An Irresistible Flirtation

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘Hah! You’re a bit more like it.’

  And so it must have been. This fish didn’t leap; it surged in a swirl on the surface, then sped off down the pool, bending the fishing-rod into a tight bow as Ford laughed with delight.

  ‘Oh, you beauty,’ he said, then shouted to Saunders without taking his eyes from the swiftly moving fish. ‘I’ve been after this one for five years, now, He’s a ripper fish — feed us for a week if I can land him.’

  Then he lapsed into silence, clearly transfixed by his battle with the fish as it surged through the pool, tearing line from Ford’s reel and showing no sign of easy capitulation.

  Saunders was on her feet now, dancing with excitement as Ford surged down the edge of the pool, moving deeper and deeper into the water as he followed the fish, laughing wildly and shouting encouragement all the way.

  ‘Go, you beauty! Go! Oh, you little ripper!’

  He was more than waist-deep now, and in a moment even deeper, the water up to his chest as he struggled to keep up with the fish that was steadily moving down the pool and showing no sign of tiring.

  The great fish leapt, but only once. Which was enough, at least, for Saunders to see how big it really was, how truly magnificent in its battle for freedom. Then it was surging down the pool again, moving around in a broad circle as it moved towards some destination only it could know.

  Ford shouted encouragement, and Saunders suddenly realised that she, too, was doing that — encouragement for the fish, not the fisherman.

  But too late; the fish hadn’t quite made it to the shelter it sought, and she found herself watching with a growing sensation of concern as Ford began to make up line, to bring the great fish in closer and closer to where he stood — thigh-deep now — in the water.

  The rod bowed, the line angled so close that he could run his fingers down it, and then, suddenly, there was an almighty flurry of man and fish, and water flashing in the evening sunlight, and the fish was gone.

  Ford moved as if exhausted, wading his way to the shore. But his eyes were alive, his smile so radiant it rivalled the dying sun.

  ‘Wonderful!’ he cried as he reached the shore. ‘Wasn’t he brilliant? That’s the fourth time I’ve had him on, and this time I very nearly did have him!’

  It wasn’t until he’d reached the gravel bank where Saunders waited that he quieted, sobered.

  ‘Not that it does us much good for tea; I hope you don’t mind too much,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a check on the pool below the waterfall; there’s usually a couple of good fish there too.’

  Saunders didn’t reply. She walked with him up to the waterfall pool, even waded in herself to grab up the second of the two trout he caught there, but she didn’t dare to discuss the fish. Not here, not now.

  He had let the great fish escape! She was sure of it without knowing exactly why. Although she knew nothing about fishing, had no real evidence to support her feeling.

  And once they had returned to the stone cabin, she found herself with other, more immediate concerns than an escaped fish of whatever size. The small cabin, which at first impression had seemed merely picturesque, took on an entire new dimension now that she was inside it with Ford Landell and committed to spending the night there with him.

  When they had arrived the cabin had been seemingly dominated by the fireplace which comprised one entire wall. But now, entering the building behind Ford Landell, it seemed to Saunders that what dominated the room was the bed!

  Hand-made, a simple enough apparatus of post-and- rail framing with a tight-woven base of what appeared to be nylon rope, it was the only place for Saunders to sit while Ford began to lay out the cooking utensils and other gear he’d brought in from the vehicle. He had already laden the stools in the room with boxes, and the table-top was also covered.

  The bed squealed when Saunders perched gingerly on the edge of it, never taking her eyes from the tall, muscular figure that moved confidently through the confines of the tiny building. And suddenly she was too aware of the still moist shorts that clung to his hips, of the long, strong, length of leg, the fact that in the damp clothing he could almost as well have worn nothing at all.

  Every time she shifted her weight the bed shrieked; every time that happened Ford would pause and look at her, a faint, half-amused smile growing on his mobile lips.

  He didn’t talk to her, and she didn’t — couldn’t — think of anything to say, wasn’t sure she dared. The decision to stay the night had been made; she was committed now. But night was a long way off; it was still barely twilight outside, and already the waiting was starting to push her nerves.

