Jayne Bauling

by Vaso

  Jayne Bauling - Valentine's Day

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents

  are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the

  publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.'

  Original hardcover edition published 1982

  Australian copyright 1982

  Philippine copyright 1983

  First Australian paperback edition 1983

  © Jayne Hauling 1982

  ISBN 0 263 74207 5

  Set in Monophoto Baskerville 10 on 10$ pt.

  The paper used in this edition has been manufactured in Australia by Australian Newsprint Mills Ltd.

  Printed in Australia by The Dominion Press-Hedges & Bell, Blackburn 3130

  CHAPTER ONE

  TM a woman with a past,' she said mysteriously, silvered eyelids fringed with long dark lashes sweeping briefly down over sapphire eyes.

  Til bet,' one of the young men said, and the other two laughed sycophantically.

  Her red lips curved slightly in satisfaction, for it had been her intention to amuse rather than intrigue, since she had spoken with more truth than they must ever know. There was pain enough in her own constant awareness of that truth; to have them know it would only add to its weight. They looked at her admiringly now, neither lasciv¬iously as older men did, nor worshipfully as other men, also young but less sure of themselves, had been known to do; as Philip had done a year ago, and Henry van Wyk had done tonight, she recalled regretfully.

  Their eyes still rested on her as she raised her glass to her lips and sipped carefully at the local sparkling wine made by the methode champenoise, for she was as ro-mantic-looking as her name, which was Valentine, and they were young, male and unmarried. They were also, probably, unimaginative and superficial, thus suiting her peculiar requirements, and there were others present who recognised these characteristics and despised her choice of company. But why not entertain them? Blessed at birth with the twin gifts of mental and physical allure, she still suffered like a lost soul, for they brought misjudgment. But to subdue either would be to deny truth, she thought with weary defiance.

  Allowing her attention to wander, Valentine turned her dark head slightly, seeking again the tall man who had looked at her with such scorn a few minutes previously. She had felt then that familiar regret for the lack of understanding that came from those who only saw her act. Yet what else could she expect when all her behaviour was a pretence designed to cloak truth?

  Up on the large verandah of the house couples were dancing to the sophisticated rhythm of the hired band; people strolled about the lawns in their finery; and others were, like herself and her three companions, remaining at the prettily appointed tables under the trees in which hung gold and silver lights. Beyond the garden were the vineyards, and beyond those a backdrop of mountains like cardboard cut-outs which had been draped with black velvet. Even with the lights in the trees killing the frailer light of stars, it was a beautiful setting for a party, and Valentine was consciously enjoying herself. Born and brought up in the Cape, she had always been attracted by the wine-producing Boland. region of the province where the old estates had names, French, Dutch, German and even some English, which evoked images of beauty. Like Fleurmont .. . She had even, years ago, contemplated taking her degree at Stellenbosch before logic had caused her to realise that she would be better off at the University of Cape Town where lectures were given in her home language. Thus her coming to this region had been delayed, and in the end it had been tragedy which had driven her here. Philip's tragedy.

  Carefully concealing the sudden sad nature of her thoughts with a smile, she gave her attention back to her three companions for a few seconds before once more looking for the man. He was not where she had first seen him, but a moment later she located him, still standing alone, completely relaxed and at ease, surveying the scene about him with a certain detached interest which suggested that he was a late arrival.

  Valentine wanted him to look at her again, willed him to do so, and after a few seconds he did, leaving her wondering with a breathless sense of shock if mere coincidence had caused him to turn his head or if he had been sensitive to die exertions of her mind.

  He was tall, very tall, and well built under his casual clothes, without any surplus flesh, and she realised that he was probably missing some of his usual weight; he had the look of a man who had been driving himself too hard for too long.

  Bracing herself, she once more let her sparkling sapphire eyes move up to his face, knowing too well what she would see there. His lips curled derisively; he had a sensual yet somehow ironic mouth, and Valentine knew instinctively that a lot of living lay behind that expression. His jawline hinted at a forceful character, as did the strong line of his nose and, like her, he had high cheekbones.

  His mockery of a smile frustrated her, even hurt her, but she had learnt to bury hurt under defiance by now, rebelling against die inevitability of pain, so she returned it with a cool one of her own, challenging him. He was probably in the latter half of his thirties, a man of uncompromising character and, too, a beautiful man. Valentine diought wistfully—I could match him, yet not bring him to his knees. Never that.

  She had surprised herself, and hastened to mask the fact. Match him. She looked again and, beyond the scorn of his expression, recognised a strength that also lay in herself, an intrinsic resilience.

  Excitement quivered like,a taut wire within her. Was this the end of the road she had travelled, so often in despair during the last year? She was being too impressed, she endeavoured to persuade herself, caught off balance by an attractive physique, sensual, intelligent features and clean, thick, light brown, almost fair hair. He was probably married anyway. At his age. And if he knew the truth about her——

  Certainly he didn't appear to share her sense of recognition. He had started to look bored, idly glancing at her companions, then casting her a final ironic look before turning to greet Gary's father, their host. She watched him still, watched the strange blend of grace and restlessness in his movements, and wondered about him.

