by Anne Mather
Sara grimaced. ‘You’re very gallant all of a sudden.’
‘No.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘Only honest.’ Then he removed one hand from the wheel to cover her knee. ‘Tell you what, how do you fancy driving to Penzance? We could have a meal there, as it’s Mrs Penworthy’s night off. I know she’s left a cold buffet,’ he added, as she opened her mouth to protest, ‘but that won’t take any harm. We can have it for lunch tomorrow.’
Sara looked at him doubtfully. In her haste to accompany him, she had left her handbag at the house, and she knew she dared not go all the way to Penzance without the reassurance of her bottle of tablets.
‘I—I can’t go anywhere like this,’ she said now, conscious of those hard fingers on her leg. ‘I mean, I’m not wearing any make-up!’
‘You look all right to me,’ he retorted, withdrawing his hand to change into a lower gear as they climbed the coast road. ‘What do you really mean? That you don’t want to go to Penzance with me?’
‘No!’ Sara was indignant. ‘I—I would like to go with you—’
‘So?’
‘—but couldn’t we call at the house first? So that I could—tidy myself.’
‘Change your clothes, you mean?’ Michael’s eyes appraised her. ‘Wear something more—feminine?’ Sara sighed. ‘If—if you want me to. But I warn you, I didn’t bring an evening dress.’
Michael frowned. ‘Do you honestly feel up to this?’
Sara nodded.
‘All right. But don’t be long. It’s after five now, and it’s quite a drive.’
He followed her into the hall of the house, but as she went towards the study his voice stopped her.
‘What are you doing?’
Sara turned. ‘My—handbag,’ she said, indicating the room behind her. ‘I was just going to get it.’
‘I’ll get that,’ declared Michael brusquely. ‘You get ready. I’ll see you down here in fifteen minutes.’
She had no choice but to accept his offer, but she climbed the stairs with some misgivings. What was she going to wear? She didn’t feel like getting changed at all, but somehow she had to make the effort.
The only item of truly feminine attire she had brought with her was a printed silk shirtwaister that was suitable for any occasion. The sleeves were elbowlength and cuffed, and the waistline was drawn in with matching strings, giving a bloused effect. The skirt was full and pleated, and swung against her slender legs, and she managed to find a pair of unladdered tights to wear with high-heeled black sandal-shoes. With her hair combed and silky, and an eye-shadow adding mystery to eyes already darkened with exhaustion, she looked good, and she decided that half her weariness was due to suppressed emotion. Perhaps if she relaxed, if she let her feelings dictate her mood, just for once she might feel as good as she looked.
The sheepskin was the only coat she had brought with her, and she slung it around her shoulders as she went down the stairs. Michael was right, she thought, she did wear too many masculine clothes. It was good to feel completely feminine again.
Michael was in the drawing room when she came downstairs, standing in front of the fire, which Mrs Penworthy had tended before she left. There were oil-heated radiators in the house, but fires were so much more homely, and Sara had been glad of their cosy warmth during the long lonely evenings.
Michael turned as she appeared in the doorway. He, too, had changed, swapping his jeans for a pair of black suede pants, and his corded jacket for a dark blue velvet one. She had never seen him looking more alien or more attractive, and she felt the disturbing tingling of awareness when the sensual twisting of his mouth told her that he found her attractive, too. But then her eyes dropped to what he was holding in his hands, and she had to grasp the door frame for support as he exhibited it between his forefinger and thumb. It was her bottle of tablets, and she remembered too late that she had left them lying on the desk in the study.
‘What are these?’ he enquired, inexorably, crossing the space between them to hold them in front of her face. ‘Pectotone! What is Pectotone? What’s it for? And what are you doing with them?’
Sara drew a deep breath. ‘Is it anything to do with you?’ she countered, playing for time. Then: ‘They’re a treatment for—for asthma, if you must know.’
‘Asthma!’ Michael gazed at her. Then he looked at the label on the bottle again. ‘Asthma!’ he repeated, and for one awful moment she thought he had recognised the drug. ‘You have—asthma?’
