by Anne Mather
When she glanced back she realised she had come further than she had intended. From here, the bluff where the house stood blended into the landscape, the house itself invisible among the trees. Instead, she could see another building which appeared to be standing on struts, set above the beach on a grassy slope. It was a single-storied dwelling and she wondered if it could belong to Willard, too. A kind of beach house perhaps, a boathouse even, although there was no slipway that she could see.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she advanced up the beach towards the house, her canvas shoes hanging loosely from one hand. She halted some yards from the verandah. Now she could see that only the front of the house was supported by the wooden posts, and the rest of the building was a rambling kind of ranchhouse. As she stood there a black man emerged from inside and came to the rail to stare at her. Immediately, she was embarrassed, feeling the interloper she undoubtedly was. She turned quickly away and came up against something hard and moist and warm, and unmistakably human.
'I'm sor—oh, it's you!' she exclaimed, stepping back from Raoul Valerian as if by touching him she might become contaminated by some terrible disease. She had not been aware of his approach, his bare feet making no soufnd on the sand. His hair was soaking, and the rest of him was not much drier, and judging from the state of his cotton trousers he had pulled them on over his wet limbs. She didn't know where to look, and she pushed back some loose tendrils of her hair with one hand, looking almost bemusedly at her shoes in the other. 'I—I— didn't know you were behind me.'
A vaguely amused twist gave a cynical curl to his lips. 'You were too busy looking at my house,' he remarked sardonically.
'I—it's your house?' she queried, uncomfortably aware of his eyes moving over her in penetrating appraisal.
'Yes.' He wiped a wet strand of hair back from his forehead. 'Do you want to see it?'
'Who—me?' Beth gave a jerky shake of her head, wishing with all her heart she had not allowed her curiosity to get her into this. 'I—oh, no. I mean, I was just walking by ...'
'I know. I saw you.'
'You did?' She shifted her shoes awkwardly from one hand to the other, knowing herself at a disadvantage. 'Oh—you were swimming?'
His expression mirrored his disbelief in her subterfuge. 'I don't normally walk around in wet trousers,' he told her dryly, 'but it seems I'm doomed to have female visitors when I'm not—prepared for them.'
'I beg your pardon?'
Beth chose not to understand this, and he shrugged his shoulders. Even in his bare feet, he was inches taller than she was, and her neck ached from trying to avoid looking at his hard-muscled body.
'It doesn't matter,' he said now, and then: 'Let me offer you a drink.'
'Really,' Beth took a sideways step, 'I ought to get back.'
'Why?' His eyebrows quirked. 'Is your—fiance—waiting for you?'
Until that moment their conversation had been stilted, but impersonal, but now he introduced a different note. There was something insulting about the way he said 'fiance' and Beth was almost glad because it gave her justification for retreat.
'Yqs, he is,' she said now, making no attempt to hide the dislike in her voice, and Raoul smiled.
'You'll wear him out in a matter of months,' he remarked offensively, and her already pink cheeks burned.
'I don't think you know anything about it,' she de- (hired coldly, turning to go, but his hand closed suddenly about her upper arm. It jerked her towards him, and her hand brushed involuntarily across his thigh.
'Why are you marrying him, Miss Rivers?' he asked harshly, and she gasped her objection to this treatment to the black man still standing watching them from the verandah.
'If you don't let me go, I shall tell Mr Petrie exactly how you've treated me!" she choked, and he gave a short laugh.
'Mr Petrie!' he sneered. 'And what do you think Willie can do to me?'
'Fire you, I should think!' she retorted, looking down at his hand on her arm. As if following her lead, his eyes dropped too, and his thumb probed the inner hollow of her elbow as she bent her arm trying to free herself.
'Such soft skin,' he said, and her breasts rose and fell in sudden panic.
'Let me go!' she almost shouted the words, and his narrowed gaze shifted to her face.
'If you insist,' he drawled, and his hand fell to his side.