  'Valli?'

  An old unhappiness stirred and a faint crease disturbed the serenity of her forehead as the shortening of her name recalled a time she was striving to forget.

  'Valentine,' she corrected clearly, but forced an unconcerned smile lest they wonder too much at her insistence.

  For a moment she couldn't remember which name went with which face, for they were so similar in many ways, these three. Desmond was the redhead, of course, a little older, but a little less sure of himself, not being heir to a wine estate as the other two were. Gary was the flaxen Saxon, as she had mentally dubbed him, and Adam was Adam Ducaine, son of the estate next to Fleurmont on which she was employed. Emma Ducaine was his sister.

  'I'm going to check up on you,' Emma had said. 'I owe it to Fleurmont. That lawyer must have been' out of his mind, employing just anyone!'

  But nothing seemed to have resuked from the threat, since her parents and brother had continued to treat her with the
ir initial friendliness and hospitality, Valentine reflected with some relief.

  That had been six months ago, when she had taken up her job at Fleurmont in the absence of the new owner. She had been desperate to get out of Cape Town at the time, imagining recognition and censure at every turn, and the job had seemed ideal. The lawyer handling the various affairs of the estate hadn't explained any more than it was her business to^cnow: that the owner and his wife had been killed in a road accident and their heir, a nephew, would not be able to take up residence for some months owing to contractual obligations. The job she was to do had been shared by the wives of the owner and cellarmaster. Now Mrs Hattingh felt unable to continue with it on her own as she had a five-year-old daughter to look after.

  Valentine had gratefully accepted the opportunity to

  escape and had come to the Boland to find friends in James and Sylvie Hattinghr and among the families on neighbouring estates, for though an elite community, it wasxa friendly one, with each vintner desiring the well-being of all estates rather than just his own. They didn't question her too much, but they had wanted her to be happy, for Fleurmont's sake, and this was far from being the first such party she had been invited to. She now lived amid luxurious surroundings and had been introduced to a style of living she appreciated, and if memory kept her wary, she thought that was all to the good. She was marking time, it was true, but she was working, which was the important thing. Unlike Philip, she believed that any disaster, any destruction of dreams, had to be worked through. However painful, and it was, that was the only way to survive, and her intense pride would not allow her to be anything other than a survivor.

  Occasionally she wondered nervously if any of her new acquaintances recognised her face or connected Valentine with Valli, the name she had preferred up until a year ago. If they did, their manners were too good to allow them to comment; perhaps, she often thought hopefully, they were even too refined to read that particular type of Sunday newspaper. Either way, dozens of other scandals had succeeded that which had given her her brief agonising experience of notoriety, and people's memories were mercifully short.·

  All in all, she was wont to reflect, this business of surviving, ducking and dodging the blows that could destroy her, was working out fairly well. It wearied her, but it worked. Additionally, she had a well paid job which she enjoyed. The only potential shadow in the future, as opposed to the many lying over the past, was the impending arrival of her official boss. There had been some resentful muttering among both neighbouring vintners and Fleurmont's labourers about the way he was taking his time over coming to take up his interitance, but Valentine knew Kemp Irvine's reputation as one of South Africa's foremost media men, the maker of superb documentaries, some of which were made under conditions of extreme adversity, and the Fleurmont estate's lawyer had confirmed that the new owner was unable to return to the Cape for some time.

  'Not that he's any stranger to Fleurmont and the cycle of wine-making,' Sylvie Hattingh had told Valentine. 'James and I weren't here in those days, of course, but I believe his parents' marriage broke up quite early and he consequently spent a lot of time with his uncle and aunt. I wonder when he'll arrive?'

  They had all said that, so many times, but finally a telegram had come, stating briefly that he would be arriving shortly, and Valentine was looking forward to meeting the man whose work she had admired. He would be here just in time for the start of harvesting which took place from mid-February to late March, and when that was over, perhaps Fleurmont would have its own party.

  'Shall we dance again?' Gary asked a little later when Valentine had danced with each of them in turn and then returned to their table with him while Adam and Desmond danced with daughters of neighbouring estates.

  'I don't think so, thank you, Gary,' she declined with her most charming smile. 'In fact, in «a little while I'm going to go home. Did I tell you that my boss is due to arrive any day how? I want to be at my best when he does, and I won't be if I turn this into a late night.'

  'You're always at your best, angel,' Gary said gallantly, and meant it.

  Valentine gave him a sideways look which acknowledged the compliment then stood up swiftly.

  'But before I leave, there's someone I have to speak to,' she murmured, and drifted away.