  She ought to be helping, she thought. But there wasn’t room! Being in the cabin with Ford was like trying to share the cooking in a kitchen designed for one. Saunders shifted again, the bed squeaked again. Ford looked at her again and smiled again. Then he went on unpacking: a gas lantern, a cooler loaded with … something, various plates and dishes and cutlery. All to be laid out in some preconceived plan that only Ford knew.

  ‘Be a while until tea. Would you like another coffee?’

  His voice seemed to echo through the cabin, emphasising its isolation, its smallness.

  ‘Have you room to make it?’

  That brought a smile; Saunders could feel the atmosphere softening because of it.

  ‘I’ll make room. Have to anyway, if we’re going to have any place to sleep.’

  Sleep. Just that word caused a frisson of sensation inside her, a shiver she desperately hoped he couldn’t see. But he didn’t need to see; he knew exactly what she was feeling, Saunders thought. Better, perhaps, than she did herself.

  How many women, she wondered, had shared this cabin with Ford Landell? She looked at the narrowness of the bed she was perched on, and fought against the mental images of bodies entwined on it … body to body, warm and throbbing, against that of…

  ‘I never noticed before how small this place is,’ he was saying then. ‘Mind you, I hadn’t really been planning for company when I built it, and this is the first time anybody’s ever stayed over with me.’

  Damn him, she thought. He was reading her mind again, or else was so finely tuned to her responses that he appeared able to read her mind. Either choice was disconcerting, worrying.

  ‘D’you suppose you could have a go at blowing this thing up while you’re sitting there?’ he asked, handing her a limp, deflated air-mattress.

  ‘Of course,’ Saunders replied, at first glad of being able just to do something, anything but sit there like a lump. Then she caught Ford’s glimmer of a smile as he handed it to her, and noticed the slightly raised eyebrow, the devilish look in those dark eyes.

  Like a prisoner being asked to dig his own grave, she thought, and shuddered inwardly as the phrase recurred over and over in her mind with each exhalation as she began to blow up the air-mattress.

  She was only halfway through when he stopped her by tapping her on the shoulder. She looked up to find him holding out a coffee-cup while gesturing with his free hand for her to hand him the partially inflated mattress.

  ‘You’ll end up hyperventilating if you keep at it like that,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of time, you know. It isn’t even gone dark yet.’

  So why, having taken it from her with fingers that seemed to burn her own with that single, slight touch as they made the exchange, did he stand there and finish inflating the mattress with just a few massive breaths? The air-mattress hung between them, swelling visibly as he breathed into it, then he gestured her to rise, and, after ramming the plug home with the heel of his hand, he laid the mattress down and nodded for her to sit again.

  Saunders held the cup in both hands, fearful even then that her trembling fingers might cause the contents to slop over, even more fearful that Ford would notice her nervousness to the point where he might have to let her know that he was noticing.

  Again she found herself perched on the edge of the bed. suddenly aware of the side-rail as it dug into her thi
ghs, more aware of how Ford looked at her, of the speculative, enigmatic look in his eyes, of how those eyes roamed over her face, her body. Possessively, knowingly.

  This time when she shivered, it was visible to both of them.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said, as if only just aware of it. He strode over to the heap of gear from the truck, hefted out her suitcase and brought it to her. ‘You don’t want to let yourself get a chill, Saunders,’ he said. ‘And it’s easy done, here; the warmth goes quickly with the sun.’

  He stood there for a moment, causing Saunders to wonder if he expected her to get changed there and then, with him providing an audience, then suddenly turned and slipped through the door, picking up his own kit-bag as he did so.

  ‘I’ll change too, I think,’ he said on the way out. ‘And I’ll just grab a wash and a bit of wood while I’m at it, so you won’t have to rush.’

