by Penny Jordan
She would try and snatch the car keys as he got out, India thought sickly, or failing that she would make a run for it…
The car stopped, the headlights illuminating what India would normally have considered a charming country house. Built of stone, with a deep bay window either side of an attractive open porch, it had a homely welcoming air which at other times would have drawn her irresistibly. She waited for Simon to get out of the car, but to her dismay he put it in gear and moved forward slowly. The garage door lifted and they slid inside, the door closing firmly behind them.
They were in a large garage with a courtesy door into the house; so much for her plans for escape, India thought bitterly, forced to wait until Simon uncoiled himself from the car and moved to her door to unlock it for her.
His hand on her elbow helped her out, changing to the grip of a gaoler as he escorted her towards the door. It hadn’t been locked, but India noticed that he locked it after him, reaching up to switch on the lights.
They were in a laundry room, fitted with washing machine and freezer. Simon moved forward, forcing India to accompany him, as he opened the door to what was obviously the kitchen. It was generously proportioned and comfortable, with units similar to the ones in India’s apartment, but these, she could tell, were craftsman-built, the wood smooth and rich. This was a family kitchen, she thought, staring round it; not that of a single, sophisticated man. In this kitchen she could imagine a toddler playing with a puppy while a baby slept in its cradle and their mother busied herself with the baking.
‘What’s the matter?’ Simon jeered sardonically, ‘Trying to put a price on it? You couldn’t. I bought this as a tumbledown cottage with my first earnings…’
‘And have spent a considerable amount on it since,’ India retorted.
‘In time and hard graft, yes—but money no. What’s the matter? Are you surprised that I should find enjoyment in rebuilding and refashioning the past? But then you don’t know me, do you?’
‘And you don’t know me!’ India flung at him fiercely. ‘You accuse me of trying to steal your cousin’s husband, of breaking up their marriage, of…’
‘Okay, that’s enough. If you’re going to have hysterics have them by the sink. That way it will be easier to throw cold water on them.’
Something about the hard, inimical gleam in his eyes made India realise that he wasn’t joking.
‘Come with me,’ he commanded, grasping her arm firmly. She would be bruised in the morning; already her wrist was aching from the pressure of those merciless fingers.
‘How can you be so sure of keeping me here all weekend?’ India demanded as he marched her out into an attractive square hall, complete with grandfather clock which ticked melodiously, a Persian rug similar to her own a splash of rich colour against the stained and polished floorboards.
‘Quite simple. Unless I’m with you, I intend to lock you in your room.’ He produced a key from his pocket and held it up in front of her. ‘One of the things the people who built in the nineteenth century insisted upon—privacy. All the doors in this house have locks; all the locks have keys, and guess who has all the keys? And forget any schoolgirl heroics such as clambering out of the window. I’m putting you in what was the nursery—another golden Victorian idea; they put bars across their nursery windows, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘I’m only surprised that you aren’t forcing me to share your room!’ India flung at him.
‘What for?’ Simon Herries asked her brutally. ‘I’m not so frustrated that I need to avail myself of Mel’s leavings; nor ever likely to be.’
This time India did slap him—hard, with the flat of her palm, the blow stinging her as much as it stung him, leaving her standing staring at the bright red mark of her hand against the taut flesh of his skin in sick horror. Even as a child she had had a dread of physical violence, had been a helpless target for bullies and had physically felt sick at the thought of being smacked. All her life she had considered that descending to physical violence represented the depths of human degradation, and yet now, in one split second, the emotions she had always kept so carefully leashed had boiled up inside her and forced her into a physical reaction which filled her with shame and self-loathing.
‘Bitch!’ Simon was breathing heavily, a muscle twitching spasmodically in his jaw. India watched it in horrified fascination.