  He had observed her while she was dancing, the man who had attracted her attention earlier, and she was determined to know who he was. She was not unduly shy, but for a year now a self-protective act had given the illusion of even more confidence than she actually posses-

  sed, but still the thought of approaching him was alien to her instinctive creed of behaviour. Additionally, his various glances had signalled no sort of approval, but Valentine was now governed by something more powerful than the rationalising of her mind, and it slightly subdued her nervousness. At least she was at her best tonight, mind and senses alert.

  Her dress, she knew, was a dream; a confection, as she liked to call it, and she was tall enough and slender enough to carry it off with panache. Until she had seen it, she had not thought that white could be as flamboyant as strong colours. Made of alternate panels of snowy tulle and lace through which her gleaming skin could faintly be discerned, it had a fullish skirt below a tightly swathed bodice and one shoulder was bare, while over the upper part of her left arm cascaded a lacy flounce of a sleeve. With it, she wore high silver sandals and fine silver jewellery, and there was silver glitter in her shiny dark hair.

  Moving with characteristic grace, she wandered, seemingly inadvertently, into the orbit of the tall man, and knew that he must have seen her. Her pulses fluttered as tense expectation assailed her. Why was she behaving like this?

  Henry van Wyk appeared, giving her a shy appealing look, all his adulation visible in his dark eyes, and Valentine produced a small, coolly discouraging smile. She saw him flush and hated the necessity of inflicting pain but, well schooled by now, she knew it was better now, because still superficial. To encourage first would create a greater hurt later on.

  She looked for the man, found him looking back at her, and felt suddenly frightened.

  'Poor Henry,' he drawled.

  'He's only a boy,' Valentine replied quietly. She couldn't be other than she was, but there would never be another Philip, she had sworn from the depths of her agony.

  "Therefore no good to you?" he taunted, but it was the most attractive voice she had heard, the enunciation perfect and every word beautifully articulated. 'The archetypal bitch-goddess, no less. You look as if you'd bend and break, but there's steel beneath the pretty packaging, isn't there?'

  'I hope so.' It was a disquieting exchange, but to discard her act would be to' appear vulnerable. 'You may understand one day.'

  His eyes were a bright, intense blue and very hard as he looked back at her. They were surrounded by tiny fine lines drawn .there, she thought, by both pain and laughter. His gaze dropped, quite deliberately and with a certain insolence, to her firm breasts and slender waist, and Valentine felt a churning excitement within her.

  Then he looked at her face again, and, smiling sardonically, shook his head slightly.

  'Oh no, sweetheart, not one day, although I think I understand already,' he said coolly, rejecting her. 'You're quite amazingly lovely, as you evidently know, both stylish and sexy, but most men in their right senses would run a mile when they saw you coming.'

  'But you're not most men, are you?' she prompted daringly, slanting a bewitching smile up at him, for though she was tall, he was still taller. But already the effort was draining her.

  'Agreed, but I am in my right senses.' He paused and his smile took on an element of cruelty. 'You're behaving very badly, you know, making a fool of yourself. Did your mother never tell you that however much the order of things may have changed, men still prefer and always will prefer to be the hunters?'

  It wasn't working, she thought sadly. Even he was only really seeing the outward Valentine, and how could she reveal the inner vulnerability? T
o do so would give him the power to strike her down.

  'I saw you watching me earlier,' she suggested mildly in her low, clear voice.

  'Ah, yes!' He laughed suddenly. 'I was wondering who

  she could be, as decorative as a meringue!'

  'Yes!' Valentine shared his laughter, smoothing the skirt of her dress with long slender fingers tipped widi crimson. She was grateful for the diversion—it gave her time. 'Confection was the word I had thought of... But meringues are all air and sweetness, you know.'

  'And there's more to you than that, I'm begin ning to learn,' he responded. 'What's your name?'

  She hesitated momentarily, but perhaps he didn't notice. 'Valentine.'

  'Your first name?'

  'Valentine,' she repeated.

  'God! It would have to be something like that,' he derided amusedly. 'As outrageous as the women it adorns. And women . . . ladies of your kind don't have surnames.'

  'Are you married?' she digressed as sudden fear touched her over-excited mind, making her forget to dissemble.

  'You'd ask that before asking my name?' He raised mocking eyebrows. 'Would it deter you if I was?'

  She shuddered delicately, but it was her lips, suddenly sad in shape, that revealed how genuine she was. 'Definitely.'

  'I can't claim the protection of a wife, I'm afraid. Nevertheless, I'm sufficiently armoured against women like you, so you can take your witchcraft elsewhere, Valentine no-surname, and weave your spells about some other unwary male,' he informed her coldly. 'Young Henry van Wyk would appear to be a willing victim . . . He's quite as eligible as Adam and Gary whom you were entertaining earlier, or didn't you know that?'

  Already he was looking beyond her, with a slight smile, towards someone who was approaching them, she realised frustratedly.

  I know you, I've looked for you, she thought widi wild anguish—so why didn't he recognise her in return? All the rigidly repressed passion of her nature, merely hinted at in her sensual lower lip, was calling to him, and he was ignoring the call. Could she be mistaken?