  But she did rush. Saunders threw open her suitcase and quickly yanked out a pair of jeans and a bulky, oversized jumper. She paused only long enough to peer out of the window and spot Ford sauntering down towards the waterfall, then she threw off her skimpy shorts and the tank-top and pulled on the more substantial clothing. She was breathing quickly, almost panting as she thought for an instant, then pulled the sweater back off so she could put on a T-shirt under it, cinched a belt through the loops in the jeans, pulled on heavy socks and her walking-boots, laced right to the tops and firmly knotted. Like a suit of armour, she thought wildly, wishing she had something similar to protect her mind.

  And then she paced. Four steps to the creaky, deceptively innocent bed, five steps to the window, where, in an aberrant shaft of the dying sun, she could see Ford Landell standing naked beneath the waterfall, both hands raised as he rinsed his silvery hair, the water streaming down his arms, his muscular chest, through the darker hair, the shadowy area of his loins. The scene lasted only for an instant before the light was changed by a passing cloud, but it stayed in her mind as if etched there.

  He returned some time later, his silvery hair slicked down and wet, his body lithe and trim in jeans and a bulky woodsman’s shirt, his arms filled with wood for the fireplace and his eyes filled with … something. But just exactly what it was, Saunders couldn’t decide and didn’t even think to enquire. Not out loud.

  But as he started the actual preparations for dinner, firing up the camping stove, heating just a small amount of oil in it, slicing potatoes into thin slices, he kept looking at her. And his eyes inevitably, on those occasions that she dared meet them, danced with laughter. It seemed almost as if he expected her to understand the joke, whatever it was, to laugh with him.

  Saunders just fidgeted. She could do nothing else; there was no room for her to help, hardly room for her even to move. She could only sit on the edge of that damned bed, her nervous fingers plucking at the edges of the air-mattress on that damned bed, her ears tuned to the squeak of that damned bed every time she moved, her eyes locked on Ford’s every movement.

  She watched the deft movements of his fingers, the way he would occasionally sweep back an errant lock of hair from his forehead, the look of concentration he got when peeling and slicing the potatoes, the way his jeans fitted snugly over muscular legs, the taut, slender, masculine hips. And he was aware of her scrutiny; he couldn’t help but be aware, she thought. Eventually, however, he proved it.

  ‘Saunders,’ he said, after the umpteenth squeak of the traitorous bed, speaking without even bothering to look over at her, ‘I don’t know what’s got you so frothy, but I don’t think this cabin is big enough for the both of us, at least when I’m trying to create a culinary masterpiece. Why don’t you go for a walk — look at the sunset, or something? I’ll call you for tea when it’s ready.’

  She leaped at the chance, was halfway out of the door almost before he’d finished speaking. He had to halt her with a word so that he could add, ‘And I’m quite capable of cooking this repast, you know. So you can stop being so nervous about it all. I won’t burn the fish or set the place on fire or … whatever.’

  All of which would have been quite reassuring if she hadn’t caught that gleam of laughter in his eyes, hadn’t seen the way he ran his eyes over her from crown to bootlaces — about as subtle as a cannibal chef.

  None the less, stepping out into the dying daylight was, she thought, what it must feel like to be released from gaol. The tense silence of the interior gave way immediately to the sounds of birds, the touch of the breeze along her cheeks. She no longer felt the intensity of being always within touching distance of the man she wanted to touch, the man she wanted to touch her, but didn’t dare to make the first move towards.

  She wandered down to sit on a driftwood log, staring into the prisms of the sunset light through the mist created by the waterfall. Ford, she was becoming increasingly certain, was playing some game with her, perhaps with both of them. And the more she thought about it, the more confusing it became, the more frustrating.

  She had made it quite clear that she wanted to stay the night with him, but had she not made it clear enough that she knew what it would entail, that she wanted that too? Or was he being the obtuse one, and doing it deliberately?

  ‘What does he want — for me to throw myself at him?’ she muttered, picking up yet another pebble to chuck into the pond so she could watch the ripples. Then she looked again at the falling water, and her mind superimposed that earlier view of Ford standing naked there. Saunders shivered, but it wasn’t because she was cold.