At once she stepped back from him, striving for composure. But she dropped one of the canvas shoes in her confusion, and she had to bend to retrieve it. He stood watching her/his thumbs tucked into the low waistband of his pants, and her eyes ran up over his ankles and calves before dropping again as she straightened.
'Aren't you coming to meet Tomas?' he invited mockingly, but she didn't trust herself to answer him. She turned on her heel, and walked quickly away, without looking back.
As the expanse of sand opened up between them, and he made no move to follow her, Beth began to breathe less tortuously, and took one or two deep gulps of air to calm herself. She could hardly believe what had happened, and her brows were furrowed with anxiety. She was trembling, too, and for someone who was normally capable of handling any situation, she felt totally inadequate. She had been insulted before, nurses were used to being blamed for the problems of their patients, but no man had ever laid a hand on her to prove his point.
She looked down at her arm, and saw to her dismay that the red marks his fingers had made still showed. The swine! she thought furiously. How dared he treat her like that? If Willard saw those marks—
Her train of thought ruptured abruptly. If! Of course Willard would see them. And why shouldn't he? She had done nothing to be ashamed of. She had only to go to him and tell him that his overseer had manhandled her to have Raoul Valerian packing his bags to leave immediately.
She pressed a nervous hand to the palpitating pulse in her throat. She had only been here a matter of hours. Could she conceivably create such an upheaval after only a few hours on the island? What effect might it have on Willard? After all, he had shown evident affection for the man, and certainly Raoul spoke of him with familiarity.
She tugged unhappily at the end of her scarf. What would the other employees think if she upset the household? Would they think she was already throwing her weight around? That they, too, should watch their step or they might find themselves in a similar position.
She sighed. It was an impossible situation. Raoul Valerian wasn't like any of the other employees. But how could she explain that to Jonas, or Marya, or Clarrie even? She didn't know them well enough, and they certainly didn't know her.
Her footsteps rounded the bluff, and she saw the house above her. Might not even Willard think she was behaving rather hysterically? How could she tell him what Raoul had said about their relationship? She doubted she could repeat that to anyone. And besides, Raoul could always deny it.
So what was she left with? What had he done? He had gripped her arm while he spoke to her, and told her she had soft skin. She licked her lips. Nothing so terrible there. She bent and absently put on her shoes, anything to delay her eventual arrival at the house. There was no way she could put into words the feelings that had remained unspoken between them, or the sense of menace she had felt when he touched her. But she desperately wished she could go to Willard and tell him the whole story. She didn't want to share such unwelcome intrigue with a man she felt instinctively to be as unpredictable and unscrupulous as Raoul Valerian. Something about him repelled her, and she determined never to permit such familarity with him ever again.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE climbed the rocky slope and crossed the lawns to the pillared portico. She was hot, and uncomfortably aware of a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, due no doubt to the rigorous confinement of her hair. Willard preferred it tied back to loose about her shoulders, but as its straightness defied any attempts at curling, it was easier to keep it long. She was lifting its weight from her nape as she entered the hall when she saw the girl poised on the
lowest stair. Small and dark and petite, she was everything Beth had always wanted to be, with features so recognisably firm and arrogant Beth had no hesitation in deciding that this was Willard's daughter.
'Barbara?' she ventured, dropping her hair and moving towards her, and the girl, who seemed to have half turned away, had no alternative but to acknowledge her presence. With definite reluctance, she came down the final step to the marble tiles of the hall floor, her azure blue hostess gown brushing the leather sandals on her slender feet.
'Miss—Rivers, isn't it?' she enquired with cool politeness, and Beth's spirits plummeted.
'Beth,' she answered, trying not to show her disappointment. 'Elizabeth really, but no one calls me that.'
'How do you do, Miss Rivers.' Barbara held out her hand regally, and Beth took it feeling a similar sense of reluctance of her own.
'Are you feeling better?' she asked, guessing that the other girl was not likely to make the first overtures, and Barbara bestowed her with a faintly patronising glance.
'Is that your nursing training coming to the fore, Miss Rivers?'
