Fever

by Charlotte Lamb

  'Drink?' he asked, moving to a fluted glass wall whose smoked grey surface reflected the soft light of a pale blue lamp beside it. Sara watched with in­terest as the glass slid back silently at a touch to reveal a well-stocked array of bottles. Nick glanced over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. 'What would you like?'

  'A dry Martini,' she said, wandering around the room. She paused in front of the vast grey couch covered in blue velvet cushions, eyeing it distrust­fully.

  Nick put a glass into her hand, grinning. 'You have a transparent mind, my love.'

  She lifted her green eyes to his face. 'So have you,' she threw back.

  'Then we understand each other,' he drawled, his mouth twisting.

  She glanced round the room. 'Are the lights al­ways this low?'

  There was a sardonic gleam in his eye. 'When I'm entertaining they are,' he told her.

  'And I'm sure you do a lot of that,' she said, feel­ing a peculiar sharp twist inside her. How many other women had he had up here? Was there a dif­ferent girl each night? Or did he have a few regular visitors?

  He was watching her with an expressionless face and she hoped he couldn't read on her face what was going on inside her head.

  'How many rooms are there?' she asked to change the subject.

  'Seven plus the servants' quarters,' he shrugged. He moved to a door, opened it. 'Dining-room,', he said, and she looked past his shoulder into the smaller room which was as muted but all decorated in shades of soft apricot and amber, the effect warm and relaxing. 'I've a study through there,' Nick pointed. 'And then there are the four bedrooms.' His black lashes stirred against his cheek as he gave her an oblique little smile. 'Would you like to see them now?'

  She turned away quickly. 'No, thank you.' What did he mean 'now'? He could think again. Thank heavens he had servants on the premises. She was very relieved to know that.

  Her eye was caught by a line of silver-framed photographs and she paused to look at them. 'My family,' Nick told her, standing at her shoulder.

  She was intrigued. ‘Tell me who they are,’ she demanded.

  He pointed. 'My sister, Judith.' Sara studied the face with its charming but posed smile, a frame of smooth black hair curled round it, eyes which held Nick's assertive strength and a firm straight mouth.

  'Is she younger than you?'

  'By two years,' he admitted.

  'Married?' There was no man in the photograph, yet somehow Judith looked married, she had a con­tented look as though her life pleased her.

  'Indelibly,’ Nick said drily.

  'What does that mean?'

  'In Judith's case, four children and an obsession with education at present.'

  'Are you a doting uncle?' She couldn't believe that and the question was a deliberate tease. Nick knew it and his glance was menacing.

  'I'm a reluctant one,' he admitted. 'The eldest three are boys in whom Judith imagines I must be fascinated. In fact, they bore me to tears. The youngest is a girl they've stupidly named Nicola and she has a pronounced squint, no teeth and very little hair. Judith supposes that she flatters me by telling me the child looks like me.'

  Sara laughed. 'It sounds as if she does!'

  His blue eyes held laughter. 'I'll remember that.'

  She backed slightly, smiling. 'How old is Nicola?'

  'Six weeks,' he returned drily. 'Judith assures me she's going to be beautiful.'

  'Then perhaps she's not so like you,' Sara said softly, grinning at him.

  He took a step towards her and she turned away, breathless. 'What exactly does a banker do?' she asked him as she walked across the room.

  He caught her as she neared the couch and twisted her deftly down on to it. 'I've had enough polite conversation,' he said as he leaned towards her.

  Her heart was racing so fast she wondered if he could hear it. His mouth swooped down in preda­tory hunger and Sara lost all sense of what she was doing. The thick warm darkness into which she fell had neither time nor place. When at last he pulled back and she surfaced again her arms were clinging round his neck and she was conscious of having totally lost her cool.

  Nick's blue eyes were very close, a glitter in them. 'Yes,' he whispered, as if she had said something.

  She forced herself away from him and he let her go, but he watched her with a smile that was like a knife.

  To her amazement he suddenly began to talk about his work. He made banking sound quite fas­cinating, talking of international investments, per­sonal loans, the day-by-day movements of money.