‘Oh no,’ he said softly, as though he had read her mind, ‘I’m not falling for that one. First provoke, then seduce? I’m too experienced a hand at the game to be taken in like that. What were you hoping to achieve? Surely you aren’t optimistic or stupid enough to think you can change my mind? Or was it plain ordinary frustration? Mel has been away for quite a while, hasn’t he? With a protector like him I expect it’s worth your while not to take the risk of taking another lover when he’s away. You’re full of cute little touches like that, aren’t you? Like leaving that lamp glowing so invitingly, for one…’
‘I hate you!’ India choked out. ‘I don’t know how, but I’m going to make you pay for this—and pay dearly!’
He ignored her, half dragging her behind him as he mounted polished stairs, worn with the tread of many feet, to a small galleried landing. He fitted the key he had shown her into one of the doors, flinging it open and motioning her inside.
It was a small room, furnished with a bed and very little more. There was a basin in one corner, curtains hanging up at the window, and India, her imagination already working overtime, felt as though the room were enclosing her like a prison.
‘Sorry about the lack of feminine frills,’ Simon Herries told her in a tone that conveyed that he could not have cared less. ‘If you want to use the bathroom, you’ve got fifteen minutes. It doesn’t lock from the inside.’
His mouth thinned as India shot him a look of undiluted dislike.
‘Oh, come on,’ he demanded harshly, ‘don’t try that one on, we both know you’re no shrinking virgin!’
‘I haven’t got anything to sleep in,’ India protested, saying the first thing that came into her head, then blushing from head to foot as Simon Herries examined her slowly and thoroughly.
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘if you’re not used to sleeping alone you’ll probably find it cold. It wouldn’t do you any harm to suffer, but the last thing I want is to have a case of pneumonia on my hands. I’ll see what I can find. Come with me.’
She was forced to follow him along the landing into another room which was plainly his own bedroom, furnished in dark blues, cream and rust, a masculine and very relaxing room.
‘Wait here.’ She was thrust down into the softness of the double bed while Simon Herries pulled open a drawer and removed a pair of silk pyjamas.
‘No need to look like that,’ he said dryly as she stared at them. ‘They won’t contaminate you. They’ve never been worn. I keep them for… appearances. Personally I don’t like anything to come between me and… Blushing? Clever girl!’ he drawled mock-admiringly. ‘Mel must like that; he’s an old-fashioned type at heart, which is probably why you’ve managed to get so much out of him. He never could resist a hard-luck story.’
‘Unlike you. You’re inhuman, do you know that?’
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes if you want to use the bathroom,’ he reminded her, and India was forced to concede that for the moment he held the upper hand and there was no way that she was going to be allowed to escape. Wearily she walked towards the bathroom, gripping the cream silk pyjamas.
Fourteen minutes later she emerged to find Simon Herries propped up against the wall. He surveyed her shiny make-up-free face and pyjama-clad figure coolly, his eyes dwelling for disturbing seconds on the thrust of India’s breasts against the soft silk. She had thrown her cloak around her shoulders and she huddled into it instinctively as he looked at her, hating him for making her feel so aware of her own body, and hating herself for her reaction to his arrogant scrutiny.
The tiny bedroom was cold and cheerless. Sleep eluded her as she plotted and re-plotted on how s
he was going to get away. How she would love to be able to confront him with the truth—that all his careful planning had been for nothing. Poor Alison, she thought soberly; she felt sorry for Mel’s wife, and thanked God that her conscience was clear. She heard water running in the bathroom and tensed instinctively, her mouth dry and her heart thudding. What was the matter with her? She had nothing to fear physically from Simon Herries, he had made that more than clear. All she had to do was to wait; sooner or later she would get an opportunity to escape, and even if she didn’t her sentence was restricted to the weekend—if she could survive that long in Simon Herries’ company, she reflected grimly. Perhaps it would sweeten the pill a little if she kept telling herself that he was hating her presence every bit as much as she hated his. Arrogant bully! she thought resentfully, kidnapping her, dragging her down here, refusing to listen to her, or give her a chance to explain.