  She looked back at the cabin, made a quick mental calculation of the time she would need, then peeled off her clothing even more quickly than she’d put it on. Damn Ford anyway, she thought, and that thought sustained her as she marched into the chilly water and stood beneath the waterfall, feeling the icy streams as they flooded her hair, sluiced down across her shoulders, her breasts, her fluttering tummy, her trembling legs. After a minute, the water seemed to get less cold, but never really warm. After that initial instant of shock, she found it possible to reach down for handfuls of fine sand to wash with, almost came to enjoy the experience, actually.

  She never once took her eyes from the dark shape of the cabin window, never once saw even the slightest movement, the slightest indication that Ford might be watching her as she had watched him. But he was; somehow she knew it, and was glad of it.

  By the time he emerged to call out to her, Saunders had used the T-shirt to dry herself, had put the rest of her clothing back on, and was sitting innocently watching the water. It was no great task to hang the damp T-shirt on the bumper-bar of the vehicle as she passed it, but holding her nerve as she entered the cabin wasn’t quite so easy.

  Especially when she found, after blinking once or twice to adjust her eyes to the unexpectedly dim light, that Ford had been busy — very busy — during her absence. The small table was tidily laid for two, with a table-cloth, no less! The lantern hung, waiting to be lit if needed, but the table held a candle, already flickering its small store of light in competition with the bustling fire in the huge fireplace, and a bottle of wine, even.

  But it was the bed which caught her eye, now spread with a sleeping-bag, even a pillow—with a sprig of bright yellow blossoms decorating it.

  Ford turned from the camp stove and offered a hand, leading Saunders to her seat and then bowing with exaggerated flair.

  ‘My apologies about the quality of the crystal,’ he said with a smile, indicating the two tin cups from which they had drunk at lunchtime, ‘but on these rough roads, you understand…’

  He poured a tiny bit of wine, a cloth over one arm, and with all the officiousness of the snootiest wine steward, nodding at the appropriate times as Saunders, falling into her own role, sniffed the offering, sipped at it, and signalled her approval.

  ‘An excellent choice, madam,’ he said as he poured each of them a ‘glass’. ‘Definitely from steep, stony ground, perhaps a bit long in the tooth, but with short legs and fat ankles, I venture.’

  Sau
nders chuckled, then found herself relaxing as Ford turned away and began to serve the meal. First a clear, rich, consommé, delicately flavoured with herbs. Then the fish, perfectly sautéed and accompanied by wafer-thin fried potatoes. For dessert, he had peeled and sectioned several mandarin oranges and arranged them artfully in a plastic bowl.

  And, of course, there was the wine, which made it all the more easy for Saunders to slip into the artificial mood so carefully created for her. The meal was superb, the conversation light, polite, non-threatening and thoroughly enjoyable. By the time they had finished it all the daylight had fled and the fireplace was down to gently glowing coals; only the flickering of the candle provided any light at all.

  It was just right for the mood he’d created, but somehow not quite enough to sustain the conversation. It cast subtle shadows in the small cabin, and each time Saunders looked at her companion the light seemed to cast his face in a different mould. At one glance it softened his features, giving her the impression of what he must have looked like as a much younger man. But at the next it put a diabolical cast to his countenance, emphasising the strong bones, the harsh planes of his face as it now was.

  And always the flickering light changed his eyes, those dark, dark eyes, veiled by lashes any woman would envy, that now seemed to watch her with some secret knowledge behind them, a sort of brooding, a kind of speculation, too much silence.

  Saunders felt her nervousness returning with a rush, but it was different now, somehow less threatened. She was simply much more aware of the man who sat, totally at ease, catty-corner from her and actually only inches away. Silent, looking at her, waiting…

  The candle guttered; the silence deepened. Saunders felt as if all the air had departed the room, knew that if she didn’t speak, or move, or … something, she would disintegrate, fly into a million separate pieces. What she said was the first thing that came to mind.