Beth refused to be intimidated. 'There's still no known cure for migraine, but I do have some tablets with me which might help.' 'I doubt it.' Barbara's tone was malicious. 'You see, my condition is not so much physical as mental.'
Beth pressed her lips together. 'I'm sorry.'
'Are you. Miss Rivers? Are you really sorry?'
Beth glanced impatiently about her. It was obvious that Barbara had no intention of being friendly, and had she not been standing squarely in front of the stairs, Beth would have gone straight up to her room. As it was, with that way barred to her, she turned to saunter into the living room she had seen earlier.
'I trust you intend emptying your shoes before entering the drawing room,' Barbara's already hateful voice stopped her.
'I beg your pardon?' Beth swung round.
'Your shoes,' repeated Barbara, pointing to the offending'canvas plimsolls. 'They're full of sand.'
Beth's tongue emerged to moisten her upper lip. It was true. She had put on her shoes much too soon to delay her return, and now they were oozing fine grains all over the marble tiling.
'You've been walking?' Barbara queried, eyes narrowing, and Beth nodded.
'Just a short walk,' she declared off-handedly, becoming aware of the betraying colour that was sweeping up her throat to her cheeks.
Barbara frowned. 'Did you see anyone—on your walk?'
'No.' Beth realised she had answered much too (prickly, but it was too late for recriminations so she compounded the offence. 'Should I have done?'
'You hurt your arm?' Barbara had noticed the tell-tale red marks.
'I—fell.' Beth hoped that conviction came with experience. 'On a—a rock.'
'How unfortunate.' Plainly Barbara didn't believe her, but Beth realised with relief that she could hardly call her a liar.
The sound of their voices must have attracted attention, Beth thought, because at that moment Clarrie appeared. But she was carrying a tray on which reposed a delectable-looking salad, some fruit, and a jug of the black coffee Beth had enjoyed at lunchtime, so obviously curiosity was' not her only reason for being there. She looked surprised to see both Beth and her employer's daughter, but Barbara looked positively furious.
'You want I should take this up to your room, Miss Barbara?' Clarrie asked, in her sing-song sort of voice, and Beth's lips parted. Now she understood. Barbara had known the house was quiet, and had slipped downstairs while there was no one about to order something to eat to be taken upstairs. Beth doubted she had a headache at all, and her expression must have made this plain.
'There's not much point now, is there, Clarrie?' Barbara declared coldly. 'Oh, put it on the patio. I'll eat out there.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Clarrie swung about and marched away through the drawing room with the tray, and Barbara was left to face the undisguised contempt on Beth's eyes.
'Well!' she broke out defensively. 'I don't have to sit at the same table as my father's mistress!'
'I am not your father's mistress, as it happens.' Beth looked down at her scornfully, and she found she could do that because Barbara was only a little over five feet in height. 'But even if I was, I'd have more respect for myself than for a girl who calls herself his daughter and doesn't seem to care if he's alive or dead!'
'I care,' exclaimed Barbara indignantly.
'Then you have a funny way of showing it!' retorted Beth, angry now. 'Hiding away in your room, pretending to be ill! If you have some objection to our marriage, then for God's sake come out and say it!'
'If I have some objection ...' Barbara raised a white handkerchief to her lips. 'Oh, I refuse to stand here arguing about it with you! You wouldn't begin to understand.'
'Try me.'
Barbara shook her head. 'I've met women like you before,' she enunciated coldly. 'Women who use a man's weakness to get him to agree to things he wouldn't otherwise contemplate. Excuse me, Miss Rivers, but I believe my coffee is getting cold.'
She swept across the hall with an amazing amount of self-possession considering a few moments before she had been losing the contest. But Beth realised that by losing her own temper, she had played into Barbara's hands, and given her back her own weapon of controlled indignation.
All in all, it had been a disastrous afternoon, and hunching her shoulders she climbed the stairs to the first landing. Shf tried to assume an interest in the paintings that lined the stairs, realising even though she knew very little about art that some of them were priceless. But through it all ran the bitterness of knowing herself the intruder here, and wondering how on earth she was going to carry it off.