Still fuming, her tired body forced her mind to relinquish its hold on reality, and sleep stole over her.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN India opened her eyes she couldn’t remember where she was. All she could see was the pattern cast by the sun shining through the barred window, and her heart started to thump in slow terror until she realised that she was not literally imprisoned in some cell but merely an unwilling occupant of Simon Herries’ nursery.
Nursery! For the first time she was able to examine her surroundings in daylight, and what she saw made her wrinkle her nose in disgust.
The walls were painted a uniform beige which had turned to grubby grey in places. A thin threadbare rug, as unlike her Persian rug as it was possible to be, was the sole floor covering, shabby, faded curtains hanging at the windows. To India the whole room was depressing. Pity the poor children who had had to endure it, she reflected, sliding out of the bed and padding across to the window, hitching up the over-long pyjamas as she did so.
In any other circumstances the view from the bedroom would have enchanted her. Born and bred in Cornwall, she missed the countryside and the sea. There was no churning, fascinating Atlantic here, but mile after mile of rolling fields, pale green with the tiny shoots of spring crops; the sky a pale duck egg blue. A primrose yellow sun shone down on the garden below; a tangle of honeysuckle and old-fashioned roses climbing upwards towards her dormer window and the ancient tiles above it.
If this house were hers she would tear down these bars, and make a feature out of the small bay window; a covered seat perhaps, with a hinged lid to accommodate children’s toys; pretty Laura Ashley cottons, or her favourite Tissunique from Liberty’s; polished floorboards; fresh cane furniture… She was so absorbed in mentally refurbishing the room that she almost forgot what she was doing in it. Almost—but not quite.
A glance from the bedroom window had been enough to assure her that even if it had not been barred she couldn’t possibly have climbed to freedom from it.
Securing her borrowed pyjamas with one hand, she headed for the door. Trust Simon Herries to point out that the pyjamas had never been worn. For-one second she had a disturbing mental image of his body without the civilising influence of sophisticated clothes. Her heart seemed to stand still, the blood leaving her face, only to rush back in a wave of fierce colour, as logic fought against instinct. Why, when all the other men she had met in her twenty-five years had left her cool, if not cold, did she suddenly have to react like this to a man she actively despised?
It must be his sheer physical charisma, she decided weakly, refusing to acknowledge the power of her traitorous thoughts, and reaching for the door with her free hand.
To her amazement it opened. Without stopping to think she stepped forward, coming to an abrupt halt as she found her eyes on a level with the tanned column of Simon Herries’ throat. Wildly she glanced downwards—a mistake; the terry robe which appeared to be his only covering was merely belted loosely around the waist, revealing several inches of tanned flesh against which a sprinkling of dark hairs curled and through which he was pushing his fingers idly, rubbing the taut flesh beneath.
Deep down inside her India felt something quiver into life; a heated melting sensation of which she had no prior experience. Dragging her eyes away from Simon Herries’ body, she looked upwards, and saw to her consternation that he was regarding her with eyes whose expression told her that he was sardonically aware of her reaction.
Heat scorched through her, starting in the pit of her stomach and spreading outwards until there was not a part of her unaware of it. She started to tremble, reaching instinctively for the door, and instead found that her groping fingers were clutching the solid muscle of Simon Herries’ arm.
‘Thinking of going somewhere?’
‘Dressed like this?’
If she had hoped to emulate his sardonically dry tones, she had failed, because instead of catching him off guard they merely drew wryly appraising eyes to the full roundedness of her breasts and the slender line of her thighs beneath the borrowed pyjamas.
‘It might cause quite a stir,’ he agreed mockingly, ‘but I shouldn’t have thought a little thing like that would deter you… Not that you would have got very far. The garage is locked, as are the doors, and I have the keys. Unless of course you were planning to enter my room and make a search.’
Somehow the way he drawled the words imbued them with a sexuality that left India burning from head to toe with furious resentment, her fingers curling instinctively into the terry towelling.
All her good intentions of saying and doing nothing to further antagonise him but merely to endure the weekend as best she could, and once it was over put it safely behind her were forgotten. Her eyes kindling she took a deep breath.
