying her discomfort.
Was that how she appeared to him? Controlled? Oh, thank goodness! thought Clare.
'I was not talking sexually, my prurient-minded madonna,' he reproved as he refilled her drained glass. 'I meant emotionally. It's not as if I require a replacement for Nina; that part of my life is now finished…' Did that mean he didn't intend to marry again? There certainly didn't seem to be room in his schedule for another wife. 'And certainly I don't want Tamara to be one of those people who sacrifice their own lives to the safety of living it vicariously through others, forming obsessive ties in the process.'
Clare stiffened. Was that a dig at her? She looked at him sharply, but he was staring out of the large picture window at the moonlit lake. All the rooms faced the lake, and on clear nights like tonight, with the moon full and heavy, a silver pathway opened across the still waters.
'Perhaps she doesn't see it as a sacrifice,' Clare pointed out gently. 'Perhaps she wants to do it out of love.'
'But that's what it would be. She would be Deverenko's daughter, not Tamara.'
'She's that already.'
'No, she's that still.' He looked up and caught her struggle to understand. He leaned forward, the dark fabric stretching across his broad thighs. 'Love and independence aren't incompatible, Clare. I want Tamara to discover that herself; I want her to finish her schooling, to have the experience of friendships and knowledge beyond the tight musical circle that encompasses me.'
'You can't force her into independence, not if you want to keep her love.'
He sighed. 'I know, but what can I do? We've tried tutors and companions. It worked while Nina was alive, because she made sure that Tamara respected them, but when I'm travelling and performing I don't have the time to give her the continuity of supervision that she received when we were a family unit. She ran rings around every woman I hired—and fired. So then we tried her grandparents—and now the school. Tamara has become an expert in lack of co-operation, in running away from situations she doesn't want to face. I fear for her, Clare, but I believe that if I give in to her manipulating I'll be creating a rod for both of our backs. Do you know she used to play the piano and violin? But since Nina died she has just refused to play any more. I won't say she had great talent, but she was a competent player—'
'Damned with faint praise,' murmured Clare.
His dark eyes were fierce. He tipped back his head and swallowed his champagne in one hard gulp, as if it were vodka. 'Damn you, I wasn't being condescending. I don't care whether she's a virtuoso or not. In fact, I was glad she didn't seem to care about a career in music-it's a hell of a struggle in the middle ranks—but music for pleasure…to play for pleasure, one's own pleasure… she knows how important that is to me. She wants to share in my life, yet she won't share this vital pleasure with me. I don't care if she never has another lesson—but to turn her back on it entirely, it wounds me.'
'Perhaps that's her intent.' Yes, to a man with music in his soul, it would be a powerful weapon to use against him.
'It probably is. That's also disturbing. I don't want her to gear her life to pleasing or displeasing me.'
'That's a father's fate, I'm
afraid.'
'And a mother's?' he asked broodingly. 'Does Tim cause you to run around in circles?'
'Tim is different; he has his focus, as you do, and he's still very young. I know people who have teenage children and they invariably tell me that daughters are the most difficult—or perhaps it's just their sexist expectations, thinking that girls should be sweet and placid and obedient. Tamara has spirit, you should be glad of that, and she's of an age where most girls start to resist the authority of their mothers. Tamara's training her sights on the next best thing… you. As long as she knows that you love her and won't turn your back on her—'
'You mean I should give in to her?' he said sullenly. Obviously he was not happy with the direction of the conversation. Did he expect her to automatically side with him? Was that the way it usually went when he poured out his troubles into a willing female ear? Did they murmur, 'OK you poor darling,' and fall into his hands like ripe plums?
'No, I mean never give up caring, being angry or stern, or autocratic, all the things that fathers are meant to be. As long as you resist her resistance, she'll know you care.'
'You're very wise.'
He wasn't being sarcastic. The brooding look had been replaced with a wry warmth that made her blush as if he had said something outrageous. She looked quickly away, sternly reminding herself of those ripe plums.
'Here I'm supposed to be learning about you and Tim, and all I've done is talk about myself,' he said softly. 'I'm sorry if I've been boring.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' she said, sure that he was teasing her. David? Boring? He had just given her a fascinating glimpse of the man behind the violin, the very human man. 'You're far more interesting than I am.'
'You think so?'
There was no mistaking the tenor of that murmur. Clare felt her skin heat up all over again, and she fiddled with her glass. 'Of course. You've done much more with your life than I have with mine.'
'What's that got to do with it? The most sophisticated people can also be the most boring. Look at the lake out there—it's quiet, unspoiled, with a natural beauty that makes one ache. It looks empty, but it's teeming with life at all levels. You could live a lifetime here and never know it all. I have the feeling that you're like the lake, Clare: you have a wealth of fascination under that beautifully still exterior. Is there fire beneath the ice, Clare? These beautiful lakes were created out of fire, weren't they?'