  'I'm told you have a very beautiful building,' she said.

  'Yes, it is much admired,' he agreed. 'You must come and see it.'

  'I'd like to,' she said.

  'When?' he asked, and she looked at him in surprise, because she saw he meant the question, he wanted to fix a day and time, and then she saw something else, a restless gleam in his eyes as he looked at her.

  'When will you come?' he asked when she didn't answer him. 'On Monday? I'll take you round my­self.'

  Her throat felt hot because she knew he was nailing her down to a promise to see him again. Nick was going to try to drag her into a relationship. To­night was only the beginning.

  'Monday?' he pressed again. 'Monday afternoon would be easiest for me. I've a working conference every Monday morning.'

  'I'm afraid I'm busy on Monday afternoon,’ she lied.

  His eyes narrowed. 'Tuesday, then,' he said.

  'I'll have to let you know,' she excused weakly.

  Then Mrs Firth came in to announce that dinner was ready and they moved into the smooth bland dining-room and ate the perfectly cooked meal, seated opposite each other at the deep-polished oval dining table, the glow of candles reflected in the wood and a scent of carnations giving the air a spicy sweetness. They were eating chicken in a vinous white sauce and drinking a chilled German wine with it, the light flickering in the pale straw-coloured liquid as she lifted her glass. Across the table Nick watched her, the arrogant face unread­able. They talked about music, argued about com­posers. Nick refilled her glass and Mrs. Firth came in with a whipped sweet rich with raspberries. After that they had coffee and brandy in the muted light of the grey-blue room and Nick played her a new recording he had just bought, a Schubert recital, the lyrical notes rippling through the room while they sat and listened.

  Her head was cloudy, thoughtless, and she leaned back on the soft cushions waiting.

  She knew and Nick knew that when the music ended he would take her in his arms, and she was trembling slightly as the last notes fell to silence.

  The wine and brandy had dissolved all her in­hibitions, removed the restraint of common sense. The need Nick had bred in her that day in the sun­lit meadow was now dominant. He turned and looked down at her, his eves restless.

  'You're so beautiful,' he said softly. 'Do you know that? The moment I set eyes on you I knew I had to have you.'

  Once she would have run like a rabbit from such a statement. Now she merely gazed at him blindly, waiting, her green eyes fixed on his hard, sensual mouth.

  It slowly moved down towards her own and her eyes closed, her arms going round his neck, a long sigh of pleasure on her lips.

  His kiss was urgent from the beginning, a de­manding heat in the movement of his mouth, a flaring hunger which she knew she felt herself and to which she gave back hunger, lying in his arms without resistance, weak and yielding, her hands stroking his thick black hair.

  His hands travelled softly down her body and she moaned, moving closer to him. He slid a hand under her and she felt her zip smoothly glide down. He gently drew the silvery gauze away from her shoulders and put his lips against the fine bones be­neath the creamy skin. As his mouth travelled lower she felt the urgency growing inside them both. He was breathing hard, murmuring something she didn't even hear, and she was gasping with pleasure, her eyes shut tight.

  He pushed her down among the cushions and the silver gauze fell completely away. She shivered sl
ightly, trembling, but nothing would wake her now from the trance of aroused desire in which he had her.

  'Sara,' he muttered hoarsely, the black head mov­ing against her body. 'Oh, God, you're beautiful!'

  His hands were warm on her naked skin, but she felt her teeth chattering slightly and tried to stop them, but the excitement she was trapped in was making her almost shocked. She couldn't stop shak­ing. She moved nearer to him for warmth and his mouth found her own again, taking it in a posses­sive movement. 'I want you,' he whispered on her lips, and the tremor ran through her whole body.

  She felt, his hands moving again, but now he was undressing himself. The firm warm nakedness of his chest on her made her open her eyes briefly. He looked at her, sensing the movement, and she was shattered by the feverish brilliance of his eyes.

  His heart was pounding down on her and there was a fine dew of perspiration on his forehead. His face had a dark, hot colour which she could feel as well as see. The heat was burning in him.

  'Love me,' he groaned with his eyes on her mouth. 'Love me, darling.'