Sara expelled her breath unevenly. ‘I—I’m afraid so.’
‘My God!’ Michael’s relief was palpable, and she despised herself in that minute for lying to him so blatantly. ‘And I thought…’ He shook his head. ‘I thought you must be some kind of—of addict. I don’t know.’ He pressed the bottle into her limp hands. ‘That explains everything, doesn’t it? Lord, I was beginning to think you must have taken an overdose earlier.’
Sara forced a smile. ‘I’m not a drug addict,’ she assured him faintly, glad at least in this instance she could be honest. ‘I—where’s my handbag?’
‘On the chair there.’ Michael made a gesture towards the hearth, but as she would have moved past him he caught her arm. ‘I—don’t mind, you know,’ he muttered huskily, his gaze lingering on her mouth. ‘I mean—asthma doesn’t scare me, or anything.’ He sighed, his gaze shifting lower to the enticing hollow visible below the neckline of her dress. ‘That is—if you thought—if you even imagined—that being an asthmatic would make any difference to my feelings for you—’
‘Michael, please!’ This was something she couldn’t stand, and with a snarl of impatience he released her, waiting by the door as she collected her handbag from the armchair by the fire.
The drive to Penzance took longer than even Michael had anticipated. The roads were busy with home-going motorists, and as well as local traffic, there were the occasional tourists, towing their caravans, clogging the narrow highways. It was as well Michael had to concentrate on his driving, Sara thought, as they hardly spoke to one another, and she wondered rather hysterically how generously he would react to her real condition. He thought he understood, but he didn’t understand at all.
Sara had never been to Penzance before, and she looked with interest at its narrow High Street, with the pavement elevated above the road. She saw the heliport, and the harbour, and restrained her curiosity when Michael turned off the road on to a cobbled track that led up beside an old boathouse. A crown and anchor hanging outside a building just behind the boathouse indicated a public house, but after Michael had parked the Jaguar, and they crossed the tiny car-park to enter the lighted porchway of the inn, she saw it was also a small, but intimate, restaurant.
The head waiter, or perhaps he was the owner, Sara couldn’t be sure, recognised her companion and came towards them welcomingly. ‘Michael!’ he exclaimed, shaking his hand warmly. ‘We didn’t expect to see you again this week.’ His eyes flickered over Sara. ‘A table for two, is it?’
‘That’s right. But we’ll have a drink first.’ Michael put a hand beneath Sara’s elbow, and indicated the bar opposite. ‘Dinner in—half an hour, eh, Patrick? We’re in no hurry.’
The man made an expansive gesture, and with a brief smile Michael guided Sara into the bar. Once there, his hand fell away, and his face was sombre as he indicated the stools at the bar.
‘What will you have?’ he asked, taking her coat from her shoulders and folding it on to an adjoining stool.
‘A Martini? Sherry? Or something else?’
‘A—Martini would be fine,’ she answered, glancing about her at the ship’s wheel on the wall, and the lanterns hung over the bar. ‘This is nice. Do you come here often?’
Michael ordered their drinks, then levered himself on to the stool beside her. The bar was empty at this hour of the evening, and apart from an old man seated in a corner, smoking his pipe, they had the place to themselves.
‘A—friend of mine introduced me to it,’ Michael remarked shortly,
helping himself to some nuts off the bar. ‘And it happened that I already knew Patrick Keegan. We were at school together.’
‘I see.’ Sara cupped her chin on her knuckles, resting her elbow on the bar. ‘And is—Mr Keegan—the owner?’
‘That’s right.’
Michael was curt, and on impulse she turned to him, running tentative fingers over his shoulder. The material of his jacket was sensuously soft to the touch, but the muscle beneath was satisfyingly hard. When he didn’t flinch away, she leant closer, resting her chin on her fingers and saying, so that her breath fanned his ear:
‘Don’t be angry with me, please! Can’t we just be friends? I don’t want to spoil the evening.’
Michael turned his head to look at her, and she was forced to draw back a little to meet his stare. This close, the irises of his eyes seemed almost golden, their smouldering fire evidence of his simmering mood.