‘Why…’
‘Simon? You up yet?’
Iron fingers clamped over her mouth, dark grey eyes warning her not to speak, and then to India’s horror the pleasant feminine voice continued hesitantly, ‘Mel’s with me. He’s just arrived home. Can we come up?’
The moment she heard Melford’s name uttered India stiffened.
Without replying to the woman who India took to be Alison, Mel’s wife, Simon Herries grasped India’s wrist, pulling her quickly along the short distance between her room and his, and thrusting her inside, his hand still over her mouth.
He had moved so quickly that India hadn’t had the opportunity to resist, but as he released her, quickly spinning her round, she made the most of her freedom, and darted towards the door, no firm purpose in mind save escape from the grimly determined look she saw in Simon’s eyes.
She had barely taken two paces when her arm was seized with a grip that rocked her back on her heels, and taking momentary advantage of her unsteadiness, Simon used his superior weight to force her backwards on to the rumpled bed, pinning her there with the hardness of his body.
India could hear footsteps on the stairs, a puzzled female voice saying uncertainly, ‘I’m sure he said it was this weekend he was coming down. Mrs Barton told me yesterday she’d stocked up the fridge for him.’
‘Perhaps he’s gone out; visiting one of his lady-friends. You know Simon.’
India closed her eyes as she recognised Mel’s familiar tones.
When she opened them again Simon Herries was watching her without compassion or any other emotion save for a cold, clinical detachment which sent danger signals flashing in her brain.
They both heard the hand on the door handle at the same time. India closed her eyes again, shivering and tense, gasping with shock as with one ruthless movement Simon ripped open her pyjama jacket, exposing the quivering swell of her breasts, her skin smooth and pale, and delicately rose-pink-tipped.
Her cry of protest was lost beneath hard male lips, that dominated and abused, bruising the soft inner flesh of her mouth, as lean, cruel fingers bruised her upper arms, the rough scrape of his body hair rasping against her breasts as he forced her down against the mattress.
Panic and hysteria fought equally for supremacy as India arched her back convulsively, trying to escape
the suffocating intensely male presence; the alien intrusion of fingers which cupped her breast with shameless disregard for who might observe him, as the bedroom door was pushed open and a small, dark woman, followed by Melford Taylor, entered the room.
For a moment there was simply silence; and then both Alison and Melford spoke together, Alison apologising—not to India, but to Simon; who had made a brief parody of shielding India from their eyes by pulling a corner of a sheet over her exposed breasts—that neither Alison nor Mel were deceived by this gentlemanly gesture was patently obvious from the faint pink tinge to Alison’s creamy skin, and the grey, haunted expression in Mel’s eyes as he studiously avoided looking at India.
‘You might have knocked,’ Simon Herries said easily. ‘What brings you here at this ungodly hour of the day anyway?’ Without giving his cousin an opportunity to reply he added casually, ‘Oh, by the way, meet India. India, my cousin Alison and her husband Mel. It’s okay, Mel, no one expects you to shake hands in the circumstances,’ he added sardonically, as Mel stepped forward and then back, his face haggard. ‘After all, they hardly warrant any formality.’
‘We came to see if you fancied lunch at the Plough and Flail,’ Alison said quickly. ‘But of course…’
‘Sounds great,’ Simon interrupted smoothly, his fingers lacing tightly with India’s in a painful reminder of the fact that she was at his mercy.
‘We’ll enjoy it, won’t we, darling? Besides, it will save you having to make lunch.’
‘I don’t mind,’ India protested huskily, unable to bear the thought of Mel’s reproachful eyes on her all through lunch. ‘I’ll enjoy cooking for you…’
God, how it hurt to force the lies from her aching throat, but there was no other alternative.
Simon’s laugh scorched her skin, his lips nuzzling the side of her throat where a pulse throbbed betrayingly, his voice soft and falsely indulgent as he murmured,
‘Don’t waste your energy, I can think of far more entertaining ways of passing the time, can’t you?’