  She almost, winced at the burning sensation which his voice ignited in her flesh. She was melting heat­edly, gasping, moving restlessly beneath him, their bodies pressed closer and closer.

  The sudden sharp eruption or the telephone was such a shock that she gave a cry of panic. Nick lifted his black head, the tumbled hair twisted by her caressing hands into strange peaks, and swore.

  He looked down at her, grimacing. 'I'll have to answer that or Mrs. Firth will come wandering in,’ he said, getting up.

  He spoke curtly into the receiver. Sara sat up, shivering, to look at him, all her excited heat drain­ing away. She saw Nick's face change, saw the hard rage which filled his eyes.

  Wordlessly he flung the telephone down and turned. 'Halliday,' he said through his teeth.

  She hurried to the phone and asked huskily, 'Greg?'

  'Sara, it's Rob,' he said in a deep voice that held a terrible grief.

  She went white, her colour vanishing. 'Oh, Greg

  'Can you come now? Lucy is in a state of collapse and I can't do a thing.'

  He wouldn't dare be alone with Lucy for long or he might lose control, Sara realised. Lucy would be distraught, grief-stricken, and Greg would be so un­happy for her that he might somehow do or say something to give her a clue to his feelings.

  'Greg, is it...' She paused, unable to ask. 'Are you saying it's all over?'

  'Yes,' he said briefly, agonised.

  'Greg darling...’

  'Come now, Sara. She needs you. I can't bear to see her.'

  'I'm coming now,' she said, tears in her eyes. 'Please, Greg, try to bear it.' Words were so inade­quate, so stupid. Men had invented them as in­struments of communication and when it really mattered, they failed. At times like these words could do nothing. Human beings relied instead upon looks, touches, unformed murmurs.

  She had totally forgotten Nick in the shock of hearing of Rob's death. She put down the phone and turned to find her clothes, her face distracted, pale.

  Nick had dressed and was standing by the couch, a glass in his hand, staring at the whisky in it with a face in which nothing showed.

  'I've got to go,' she said miserably, picking up her dress. The silver folds slid over her head and she slid into her shoes, her red-gold hair tangled and confused after their lovemaking.

  'He whistles and you come,' Nick said to his glass.

  She looked at him, opened her mouth to explain and then on instinct closed it. What could she say?

  She had almost committed an act of monumental folly and it was best just to go.

  'Could you get me a taxi?' she asked nervously.

  'I'll drive you,' said Nick. He spoke each word as though he hated the taste of them in his mouth and his face was savage. 'What did he do? Threatened to leave you, did he? Said it was all over if you didn't come hurrying back, to him?'

  He had misread the conversation, she realised, but maybe that was all for the best.

  'Please, could we go?' she asked in a stiff little voice. 'I'm in a hurry.'

  'Of course,' he said, swallowing the whisky. The glass hit the table with a crash and he stalked to the door. Sara followed in his wake, looking at his black head with bitter resignation.

  In the luxurious silver-grey car he said sarcastic­ally, 'How lucky we didn't fix a date for you to sec the bank.'

  She looked at her hands without answering, her head bent.

  'You little bitch,' he muttered. 'If you love him like this, why were you in my arms just now?' His hand clamped down on her arm, wrenching it. She gave a little cry of pain and looked up, finding the blue eyes unrecognisable in their burning anger.

  'Answer me. Why were you going to let me make love to you? You were, weren't you? You can't deny that. Ten minutes more and we'd have been in bed. So why? Do you do this all the time? Is that it? Is he used to it? Is that why he won't marry you?'

  She pulled her arm out of his savage grip, nursing

  'Thank you,' Nick muttered. 'Maybe I will.' He started the car and roared out without even looking where he was going, almost colliding with another car as they shot out of the underground car­park. A horn blared angrily and Nick ignored it, driving like a madman, his face a black mask across which the yellow lamplight flashed now and then, illuminating eyes which had a deep fiery rage in them and a mouth which was straight and bitter. He drove her back to her house. When the car ground to a halt with a squeal she opened the door and got out. She had barely taken two steps when the car roared away again. She looked after the vanishing tail lights, feeling sick. She would never

  see him again; she was certain of that.