‘I am not angry with you,’ he declared, though his tone hinted otherwise. ‘But I’m only human, Sara, and you’re too intelligent a person not to know what’s wrong with me.’
Sara’s tongue made a provocative appearance, and although she was inclined to withdraw her hand, she did not do so. ‘I gather you approve of my dress,’ she murmured instead, allowing her fingertips to stroke his ear lobes, and it was he who broke their visual contact, hunching his shoulders as he picked up the glass containing the whisky he had ordered for himself.
Sara was intoxicated by her success. It was the first time in her life she had tested the strength of her own sex appeal, and Michael’s reaction had been definitely positive. It made her want to go on, to see how far she could go, and the reassuring surroundings of the bar urged her to try.
‘I like your jacket,’ she said now, deliberately allowing her fingers to brush the hair at his nape as she stroked his collar. ‘It’s so soft—so smooth! I like touching it.’
Michael expelled an uneven breath, but he made no response, and encouraged by his restraint, she actually ran her fingers into his hair, tugging them down through the dark silky strands.
‘I’d advise you to give it up,’ he said suddenly, without looking at her. ‘Unless you want more trouble than you expect.’ And at her horrified withdrawal, he continued dryly: ‘I realise you feel secure here, but don’t forget, we go home together.’
Sara took a hasty taste of her own drink, grimacing at the raw flavour of vermouth. But at least it gave her something to do, and with trembling fingers she helped herself to some ice from the barrel on the bar. Michael turned to look at her again as she fumbled with the ice, and as she caught his eye, her features stiffened resentfully. Was he laughing at her? There seemed a definite twitch to his lips, and she pursed hers as she dropped two squares of ice into her drink.
‘I do like your dress,’ he said suddenly, taking the tongs from her and retaining his hold on her hand. ‘And I guess I am a moody devil. But I’ve never felt this way about a woman before, and I don’t honestly know how to handle it.’
He was suddenly so serious, so sincere—and his words seemed to tear her to pieces. ‘Michael—’ she began, wanting to reassure him, but unable to find the words she wanted to say.
‘Oh, what the hell—’
With a muffled oath, he curved a hand round the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to his. He did not seem to care who might be watching them, and after the first few seconds, neither did Sara. Somehow she was off the bar stool and between his legs, conscious of his stirring muscles against her stomach and careless of the incongruity of their surroundings. He was devouring her, she thought fancifully, but she was as eager as he was to satisfy his hungry passion.
She came to her senses to find her face cupped between his hands, and when she reluctantly opened her eyes it was to find Michael watching her with a devastatingly tender expression on his face.
‘Why didn’t you kiss me like that this afternoon?’ he demanded in a low voice, his thumb probing the corner of her mouth. ‘I knew I wasn’t mistaken about you. You’re all fire beneath that cool exterior. And I want you, Sara. I need you—’
‘Mike! Mike, it is you, isn’t it? Heavens, I didn’t know you were coming here tonight.’
The light feminine voice hailed them from the doorway of the small bar, and Sara scarcely had time to struggle free before the young woman reached them. Michael had not wanted to let her go, and the slumberous emotion in his eyes gave way to mild impatience as he turned to face the newcomer. Sara was aware of his impatience, and guessed it was with her, but she couldn’t help it. She was overwhelmingly conscious of her own dishevelled appearance, and half infuriated that he could appear so cool and composed when only minutes before she had felt his aroused body thrusting against hers.
Maybe he was still aroused, she thought, rather spitefully, as she saw that the girl who had come to join them was a strikingly attractive creature. She was tall, and red-haired, and her voluptuous curves made Sara feel almost boyish in comparison. She was glad she was not wearing a pants suit, for the other girl was, but no one, least of all Michael, could have described her attire as masculine. On the contrary, she was almost vulgarly feminine, Sara decided, as the other girl’s full breasts swelled against the fastening of her jacket. Who was she? And what did she want? Could this be one of the doctor’s daughters that Mrs Penworthy had spoken about?