She halted outside Willard's room, and then, deciding that even if he wasn't awake she would wake him, she opened the door. His bed was empty, however, and she was staring at it blankly when he walked through from the bathroom, dressed in casual- slacks and a white silk shirt. His colour was much improved after his sleep, and even his eyes had lost their strained expression.
'Beth!' he exclaimed gently, coming towards her. 'Where have you been? I was about to come looking for you.'
Beth shrugged this aside, and when he put his hands on her waist, she lifted hers to his shoulders. 'Did you have a good sleep?' she asked. 'How do you feel?'
Willard gave her a resigned smile. 'I slept very well, and I feel fine,' he assured her. Then he drew her nearer so that her legs were touching his. 'Now answer my question—where have you been?'
'Oh, I just went for a walk.' Beth was off-hand. 'I went down on to the bea— oh!'
She looked down at her feet abruptly, and Willard took a step backward and did the same.
'What is it?' he demanded. 'What's wrong?'
'My shoes...' she groaned miserably. 'They're full of sand. Barbara said—'
She broke off again as she realised what she was saying, and Willard's mouth turned down at the corners. 'You've spoken to Barbara?' It was more of a statement than a question.
'I—well, yes.'
'So have I,' he declared heavily, surprising her. 'She came here, to my room, a little while ago and woke me. We—talked for a few minutes.'
'She woke you?' Beth comfortably forgot that she had intended to do just that thing, and felt indignant. 'What —I mean—how was she?'
Willard drew her close to him again, and rested his face in the hollow of her neck. 'Let's not talk about Barbara now,' he said. 'Hmm, your hair's damp. Have you been running? You shouldn't overdo it in this heat on your first day, my dear.'
'I was hot,' said Beth dismissingly, refusing to think about that awful scene with Raoul which still had the power to bring her out in a cold sweat.
'Well, I suggest you have a cool shower, and then we'll have tea together,' said Willard, cupping her cheeks and lowering his mouth to hers. 'Darling,' he whispered, as his emotions took over. 'You're so sweet. I don't know what I'd do without you now.'
'Well, you won't have
to, will you?' remarked Beth reasonably, moulding her body to the bony length of his, and he hugged her closely before letting her go.
'Be quick,' he said. 'I'll wait here. Then we'll go downstairs together.'
It was with relief Beth saw that Barbara was no longer occupying the table on the patio. She had no doubt returned to her room and whether she intended to emerge again that day was anybody's guess. Beth didn't much care whether she did or not, although she knew this was a defeatist attitude. Sooner or later she and Barbara would have to come to terms with one another.
Still, it was very pleasant to sit on the patio in the cooling breeze of late afternoon, listening as Clarrie adjured her employer to take better care of himself. The fat cook treated him with obvious affection, and like Jonas, had known him since he was a boy. Never by so much as the flicker of an eyelid did she reveal what she had overheard between his daughter and his fiancee, although Beth guessed she must have heard them arguing while she was setting out Barbara's lunch.
Tea consisted of small cakes and sandwiches, and a pot of rather strong Indian tea. Willard confessed that he like tea strong and sweet enough to stand a spoon up in, but nowadays he contented himself with only one spoonful of sugar.
After tea, he suggested a walk, and Beth agreed, providing he didn't overtire himself. 'Just to the pool and back,' he said, and she couldn't argue because she didn't know which pool he meant.
It turned out to be an overgrown lily pond set among I he wilderness of plants and shrubs that grew beyond the trelliswork of the patio. A film of green rimmed the stone surround and the playful satyr, whose lute had once spouted a fountain into its opaque depths, was coated with slime. It had a dissolute air, and not even the petals of a calla lily that dipped close by could rid Beth of the sense of decay that surrounded them.
'There used to be goldfish in here when I was a boy,' Willard commented regretfully, and Beth tugged his arm, pulling him away from the murky water.