  She turned and hurried down the road to Lucy's house, her heels clicking metallically on the pavement. A cat ran across the road, and she jumped, shivering. There were lights on in the lower storey and as she went up the path Greg opened the door and silently stood back to let her pass.

  She looked at him sharply, seeing everything, knowing him so well that she saw what Greg made certain nobody else ever saw.

  He gestured to the sitting-room and Sara went in there. Lucy sat in a chair, very upright, looking white and shocked, her lower lip grazed and wear­ing spots of blood as though she had been biting it tor a long time.

  Sara went to her and put her arms around her, holding her, but Lucy didn't cry until Sara herself sobbed abruptly, unable to hold it back, and then Lucy began to cry in a way which Sara found so un­bearable that she cried too.

  Greg closed the door on them and walked away.

  An hour later, Lucy let Sara put her to bed and lay like a child in between the sheets, her black hair straying loose over the pillow. Sara had got her to drink some warm milk into which she had secretly placed a sleeping pill the doctor had given her. Lucy said quietly, 'It was so quick. I hadn't expected it— that's what I can't bear. There was no time any more.'

  Sara picked up her hairbrush and brushed her hair gently, winding the strands round her fingers. Lucy talked a little, her voice growing slower and sleepier, and then at last her eyes closed and Sara stopped brushing her hair and clicked off the light.

  She found Greg in the kitchen playing a slow game of patience with a pack of very old cards. He looked up at her and she came over to kiss his fore­head lightly.

  'It was his heart in the end,’ Greg said. 'Just stopped.'

  'Have you had anything to drink? Shall I make you some coffee or cocoa?'

  'Cocoa,' said. Greg, shuffling his cards back to­gether.

  He watched her go over and light the gas under a saucepan of milk. 'What did I interrupt, Sara?' he asked flatly. 'Rawdon sounded berserk.'

  'Nothing,' she said. 'Not a thing.' Nothing that mattered, she thought. He might have saved her from a great deal of grief because Nick was right, of course. If Greg hadn't rung she would have been in bed with him by now. She hadn't even thought of evading him. She had been giving herself without restraint and now she was sick
with disgust at her own stupidity. If she had drifted into an affair with him she would have got hurt in the end because Nick Rawdon didn't belong in her world and she

  didn't belong in his. The expensive trappings of luxury in his penthouse should have stopped her from making a fool of herself, but they hadn't. She had been besottedly eager to let him have whatever he wanted, and he would have taken everything he could.

  'Sure?' Greg asked, and she looked round, sur­prised by his presence because she had forgotten him for a moment.

  She gave him a bitter smile. 'Oh, I'm sure. I'm glad you rang,'

  'I despise myself,' Greg said sombrely. 'I couldn't do a thing because she hadn't cried and I knew if she did I might go to pieces, so I had to send for you. I'm a coward, a weak fool.' He crashed his hand down and the cards flew all around the room like the scene from Alice in Wonderland.

  'Don't torture yourself,' Sara said, moving to him, bending to kiss his cold white cheek.

  'I let her down. I should have been the one to comfort her and I didn't have the nerve.'

  'You did the best thing,' Sara assured him. Anxiously she saw that he was looking ill, his face totally without colour, a muscle twitching in his check and a reflex under his eye making the whole lid quiver.

  'She just sat there. I thought she was dying. She was like someone in a desert, a wasteland. And I couldn't do a thing. I had to send for you.' It was obsessing him, his own failure, as he saw it.

  She turned to make the cocoa and surreptitiously slipped one of Lucy's sleeping pills into it. 'Drink this and go to bed,' she said.

  Greg looked at it with distaste. 'I don't really want it,' he told her.

  She held it to his lips as though he was a child and he grimaced and drank. She heard him stumble as he went up the stairs to the spare room which he was using. Sara had elected to sit up all night. She wanted to be awake if Lucy cried out, and at four in the morning Lucy did wake up, crying weakly until Sara hushed her back to sleep. She sat all night on the landing in the little house with a book open on her knees to which her eyes never turned.