Michael had greeted the girl warmly, and Sara’s lips tightened as long painted fingernails lingered on his cheek. He was so casual, she thought angrily, wishing she knew where the ladies’ room was. She didn’t want to meet his girl-friends, and hardly thinking what she was doing, she picked up her Martini and swallowed it in a most unfeminine gulp.
‘Sara…’ Michael had turned back to her now, and she looked at him with guarded eyes.
‘Yes?’
‘Sara, I want you to meet an old friend of mine—Marion Morton. Marion, this is Sara Fortune. You remember? She’s staying with me at Raven’s Mill for a couple of weeks.’
Sara could have strangled him there and then. Apart from the unpalatable information that this must be the Mrs Morton with whom he had been spending so much of his time, she was appalled that he dared describe her presence at the house in such ambiguous terms. She could well imagine what Marion Morton must be thinking, and her face burned with angry resentment.
‘I think you ought to have explained that I didn’t know you were staying in the house when I came to Ravens Mill!’ she retorted now, ignoring the censure in Michael’s eyes. She paused, aware of the embarrassed silence she had created, and then went on: ‘I wonder, Mrs Morton, could you tell me where the ladies’ room is? I’d like to—er—wash my hands.’
‘Oh—oh, of course.’ Marion exchanged a look with Michael, and then took Sara’s arm and drew her to the door, pointing down the passage towards the back of the building. ‘It’s through there,’ she said, her smile irritating Sara even more. ‘Can you find it?’
‘I should think so,’ declared Sara shortly, marching away, aware as she did so that she had never behaved so badly in her life.
Fortunately the tiny cloakroom was empty, and Sara viewed her reflection with horrified eyes. Her lips were bare, and the skin around them had been reddened by the bruising pressure of Michael’s mouth. Her cheeks were flushed with hectic colour, and her hair was tangled where his hands had run through it. She looked—ravaged; yes, that was the word, she thought in dismay, realising how foolish she must have sounded when she denied any relationship with Michael.
A powder-based make-up erased much of the unsightly chafing, and a brick-coloured lip-gloss gave her mouth a dusky radiance. With her hair combed and silky, and some perfume behind her ears, she felt a little more capable of facing whatever was to come.
Her hopes that Marion Morton might have disappeared in her absence were not realised. The older girl was now seated on one of the stools at the bar, with Michael on one side, and another man on the other. Sara hesitated in the doorway, feeling an intruder. But she was obli
ged to join them, and she crossed the stoneflagged floor towards them feeling a little of the faintness she had experienced earlier in the day.
Both men got off their stools at her approach, and her eyes went automatically to Michael’s. But he avoided her gaze, waiting until she was seated before indicating the other man, and saying: ‘This is Norman Morton, Sara—Marion’s husband.’
Sara managed to make a polite response to Norman Morton’s greeting, but she felt somewhat chastened by his appearance. Obviously he also knew and liked Michael, and her earlier reactions seemed petty and childlike. Of course, it was still possible that Michael’s relationship with his boyhood friend was not as innocent as it appeared, but in any case, it was nothing to do with her, and she should not have behaved as she had.
Norman Morton was a mild-mannered Cornishman, tall and dark, broader than Michael, but inclined to soft speaking. When his wife and Michael started talking about horses, he asked Sara about London, and she found herself relaxing in his company and liking his quiet courtesy. She accepted another drink and swallowed it rashly, realising after she had done so that she was not accustomed to drinking at all, but using it as a barrier to the frequently brooding glances Michael cast in her direction.
It was no surprise when Michael suggested they all ate dinner together, and a table for four was quickly provided. Patrick Keegan served them himself, and it was obvious from their conversation that the Mortons were as well acquainted with him as Michael.
‘Michael tells me you’re writing a book, Sara,’ Marion remarked at one point, and Sara forced herself to be polite.
‘That’s right,’ she agreed stiffly. ‘It’s just a novel for children, though.’
‘Just!’ Marion was impressed. ‘I have trouble keeping my ledgers up to date.’ She smiled. ‘I wouldn’t know how to start writing a book!’
‘Sara works in a publisher’s office,’ put in Michael dauntingly. ‘She’s used to working with manuscripts.’